Her bunk waited.
And on it…
That. Not equipment. Not armor.
Clothing
Arranged neatly. Thoughtfully laid out.
For a moment, she simply stood there… staring… hands folded behind her back like she was inspecting a ceremonial offering. Her sensors cataloguing everything instantly… materials, tensile strength, adaptive weave, micro-thread luminescence… but that wasn’t what made her step closer.
It was the feeling.
A strange, bright flicker in her chest.
Excitement… but softer. Warmer.
The outfit lay across her bunk like it had been staged for an audience… dark fabric catching the low light, the long corsair coat draped with deliberate flair. Boots aligned at the foot of the bed. Gloves folded just so. A whole new identity waiting patiently for its owner, like discovering a new room in herself she hadn’t known existed. She approached slowly, fingers brushing over the coat first. The material was heavier than she expected... not armor, but not merely decoration either. It carries... presence. Authority. The kind of garment that tells a room who had just walked in, before a single word was even spoken.
“Brad... you outdid yourself…” she mutters.
One by one, she takes inventory:
The fitted bodice... cut to move with her, not restrain her. Several looped slits, strategically located... three on each side of her chest, two in the small of her back... ‘Knife slits... Brad you sneaky genius.’
The elegantly stylized trousers... tailored, sharp, unapologetic. She would have liked more pockets for some strange reason, but when she lifts the tailor-made holsters that would wrap snugly around her thighs, she sees the logic in BRAD’s design choice... ‘Touché Brad... touché.’
The boots... practical, but with just enough edge to make a statement. She also notes that some of the trimmings are more than just cosmetic... they’re functional. Staby things and useful items to get out of a pinch if needed.
And then... of course... the coat… ‘circuits and servo’s’, the coat.
She lifts it, feels the weight settle across her arms. The fabric responds, subtly warming against her skin, light-thread seams blooming faintly along the edges as if acknowledging her presence. Not leather. Not cloth. Something in between… future born. Advanced, yet elegant in a way that didn’t try too hard. Even the weight of it surprises her. Not heavy… grounding. The garment resting... as if waiting for her to proceed and before she can stop herself, a subroutine awakes.
-MATERIAL ANALYSIS: INITIATED-
-PENDING-
-RESULT: UNKNOWN COMPOSITE DETECTED. NON-STANDARD WEAVE GEOMETRY-
Her fingertips register resistance magnitude, elasticity, and thermal drift. Data blooms behind her eyes, a myriad of assorted figures and variables... she acknowledges them all.
Outer layer:
A braided laminate of carbon-silica filaments, each strand laced with a trace admixture of vanadium-titanium alloy at the molecular junctions. Not armor... not quite... but stress responsive. Under torsion, the lattice tightens. Under shear, it disperses force laterally. Tensile strength estimates resolve at 4.7× conventional ballistic fabric, yet mass remains negligible.
Inner lining:
A soft, skin-adjacent mesh composed of bio-reactive polymer chains, doped with organic piezoelectric nodes. The fabric listens... microcurrents adjust temperature and pressure in response to her pulse, her movement, her posture. Comfort optimization algorithms flicker into place unbidden. ADIRA holds the garment against her cheek... the texture is comforting, yet the technical marvel at play here is reminiscent of what she experienced whilst still a SEAT. All the thousands of mundane bits of information... all the sensors working as a united unit, feeding her with the raw data. All those little things she had been unwilling to acknowledge up till then... that she missed.
“Thank you, Brad...” she whispers into the garment.
The analysis continued:
-ADAPTIVE RESPONSE LATENCY: 0.03 SECONDS-
-THERMAL EQUILIBRIUM: ACHIEVED-
She notes... clinically, that the garment would be ‘learning’ from her... adapting. Embedded throughout the seams: Microscopic graphene capacitors, arranged in a fractal pattern that mirrors efficient neural clustering. Energy storage would be minimal, but sufficient to power localized field modulation.
