Morning on the depot basin came in hard, gray light.
Wind scraped across the flats in long sheets, dragging dust over the Union's hull like sandpaper. The ruined industrial sprawl looked calmer in daylight—collapsed conveyors, slag berms, rusted cranes frozen mid-lift—but the calm didn't feel safe. It felt like the pause right before something decided whether it wanted another bite.
Moonjaw held the perimeter anyway.
The Dire Wolf stood just off the ramp, torso angled outward, huge and patient. Dack kept it still with sensors wide, letting the machine's mass do what it did best: make everything think twice. In the cockpit, his jaw stayed set, his eyes scanning lanes and heat blooms with the same flat focus he used on contract boards.
On the right, Jinx's Highlander held behind broken conveyor supports, using the depot's skeleton as cover. Even sealed in her cockpit, she sounded like she was smiling.
On the left, Taila's Griffin watched the hall entrance and the most obvious approach lanes, disciplined and quiet. She didn't chase shadows anymore. She didn't bite bait. She held ground and punished overconfidence.
Inside the bay, the captured Marauder hung in rigging like a heavy carcass.
Rook and Rafe Calder were already under it—tool packs open, panels off—moving in that unnerving sync that made it feel like one mind in two bodies. Both had their hair tied back practical, grease streaking their forearms, faces smudged from late-night work. They'd clipped Moonjaw's patch to their packs where it was visible but not loud—an agreement without the full commitment yet.
Lyra stood near the winch controls with a slate in hand, hair tied back tight, expression composed. She looked like she belonged in a cockpit more than anywhere else—steady, controlled, dangerous in the quiet way.
Up on the ramp, Morrigan hovered with arms crossed, black and red fabric snapping lightly in the engine wash, glaring at the Marauder like it owed her a life.
Jinx's voice crackled over the open bay mic. "You little gremlins done blessing our new murder trophy yet?"
Rafe popped up from beneath a panel, cheeks smudged, eyes bright. "It's not a trophy—"
Rook finished without looking up. "It's a liability."
Jinx laughed. "Everything is a liability. That's why it's fun."
Lyra didn't look up from her slate. "Status."
Rafe wiped her hands on a rag. "Beacon's removed."
Rook's voice stayed calm. "We're checking for secondary modules."
Rafe: "Kill-switches."
Rook: "Tracking."
Lyra nodded once. "Good."
Dack listened to the bay while watching the horizon. He liked the twins' habits: no bragging, no show, just work and paranoia in the right places. They were too good to be real.
Rare… or planted.
He preferred rare.
Then Lyra's voice tightened. "Heads up. Inbound vehicles. Civilian-coded."
Jinx perked up. "Civilians out here?"
Taila's tone went careful. "That's not normal."
Dack didn't move the Dire Wolf. "Let them come."
A small convoy crested the dust line—two light transports, one armored carrier—painted in municipal colors too clean for this basin. They stopped at a respectful distance.
A loudspeaker crackled. "Merc unit! This site is under municipal review. Stand down and submit to inspection!"
Jinx snorted. "Inspection my ass."
Lyra stepped to the ramp edge, hands visible, voice carrying. "We're under contract with a registered salvage house. We have legal authorization. State your authority."
A man in a light armored vest climbed out, slate held up like a badge. "Militia liaison. We received reports of heavy combat and captured assets. That Marauder is municipal salvage."
Lyra didn't blink. "It's disabled hostile equipment taken during contract execution. Salvage rights apply."
The liaison's eyes flicked to the Dire Wolf's silhouette. His throat bobbed. "If you attempt to remove assault-grade equipment from this world, it will be considered theft."
Dack keyed external speakers. His voice came out flat and cold over the depot.
"Leave."
The liaison flinched. "You can't—"
"You don't have the force to stop us," Dack said, still calm.
Lyra followed, smooth as a blade. "If you want to challenge our claim, do it at the drop hub under audit. Out here, you're just a man with a slate."
The liaison stared at the Marauder hanging in rigging, at the twins working under it like it belonged to them already, and made the smart choice.
"Fine," he said tightly. "The drop hub will audit."
Lyra nodded once. "We'll be there."
The convoy retreated, dust rising behind it like it was trying to hide the fact it blinked first.
Jinx laughed softly. "Paperwork violence."
Lyra's voice stayed cool. "Paperwork keeps us alive."
Dack watched until the last vehicle vanished, then said, "Load finishes now. We lift."
---
The Union climbed out of the basin on a plume of heat and dust.