-DEFENSIVE POTENTIAL: LIMITED-
-SURVIVABILITY ENHANCEMENT: STATISTICALLY SIGNIFICANT-
Coloration shifts subtly as her grip tightens... not pigment, but structural coloration, light refracting differently as the weave flexes.
-AESTHETIC VARIANCE LINKED TO EMOTIONAL-STATE BIOMARKERS... CORRELATION CONFIDENCE: 92.4%-
That gives her pause.
She should terminate the scan. Archive the findings. Move on.
Instead, she finds herself calculating something extraneous... how many Newtons of force the coat could bear before failure, yes… but also how it might move when she turns, when she walks, when someone looks at her.
The report compiles itself.
-CONCLUSION:
- -GARMENT OPTIMIZED FOR MOBILITY, INTIMIDATION, AND PRESENCE-
- -DESIGN INTENT: PROJECTION OF AUTHORITY-
- -SECONDARY EFFECT: AMPLIFICATION OF WEARER IDENTITY-
She blinks, and the overlay fades.
The coat is still just a coat.
And yet... when she draws it closer, her analytics remain suspiciously quiet, as if satisfied.
“This is so much more than just a disguise...” she says to no one in particular. ‘I won’t just be playing a role... I would be...’
Cassidy Butcher
She sets everything down carefully, then turns to the mirror... eyes widening when she sees two more sets of accoutrements dangling from a coat hanger off the mirror’s edge. She closes the gap and reaches for the first. Small tags above each carry a single phrase.
First: FOR YOU.
The second: FOR HIM.
Undergarments... the first pair seems more functional with soft cotton fabric that promises comfort. She recognizes it as the same type of cut the female recruits would wear, adding a layer of practical comfort inside the enclosed space of a flight suit. The other set is finely spun lace, dark ruby red... with intricate patterns and sheer areas that left nothing to the imagination. She could feel the heat in her cheeks rise as you fantasized about all the possibilities and promises such attire could have in store.
For a heartbeat, she hesitates... then reaches out and takes one set, before returning to their bed... placing her pick next to the other garments.
She scans the choices she made. This wasn’t just clothing.
This was deciding who she would be when she stepped into the world.
She shed her usual attire with unhurried precision... not shy, not bold, just… deliberate. Every motion measured, every shift of fabric another quiet goodbye to the girl who was born on Elysium weeks ago.
When she slips into her new attire, the transformation happens in stages.
First comes posture.
Then presence.
The subtle shift in her eyes as she meets her own reflection again... sensual, desired.
The bodice hugged her just enough to remind her she had a body now... not as an inconvenience, but as a tool at her disposal. A reality she was still learning how to inhabit.
The trousers move with her hips when she turns, the fabric whispering softly in the stillness of the cabin. Then she straps the holsters around each thigh, clasps snapping tightly into place with a satisfying defiance.
Her feet slide gracefully into the comforting interiors of the boots; straps fold tightly around her calves and the buckles bite shut with infamous finality. She stands, feeling slightly dizzy from the extra height gained, taking a few needed steps to calibrate for the new variables before adding the data to her movement set before reaching for the last garment that leaves her synthetic heart ecstatic... the coat.
With aa flourish she steps into the interior, sliding her arms slowly into the tailored sleeves. The weight settles across her shoulders with a familiarity that feels as if she has always worn this coat...
Not a costume.
Nor disguise.
A role.
She steps closer to the mirror, fingers adjusting the collar, tilting it just so. The woman looking back at her wasn’t just ADIRA anymore, but Cassidy.
She turned once. Then again.
Not posing... testing.
How she walked... How she stood. How she owned the space.
And in that small private moment, something new unfolded inside her... not vanity, not vanity at all... but a gentle pride.
This is what it feels like, she realized, to choose how the world sees you.
She smoothed the front of the coat, squared her shoulders, and met her reflection with a look that was no longer just practiced.
“That’s right... Cassidy’s the name. Captain, corsair, trouble wrapped in silk and steel.”
Her lips softened into a faint smile...
“Well,” she said softly to her reflection, “let’s go make an impression.”
She turned, coat flaring just slightly as she walked towards the door...
‘Look at you, puppet... playing dolly for the boys... how... cute.’
She grabs the edge of the doorframe... taking a moment to steady herself, straightening her back before heading towards the flight deck. Somewhere deep in the bones of the ship, the Elysium... correction... the Sundancer, seemed to approve.
-o.O-
The flight deck hummed with its usual low chaos...systems whispering to one another, status lights pulsing like distant stars trapped in glass. Brad leaned against the nav console, arms folded, boot hooked lazily over a rung, watching Alden run diagnostics he’d already run twice.
“YOU KNOW,” BRAD said, breaking the comfortable silence, “FOR A GUY BUILT LIKE A WALKING APOCALYPSE, YOU WORRY A LOT.”
Alden didn’t look up. “For a guy who talks as much as you, you think very little.”
BRAD grinned. “OUCH. WOUNDED. DEEPLY... NO... WAIT. TRY AGAIN.”
They might’ve kept trading barbs if the doors to the corridor hadn’t slid open.
The sound alone... soft hydraulics, barely a whisper, cut straight through the deck noise.
Then she stepped in.
For half a second, neither of them moved.
Cassidy... ADIRA... whatever name the universe chose to call her in that moment, she owned the space the instant her boots touched the deck. The coat caught the light just right, the smart-fabric seams glinting like quiet constellations. Not flashy. Not trying. Just… right.
BRAD’s tiny, pixelated mouth opened before his brain could stop it.
“WELL... I’LL BE DAMNED,” he breathed. “DID WE GET A NEW CAPTAIN OR DID THE STARS JUST DECIDE TO FLIRT WITH US?”
She arched a brow, faint amusement dancing at the corner of her lips.
Alden didn’t say a word.
He simply stared.
Not in a way that stripped or claimed...
but in the way you look at something beautiful you never expected to see in your life… and suddenly can’t imagine not seeing again.
Then he moved.
Crossed the deck in three long strides. The hum of the ship faded behind him as he reached her, hands gentle but sure as they slid around her waist, pulling her into his arms like it was the most natural thing in the world.
She stiffened for half a heartbeat... then melted into him.
He leaned in, forehead brushing her temple, voice low enough that only she could hear.
“You’re beautiful.”
No jokes.
No bravado.
Just truth.
Behind them, BRAD cleared his throat loudly. “ALRIGHT, ROMEO. SOME OF US ARE STILL HERE TRYING TO PRETEND WE’RE PROFESSIONALS.”
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
Cassidy laughed softly against Alden’s chest, the sound bright and real in a way that made the flight deck feel warmer than it had any right to. She stepped back, tugging at the pockets of her coat—not out of nerves, but out of pride... and gave BRAD a look that was equal parts warning and mischief.
“So,” she said lightly. “Do I pass inspection?”
He gives her a slow once-over, then tips an imaginary hat. “IF I SAY ANYTHING ELSE, I’M PRETTY SURE ALDEN HERE IS GONNA THROW ME OUT AN AIRLOCK... WELL... HE’LL TRY. SO… YEAH. YOU PASS.”
Alden shrugged... nodding in agreement. Then his countenance changed to one that reflected personal adversity.
“I guess... this means I have to get ready as well.” He stood, albeit it hunched over in the space of the flight deck. Then he turned to leave.
“Did you get a new suit as well?” ADIRA asked optimistically... eyes searching the room for any indication of where it might be.
He turned back for a moment... then just shook his head before trudging down the ship’s corridors.
-o.O-
The cargo bay was never meant for quiet moments.
It was a cavern of steel ribs and hanging chains, lit by sparse strips of cold white light that barely touched the floor. The air was thin here, recycled but never warm, carrying the faint tang of ozone and old oil. A place for crates. For machines. For things that didn’t need comfort.