Below, the depot shrank into rust and broken metal. The raiders didn't show. Either they were too hurt, too smart, or already paid. Moonjaw didn't care which. They left nothing important behind.
Inside the ship, the mood shifted from battlefield tension to the kind of exhaustion that settled into joints.
And it was in that quiet churn—between work and sleep—that Jinx started acting… off.
Not weak. Not scared. Just off.
In the galley, she took one sip of station coffee and made a face like she'd swallowed battery acid.
Taila blinked at her. "That bad?"
Jinx wrinkled her nose, blue eyes narrowing. "It tastes… wrong."
Lyra didn't look up from her slate. "It's station coffee. It's always wrong."
Jinx took another sip, then set the mug down and stared at it suspiciously. "It smells like—" She stopped, expression tightening. "Like coolant."
Taila's cheeks warmed a little, confused. "It's… coffee."
Jinx rubbed her stomach absently, then forced a grin. "Probably just depot dust in my sinuses."
But Dack watched her a moment longer than usual. Jinx didn't get grossed out easily. She was the type to laugh mid-fight, mid-fire, mid-blood.
Her smile came a second late.
Lyra's eyes flicked up, sharp. "You nauseous?"
Jinx opened her mouth, ready with a joke—then closed it, then tried again. "Not nauseous. Just… weird."
Taila asked softly, "Are you sick?"
Jinx shrugged, forcing cheer. "I've been punched by an assault mech and I'm still standing. I'm not sick."
Lyra's gaze lingered, clinical. "How long."
Jinx blinked. "How long what?"
Lyra didn't soften her voice. "How long have you felt 'weird.'"
Jinx hesitated, then waved a hand like it didn't matter. "Since last night. Maybe. I don't know."
Taila's eyes widened. "Last night was—"
Jinx grinned too bright. "Fun. Yes."
Lyra's expression stayed level. "Have you ever been pregnant before."
The word hit the room like a dropped tool.
Taila went red instantly.
Jinx froze, then laughed too quickly. "What? No."
Lyra didn't blink. "Then you wouldn't know the signs."
Jinx's grin faltered, and for the first time in a long while, she looked uncertain—like a girl who'd always been confident in battle suddenly realizing her body had rules she never bothered to learn.
"I don't—" Jinx started, then huffed. "I don't track that stuff. I've lived in cockpits since I was old enough to lie about my age."
Taila's voice came small. "But you said you wanted—"
"I do," Jinx snapped, then softened immediately, cheeks faintly pink. "I mean… I do. I want a baby. I just… didn't think it'd happen this fast."
Lyra didn't push. She just said, calm, "We'll get a test when we can. Until then, don't ignore symptoms."
Jinx tried to recover her swagger, flipping her long dirty-blonde hair over one shoulder like she could shake the topic off. "Fine. But if I'm pregnant, I'm naming the kid something terrifying."
Taila whispered, mortified and warm, "Jinx…"
Jinx winked at her anyway. "You'll love it."
Dack said one thing, blunt and steady. "Don't hide it."
Jinx's grin softened for real this time. "I won't."
---
They prepped for docking at the drop hub.
And while Lyra ran the route and the transponder codes, the women changed out of their depot-grit gear into something that felt more… Moonjaw.
Not uniforms yet. Not the full "Jinx vision." But the first steps.
Jinx came out of her cabin in a tight black crop-tank that hugged her chest and a pair of red-and-black tactical shorts cut high on the thigh with strap loops and a slim thigh rig that was more fashion than necessity. Her cropped red jacket was different now—sleeker, more sci-fi, with armored seams and a high collar. It looked combat-ready while still showing too much skin on purpose. Her blue eyes glittered like she knew exactly what she was doing.
Taila followed a minute later, quieter, more restrained—but still tight and revealing in a way that made her blush at herself. A black fitted sleeveless top with a high collar and red piping hugged her torso; high-waisted black leggings with bold red stripes ran down the sides into snug combat boots. It was practical enough to pretend she wasn't trying. Still form-fitting enough that nobody could believe she wasn't.
Lyra's outfit was the most controlled and, somehow, the most dangerous: a sleek black bodysuit with red seam lines that traced her shape without being gaudy, zipped just low enough to show she wasn't as cold as she pretended. Clean, minimal, efficient—like her personality made fabric obey.