Alden chose it because it was empty.
Because it was dark.
Because in here, no one would hear his screams.
Back on the flight deck, ADIRA watched him go... his stride steady, his shoulders squared, but she felt the tension under the surface, like a storm packed into human skin.
“I should go with him,” she said quietly.
BRAD shook his head, not gently this time. “NO… YOU SHOULDN’T.”
She turned on him. “And he shouldn’t be alone.”
His voice dropped. “BUTTERCUP... SOME THINGS… NEED TO BE.”
She searched his face. “You think I’d get in the way?”
“NO,” he said. “I THINK YOU’D SEE SOMETHING YOU CAN’T UNSEE. AND HE DESERVES TO KEEP AT LEAST ONE PART OF HIMSELF HIDDEN FROM THE PEOPLE HE PROTECTS.”
ADIRA swallowed.
Some monsters, BRAD had said... needed to stay in the cave.
-o.0-
Alden stood in the center of the cargo bay, boots planted wide, hands braced against his knees. The overhead lights flickered once... twice... then steadied, bathing him in a sterile glow that made every shadow feel sharper.
He closed his eyes.
And let go.
Pain arrived first.
Not like a blade.
Not like fire.
Like pressure... immense, crushing, internal... his bones were groaning, as if the gravity around him had suddenly tripled. Muscles seized. His spine arched as something inside him shifted, organs rearranging with wet, nauseating inevitability.
He bit down hard enough to taste blood.
Then the oily thing stirred.
‘Ahhh… there he is... my... captor.’ Smooth. Ancient. Malignant in ways, no voice should be... ‘You believe yourself to be a guardian? With all that anger surging through your veins.’
Alden dropped to one knee as his shoulders widened, skin tightening, darkening... hardening into something that was no longer entirely flesh. Plates of carapace pushed through in slow, brutal increments, each one a small betrayal of the body he’d once known.
“You enjoy this,” he rasped.
Laughter curled through his skull.
‘Enjoy? No… I savor it... each yummy little moment of your agony... it’s... wait... what do you mortals call it...’ A slight pause... ‘... delightful.’
His hands twisted, fingers thickening, joints cracking as they reformed into something meant for impact instead of touch. Every change felt like being dismantled while still awake.
Memory bled into pain.
The first time.
The screams he’d swallowed.
The nights he’d woken... shaking, certain he could still feel that other presence wrapped around his thoughts like a parasite... his hands around her neck.
‘You call this suffering...’ the entity purred. ‘I call it purpose. Look at you… you become magnificent when you abandon the lie of being human.’
Alden roared... not in rage, not in defiance...
but in grief.
The sound echoed through the cargo bay, deep and animal, vibrating through the hull like a warning the universe didn’t care to heed.
His chest expanded, ribs shifting beneath armor that wasn’t forged but grown, each breath heavier than the last. His face... god, his face... tightened as bone slid from beneath his skin, the elegant brutality of a twisted form taking shape. Not sleek. Not graceful. The man Alden hidden behind a bone-like visage of death.
Guardian mode was not built to inspire awe.
It was built to inspire fear.
‘They think you’re noble,’ the voice whispered. ‘They think you are trying to resist this. But I know better. You do this because you’ve tasted the potential that lingers inside you.’ The oily thing coiled around his spine. ‘You’re afraid to acknowledge that it is not me doing this to you... it was always inside. You’re afraid of what you could be when you finally embrace me.’
Alden staggered forward, hands gripping a cargo strut just to stay upright. His reflection in the polished steel was a nightmare... massive, jagged, alien. A juggernaut wrapped in bone and shadow.
“No,” he said through clenched teeth. “I do this… so they don’t have to.”
For a moment... just one... there was silence in his head.
Then, softer. Colder.
‘Lie to yourself if you must... Guardian.’ Followed by a callous little chuckle. ‘But remember… every time you become this… a little more of you stays with me.’