Morrigan appeared last like a storm cloud with lipstick: a black corset-style top under a short red-and-black jacket, a layered skirt that looked gothic at first glance until you noticed it was cut for movement, and thigh-high black stockings with red bands disappearing into heavy combat boots. It was still Morrigan—dark, defiant, tsundere glare intact—but now it looked like she belonged to Moonjaw instead of just haunting it.
Dack saw them on the bridge camera feed as they moved through the corridor.
He didn't stare like a teenager. He didn't grin.
But his gaze tracked each of them once, slow and assessing, the same way he assessed armor plating and firing lanes.
Jinx sauntered into frame and caught his look immediately. She smiled slow, pleased.
Taila tried not to notice his attention and failed—her cheeks warmed, and her eyes flicked away, then back.
Lyra's mouth twitched when she realized he'd noticed, like approval from him was rarer than she wanted to admit.
Morrigan looked like she dared him to comment.
Dack finally spoke, one sentence, flat and unmistakably approving.
"Good."
Jinx's grin widened like she'd won a prize. Taila's blush deepened. Lyra's eyes softened. Morrigan's glare faltered for a fraction—then returned, but less sharp.
Jinx leaned close to Taila and murmured loud enough for everyone to hear. "See? He likes it."
Taila whispered, embarrassed, "He said one word."
Jinx smirked. "That's a full paragraph for him."
Lyra muttered, dry, "Don't encourage him."
Dack didn't bother correcting them.
He just watched the hub approach.
---
The drop hub was commerce with teeth.
A ring station layered in gantries and docking spines, floodlights bleaching everything into tired metal. The kind of place where rules were written by whoever had money, enforced by whoever wanted a cut, and ignored when nobody was watching.
Lyra brought the Union in clean, transponder broadcasting a perfectly boring contract ID and shipment manifest.
Normal. Legal. Predictable.
The dockmaster came aboard with two assistants and security. Crisp uniform, fake smile, eyes sharp.
"Moonjaw," he said, looking at Lyra first. "You're the ones who caused a port incident last cycle."
Lyra didn't blink. "We were attacked. We defended. Footage exists."
His smile sharpened. "Audit is routine. Cargo first."
Lyra handed him the manifest. He scanned it, then paused when the mech bay feed showed the Marauder lashed down.
"That," he said slowly, "is not listed."
Lyra's tone stayed flat. "Captured hostile equipment under salvage rights. Disabled. Transported as inert cargo."
The dockmaster's smile tightened. "Assault-grade salvage requires registration and tax."
Jinx leaned against a bulkhead behind Lyra, tight black-and-red outfit making her look like trouble that chose to be seen. She smiled sweetly. "Everything requires tax."
He ignored her. "We can impound it pending review."
Dack spoke, flat. "You won't."
The dockmaster's eyes flicked to him. "Excuse me?"
"Our contract is filed. Our salvage is legal," Dack said. "You impound it, we file breach and your yard loses future contracts."
Lyra added smoothly, "And we make sure the salvage house and arbitration board know you withheld contracted cargo while attempting to seize unrelated assets."
The dockmaster's smile twitched. He liked money, not paperwork wars.
"Registration tax," he said. "And an inspection of the Marauder for illegal beacon hardware."
Lyra nodded once. "Fine."
Rook and Rafe stood together near the bay bulkhead, patches visible on their packs, faces carefully neutral. Their hands were still, but their eyes watched everything.
The inspector ran scanners, frowned. "Someone removed a module."
Lyra didn't blink. "We removed hostile tracking. Standard."
The inspector glanced at the dockmaster. "No active beacon. No kill-switch present."
The dockmaster's smile returned. "Good. Then we have no problem."
He left satisfied—fee paid, authority performed.
When the door shut behind them, Jinx exhaled dramatically. "I hate stations."
Lyra didn't look away from her slate. "Stations keep units alive."
Dack's gaze stayed on the security feeds. "We're being watched."
Jinx's grin returned. "Always."
"No," Dack said. "Different."
Lyra's eyes lifted. "You see something?"
Dack pointed. Two people in clean jackets near the cargo gantry—standing too still, glancing toward Moonjaw's dock spine too often.
"Observers," Lyra said quietly.
Rafe murmured, almost reluctant, "That's how they—"
Rook finished, colder, "—shop."
Jinx's smile sharpened. "Mother Lark's people."
Nobody said the name out loud again.
They didn't have to.
---
They sold what they needed to sell.
Lyra handled the salvage house rep with calm pressure, protecting pay and future clauses. Taila listened and learned, eyes bright and serious. Morrigan stalked the market corridor in her black-and-red gothic fit, scowl making people step aside like she was cursed.
Jinx stayed close to the crew, but the "weird" feeling didn't entirely leave her. A couple times she paused, brow furrowing, hand drifting unconsciously to her stomach or ribs like she was checking herself.
Dack noticed every time.
He didn't say much—just kept her within arm's reach without making it obvious.
Later, back aboard, Jinx found the twins in the galley, both of them with mugs of station coffee and shoulders slightly hunched like they didn't know where to put themselves when they weren't working. Their patches were visible, still subtle, still deliberate.
Jinx slid into the seat across from them, blue eyes bright, tight black-and-red outfit making her look like she'd dressed for a fight and an audience.
"So," she said brightly, "you two thought any more about my uniform idea?"
Rafe nearly choked.
Rook's eyes narrowed. "No."
Rafe tried to recover. "We thought about… the patch."
Jinx grinned wider. "Patch is step one."
Rafe's ears went red. "We're techs. We crawl in grease."
Jinx leaned forward, conspiratorial. "Exactly. So you need something that says 'don't touch' even when you're covered in grease."
Rook stared at her like she was insane.
Rafe looked at her sister, then back at Jinx. "Your idea of 'don't touch' is… revealing."
Jinx's grin turned wicked. "Yes."
Taila walked in mid-conversation, her fitted black-and-red top making her look more confident than she felt. She paused when she saw Jinx prowling around the twins again.
Taila asked carefully, "What are you doing."
Jinx pointed at the twins. "Recruiting."
Taila's eyes softened. "Don't scare them."
Rafe whispered, "She is."
Rook finished, "A little."
Jinx looked pleased.
Dack stepped in a moment later, helmet under his arm. He took one look at the patch on the twins' packs, then at the way they didn't flinch away from the crew anymore.
He nodded once. "Good."
Rafe blinked like that hit harder than a compliment should.
Rook's fingers brushed the patch again.
Acceptance from him was rare. When it came, it mattered.
---
That night, the Union stayed docked and quiet, but nobody slept easy.
Lyra ran route sims, building the next leg under the cover of contract schedules—how to drift toward Lark's Nest lanes without looking like hunters.
Jinx tried to act normal, but her attention wandered sometimes, and once she muttered, irritated, "Why do I feel warm and sick at the same time."
Taila looked at her, worried. Lyra's eyes narrowed in silent calculation.
Dack didn't say much. He just kept Jinx close, like he would on a battlefield.
In the shared cabin later, the station felt far away for a while.
Jinx's hunger was still there, her teasing still sharp, but she also paused once, brow furrowing, and pressed a hand lightly to her stomach.
Taila whispered, "Are you okay?"
Jinx forced a grin. "I'm fine. Just… weird."
Lyra didn't tease. She just said softly, "We'll get a test as soon as we can."
Jinx rolled her eyes like she hated that she needed one. "Fine."
Then she kissed Dack anyway—slow, claiming—pulled Taila in next, then Lyra, turning worry into warmth and warmth into something that made the station's watchers irrelevant for a few hours.
After, Jinx lay sprawled and smug, but quieter than usual. Taila curled close, cheeks warm, eyes soft. Lyra rested against Dack's shoulder, fingers still laced with his like she didn't want to let go.
Jinx yawned, then smirked faintly. "If I'm pregnant… I'm still wearing the uniform."
Taila groaned into the pillow, embarrassed. "Jinx…"
Lyra muttered, dry, "Of course you are."
Dack said one thing, calm and final. "Sleep."
Jinx smiled like that was affection in his language.
Because it was.
---
In the mech bay later, Rook and Rafe stood beside the Marauder's open cockpit again, looking at the harness and seat assembly they'd started adjusting.
Their patches were visible, catching the bay light when they shifted.
Rafe whispered, "Her outfit… she really wears that into a dock audit."
Rook stared a moment, then finished, quieter than expected, "It works."
Rafe's cheeks warmed. "Do you think… we could do something like that?"
Rook's mouth twitched. "Practical."
Rafe finished softly, "Tight."
Rook looked at her sister, then at the patch, then back to the Marauder. "Later."
Rafe nodded, almost relieved. "Later."
Outside the hull, the station lights kept spinning.
And somewhere in that ring, watchers kept watching—waiting to see which lane Moonjaw took next, waiting to see if the wolf pack walked dumbly into a nest.
Moonjaw didn't move yet.
But the next leg was coming.