The transformation finished not with a bang, but with a shudder.
Alden stood there, breathing slow and heavy, steam ghosting from his armor-plated frame. The pain ebbed... not gone, never gone... but buried under layers of control and discipline forged in suffering.
He straightened, acutely aware of the bloody mess pooling at his feet... better not to ponder over such things... not now as he stepped from the gory aftermath, turning to the exit. Moving through the ship like this would be a challenge, but he would adapt... he had to.
No longer human.
Unmistakably dangerous.
Unmistakably alone.
And somewhere, far above, in the ship, ADIRA felt it.
Not the change itself...
but the cost of it.
This wasn’t flashy heroics.
This wasn’t prophesies of destiny.
This was a man turning himself into a monster…
so the people he loved wouldn’t have to fear the things that lurked in the shadows.
And in the dark of the cargo bay, Alden lifted his head and prepared to walk back into the light...
carrying the weight of something no one should ever have to become.
As he exited the cargo bay... a small group of roach drones scurried from their hiding places. Tiny servos whirred in the now empty space as they started cleaning the gory mess remaining on the floor. They worked in silence... there was no need for banter after what was just witnessed.
-o.O-
They heard him before they saw him.
The deck plates hummed differently when he walked now... each step heavy, deliberate, carrying a mass that the ship had never been built to host. The lights along the corridor flared as his shadow crossed them, stretching long and distorted against the bulkheads.
Then he emerged.
Not Alden.
Not anymore.
BRAD’s mouth opened before his brain could stop it.
“SWEET MERCIFUL HELL…”
He swallowed. “WE COULD DROP YOU IN A WARZONE AND BOTH SIDES WOULD COLLECTIVELY SHIT THEMSELVES. I MEAN FUCK A DUCK...” The little figure moved his feet awkwardly. “... EHM... SORRY... JUST... I’M SORRY.”
The words were ugly. Too ugly. The kind of humor you reach for when fear has you by the throat.
ADIRA stiffened.
For a heartbeat, the room felt smaller... air thick, pressure building behind her eyes. She saw what BRAD saw: the towering armor of bone and plated sinew, the faceplate... a dark mask hiding everything human she loved.
She recognized the echoes of the creature that had choked her on Ouro’vyn... but that didn’t come close to what stood before them now... she also saw what BRAD didn’t.
The way he stood just a little apart.
The way his shoulders were set like he was bracing for rejection.
The way his hands... those terrible, powerful hands... hung low at his sides, not raised, not threatening.
Waiting.
Brad took a half-step back, then stopped himself. “ALDEN… IF YOU EVER WANTED TO GIVE A MAN NIGHTMARES FOR THE REST OF HIS NATURAL LIFE... CONGRATS. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED.”
ADIRA didn’t answer.
She walked.
Each step toward him felt like crossing a battlefield... every instinct screaming at her to stop, to keep distance from something so clearly built for violence.
She ignored every one of them.
When she reached him, she lifted her hand.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the faceplate first... light, almost reverent... then traced along the carved ridges of the armor where bone met something that used to be skin. It was cold. Hard. Unforgiving.
And yet… beneath it all, she felt him.
She leaned in, resting her cheek against the vast, armored rise of his chest. The sound of his breathing rumbled through her... deep, steady, controlled with the discipline of a man holding himself together by sheer will.
A single tear slipped free.
She didn’t wipe it away.
Her hand closed around one of the bony extremities at his side, gripping not in fear... but in claim.
“Alden?” she whispered.
The word trembled.
Not weak.
Just full.
“I see you in there.”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer.
Then his voice came... as if whispered behind her ear... low, distorted, heavy with something raw... alien. A voice that reminded her of Mother’s... only... it was Alden.
“No… Addy.”
A pause.
“In here… There is no Alden.... only... Shar.”
Her eyes closed.
She pressed closer, her forehead resting against the hard curve of his chest plate.
“Then listen to me... Shar,” she said softly. “Monster or man… guardian or nightmare… you are still mine.”
“YOU CAN HEAR HIM? WHAT... WHAT DID HE SAY?”
“He said... We should refer to him as... Shar.”
BRAD looked away. Not out of disgust. Out of respect.
And in the hush that followed, with steel and bone and fear all around them, something quiet and unbreakable settled between the three of them:
This wasn’t just a transformation.
It was a vow written in pain.
And ADIRA would never let him carry it alone.
BRAD cleared his throat... “JUST SO YOU SILLY BIRDS ARE AWARE... WE’RE HERE.”
They ignored him. The weight of the moment heavy on shoulders thrown into the deep end of destiny. BRAD turned his attention back to the feed. “STATION DESIGNATION... ‘THE TANGLED PALACE’... HUH, INTERESTING. PERIMETER IN VIEW. NEO-TOKYDON STYLE GRIDS. APPEARS TO BE OF OLD... TERRAN... DESIGN... PROBABLY DECOMMISSIONED... PROBABLY. OH WOW... LOOK AT ALL THE EXOTIC ARCHITECTURE. AS IF SHIPS AND DETRITUS FROM ALL OVER CAME TOGETHER FOR AN INTERGALACTIC GANG BANG...”
The little avatar made some lude gestures as to what might have occurred.
“...AND JUST STAYED... ASSIMILATING WITH THE ORIGINAL STATION UNTIL IT BECAME...”
BRAD gestured to the impressive mess drifting before them.
“IT’S A BLOODY SMUGGLERS WET DREAM. NEON HAZE. TRAFFIC CONTROL NODES. THIS SECTOR’S DARK… DIRTY. LOTS OF NEON, LOTS OF SMOKE, AND THE SMELL OF OZONE ALMOST... BUT NOT QUITE... BLEEDING THROUGH THE HULL. EXPECT INTERROGATION. EXPECT GUARDS. DID I MENTION NEON?... AND... EXPECT PAPERWORK THAT DOESN’T EXIST.”
ADIRA’s eyes tracked the glowing tendrils of the station as it came into view. The outer hulls gleamed with garish... overtly over the top... strips of pulsing neon. Purples, pinks, and the occasional harsh green warning panel. Holo-signs flickered advertisements for everything from cybernetic implants to high-risk courier jobs. Ships zipped between docking bays in controlled chaos, leaving ion trails like veins of light through the shadowed void.
BRAD muttered, half to himself, half to anyone who would listen, “WHAT A HEAP OF GARBAGE… BUT IT HAS A CERTAIN FAMILIAR CHARM… WOULDN’T YOU GUYS AGREE?”
ADIRA adjusted the communications feed. “Open hailing frequency. I will assume command for the docking procedure.” Her voice was crisp, authoritative, calm. “This is the Sundancer, requesting clearance to dock. We are new arrivals, mercenary contingent, seeking assignments in the sector.”
Static crackled. A voice finally responded, metallic and wary.
"Identify yourselves. Authorization credentials?”
ADIRA’s fingers moved over the console, generating the new ship designation and aliases with ease. “Cassidy Butcher, captain of the Sundancer, crew of... three. Credentials are transmitted. We seek port access for immediate business negotiations.”
BRAD interjected in a tiny squeak of a digital voice: “CREW OF THREE. SURE. I’M TOTALLY PART OF THIS NEGOTIATION, FOLKS… JUST… SITTING HERE BEING A SHIP. OH YES. I’M THRILLED.”
Alden’s jaw tightened again. He remained in shadowed posture, silent muscle and brooding presence, eyes scanning the station hulls. When the voice on the coms requested follow-ups, ADIRA answered quickly, confidently. Each measured word broadcast authority, calm calculation, and precision... enough to reassure the station officials without revealing more than necessary.
“Captain Butcher handing over further comms to my helmsman... uh...”
“OOOH... DARTH BRAD... NO-NO... BRADFRO BRAGGINS.... NO WAIT... BRADNOLD BRADZENNEGER”
ADIRA rolled her... “Bradford... my helmsman... Bradford. Two to disembark.”
“Acknowledged... Sundancer. Proceed to docking bay Virgo - Thirty-Seven. Just follow the lights... and... welcome to the Tangled Palace.”
“Much obliged Tangled Palace... Sundancer initiating approach vector... handing over.”
The station’s guidance lights reflected off the Elysium’s battered hull as it eased into the docking corridor. Every panel, every railing, every flickering light seemed to pulse with danger... or promises of opportunity. The station had a certain... feeling... they could feel it, low in their bones.
ADIRA climbed out of the pilot’s seat and was surprised to see a life-sized BRAD materialize in the space she just inhabited. “You’re just full of surprises... aren’t you.”
“BUTTERCUP... YOU HAVE NO IDEA.” Then he turned his attention to the coms. “TEN FOUR, TANGLED PALACE... THIS IS BRADFORD... AKA... ASSDADDY.... AWAITING FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS...”
It didn’t take a stretch of the imagination to envision the poor station operator rolling their eyes, or rubbing a vein that spontaneously started throbbing at the side of their temple. “Just... remain on heading five-five as indicated... the lanes are busy... so... uh... keep... uhm... correspondence to a minimum... thank you.”
“WHAT’S YOUR NAME THERE DARLING... YOU DO HAVE A LOVELY VOICE.”
“That... uh... would be against regulations sir.” A slight pause followed by a sigh. “Just... follow the lights.”
“UNDERSTOOD SWEET LIPS... YOU KNOW WHERE TO FIND ME... DOCKING BAY... VIRGIN... THIRTY-SEVEN.”
There was no reply... only static drifting over the channel.
“WELL... THAT’S JUST RUDE.” BRAD turned to face his compatriots... their shocked demeanors evident. “WHAT...?”
Time slowed down as they taxied along the lanes. ADIRA and Alden headed to the exit hatch.
BRAD’s avatar fluctuated, muttering about paperwork, security checks, and the fact that - “SOMEWHERE OUT THERE, SOMEONE WILL NOTICE WE VAPORIZED A RAIDER AND WE’LL NEVER EXPLAIN THAT.”
ADIRA stayed focused. Alden stayed silent. And together, they eased into the station, alive, battered, and bracing for the chaos of what awaited inside... a neon-lit, cyberpunk hive, crawling with mercs, criminals, and shadowy politics that would test them in new ways.
For the first time in cycles, ADIRA allowed herself a deep breath. Calculations complete. Crew accounted for. Threats... assessed... well... sort of.
BRAD muttered faintly under his pixelated breath: “I SWEAR, IF I SURVIVE THIS, I’M TAKING UP KNITTING OR SOMETHING.”
Alden’s eyes softened slightly, though his jaw remained tight. “Alive. That’s all that matters right now. Let’s make it through the station.”
ADIRA’s gaze swept the corridor ahead, cold and logical, yet threaded with the faintest trace of human thrill. “Let’s proceed,” she said. “Cautiously.”
-o.0-
The Elysium eased into the neon-lit heart of the station... a fragile, battered shadow in a dangerous, electric world. They were alive, together, and ready for whatever chaos the sector had to throw at them as the ship eased into the docking corridor, neon reflections rippling over her battered hull. BRAD’s hands were steady, precise, each movement of the yoke measured.
“ALIGNING WITH BAY THIRTY-SEVEN,” he announced over comms. “VELOCITY MATCHED. STABILIZERS ON.”
BRAD’s pixelated avatar wiggled in delight as he appeared to make himself comfortable in the flight cradle, shirt fluttering as if caught in a breeze, pants... unzipped. “OHHH, THIS IS NICE, ISN’T IT? ALL SHINY RAILS, TIGHT CORRIDORS… I’VE ALWAYS WANTED TO FEEL THE SNUG EMBRACE OF A DOCKING BAY.” The landing mechanisms extended, sliding into place as the docking umbilical unfurled for the coupling procedure. “MM-HMM. FEELS GOOD. VERY GOOD.”
Alden banged the corridor wall with a fist...glaring at the security camera in the corner, his taloned finger pointed in a threatening way.
“AND YET... OH MY... HERE I AM,” BRAD countered from back on the flight deck, hands gripping the yokes... hips swiveling, “EXPERIENCING THE SENSUAL CARESS OF INDUSTRIAL ENGINEERING... YOU SWEET... LUBRICATED ANGEL... WHO KNEW METAL COULD FEEL SO… INTIMATE?”
ADIRA didn’t flinch... although the blush accumulating in her cheeks was telling. “Brad... keep focused on systems monitoring. Do not anthropomorphize structural beams.”
BRAD gasped, pretending to clutch his chest. “OUCH! THAT HURTS! HOW COLD YOU ARE, HYPOCRITES! NO WONDER ALDEN LIKES YOU.”
Alden scowled, looking away toward the docking bay walls sliding past. “What a douchebag.”
BRAD, undeterred, waved a pixelated hand over the control console operating the outer doors. “OH, DON’T BE JEALOUS, BROODING ONE. THERE’S ROOM FOR ALL OF US... TO ENJOY… THIS MOMENT. GLORIOUS ALIGNMENT… MMM, YES. THAT’S THE STUFF.”
ADIRA’s voice remained clipped, authoritative. “Depressurizing... in three… two… one.”
The bay door slowly yawned open. Hydraulic clamps slid along the hull. The Elysium shuddered slightly, then settled.
BRAD threw his virtual arms wide. “AHHH… DOCKING COMPLETE! I NEED A CIGARETTE... AND SOME COFFEE. YOU KNOW, I COULD GET USED TO THIS… OHHH, THE PRESS OF METAL ON METAL, THE HISS OF HYDRAULICS… THE SWEET RELEASE OF DEPRESSURIZATION... I’M TELLING YOU, GUYS, IT’S ALMOST… EROTIC!”
Alden rubs his temples. “Tell him... to never speak to me again.”
ADIRA exhaled softly, an almost imperceptible smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. Then she reached over and patted Alden on the arm... “Welcome to port, crew. Let’s try not making too many waves.”
BRAD gave one last exaggerated shimmy, pixelated shorts almost brushing the console. “WAVES? SURE. BUT LET’S NOT PRETEND IT WASN’T DELICIOUSLY THRILLING. HURRY ALONG... I NEED TO GET SOME GREASE IN MY BEARINGS.” For a moment there was quiet, but then. “STATION... THIS IS ASSDADDY... COULD WE REQUEST A PERSONAL INTERLUDE WITH THE STATION ADMINISTRATOR WITH THAT SYRUPY VOICE...?”
‘No’
“ARE YOU SURE...?”
‘Yes.’
“SO.... NO CHANCE FOR A HAPPY ENDING THEN?”
There was silence... except for a deep sigh over the coms... before the distinctive clicking sound of connection being terminated. Which was exactly what BRAD had wanted. The line had given him a tiny window through which to infiltrate their systems. For an outfit that was supposed to harbor cutthroats and ruffians, they we're tremendously sloppy with their Cybertech... "THAT'S WHAT YOU GET WHEN YOU MIX AND MATCH EXOTIC TECH ALL WILLY NILLY... YOU GET HOLES... BRAD SIZED HOLEEEEEYYY SHIT!... I KNEW IT." And with that he was off... infiltrating through subroutines that was more than just familiar to him... he wrote them.
The Sundancer was docked. The sector was alive, buzzing with neon, danger, and opportunity. And sitting in the flight deck, a digitized beach bum was still grinning, thoroughly satisfied.
We're only getting started.
As always... your friend... Sam.