(On the Hunt) Chapter 1

Pride: On the Hunt

Chapter 1

Domestic Front

Explorer Team 686 was officially on R&R. Nothing could possibly go wrong.

It always seemed to be crowded on the Garrison. There was no real need for it, as best Sven could tell. Where were all these people going? Why were they just milling around the base housing like they had nothing better to do? Were they all on the way to go pick up their unit's grumpy medic for a fun night out?

Whatever that meant.

He was rather concerned about what that meant.

Stop worrying about it. Jace just wants to take you out for some fun… oh, god.

Truth be told, he was much too busy worrying about that to really care what everyone else was up to. He just wished people would stop jostling him. It was rude.

Finally he reached the barracks block he was looking for, a concrete rectangle identical to all the others around it. Short-term enlisted housing was even more stark than the junior officer housing, which at least had a couple feet of concrete passing off as a balcony. Sven felt a brief twinge of pity, but it didn't last… he was pretty certain Jace would not appreciate a balcony if he had one.

Knocking on the door of Unit 2-736 got him an immediate yell from within: "It's open! If you're not a Viking you'd better not try it, though."

He cracked a small smile at the familiarity of it all… which lasted exactly until he pushed the door open. The smile gave way to wide-eyed disbelief as he took in the room. Or more to the point, the boxes stacked around the room. "It's been three days and you still haven't unpacked?"

Jace was sitting on one of the larger boxes, tapping at his datapad. "Why bother unpacking? Just gonna have to pack again later…" He raised his head and dropped the datapad. "What the fuck are you wearing?"

Blinking, Sven looked down at himself; he was wearing a navy blue polo and crisp khakis, nothing unusual. "…Clothes?" His attention went back the boxes. The only nod to organization in the room was a single shelf that held a medical kit, a few pans, and what looked like it might have been a stuffed kitten. "You unpack so that it's all not so… cluttered."

"If the stuff isn't in the boxes, then it gets everywhere, and then it's cluttered." The medic's tone had been patient, if maybe a little dramatically so, but the patience completely disappeared for his next question. "Are those khakis?"

"Yes, they are." Sven matched his original patience. "And it doesn't get cluttered if you clean up after yourself."

"It doesn't get cluttered if I leave it in the boxes until I need it, either, and you are not coming to the Dancing Swan in a polo shirt and khakis what the fuck's the matter with you."

"It is currently cluttered, and—wait, the what?" Sven was certain he knew the name Dancing Swan. Something about an old political nemesis of his father, a low-level dignitary. One who'd been caught acting up at… his eyes widened in horror. "Y—you're trying to take me to a strip club?!"

One of Jace's eyebrows arched slightly. "You… look surprised."

"Well yes! You said fun, not… not being culpable in… debauched shenanigans!"

"Have we met?"

"…Yes. And I am now seeing my mistake."

"Hey, gotta learn sometime." Grinning, Jace jumped off the box he'd been sitting on. "New plan, we're going shopping. Move it."

Sven didn't move, instead narrowing his eyes slightly. He didn't trust this 'new plan' at all. "Why are we going shopping?"

"Because if this is what you wear out for fun, you wardrobe obviously needs an overhaul."

Oh, they were still on this. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing? This is perfectly functional clothing?"

"Okay, fine." Jace shrugged. "Onward to the strip club!"

Sven's eyes narrowed further. "I know what you're doing… but fine. Let's go shopping."

"Not trying to be subtle, Viking. Just effective." He grabbed the navigator's sleeve and started all but dragging him down the corridor. Was there any point in resisting? Unlikely, so Sven allowed the dragging. Once they got to the street there were some merits to it, anyway; Jace seemed to have a gift for parting the crowds.

He was probably jostling people. It was probably rude. Oh well, nothing to be done for it.

Galaxy Garrison was, in most respects, a city in itself. Not a small city, either. Though it was surrounded by all kinds of fine establishments that wanted nothing more than to help soldiers spend their money, about a dozen different contractors ran authorized exchanges on base. Just in case you didn't want to take the time to leave… or didn't trust your friend to go out there in the wider world where he could potentially escape from having fun.

"So what've you been up to since debriefing?" Jace asked as he shifted course, heading for the closest of the exchanges. "Unpacking?"

"Of course I was unpacking," Sven scoffed. "I like to be civilized."

"I'll bet you do. In your polo shirt and khakis?"

"…I'm not answering that."

The medic grinned. "Yeah, might be best. What else has been going on? Surviving the politics? Wine? Spoons?"

"No…" A blush sprang to Sven's cheeks. "None of that. Just relaxing."

And lying to your parents.

No doubt he would have been dealing with politics, wine, spoons, and everything else. But he might, just might, have fibbed a little bit about the team's return date. Only a little bit. It had given him a rebellious thrill. He was part of an Explorer Team! He'd finally left Earth, trekked through the Rim, fought pirates and boar-tahs, hiked on giant monsters… and that was without even discussing the temple of elemental evil or whatever it had been. He'd even dealt for a poker game. He could certainly manage to take a week for himself before telling his parents he was home.

Then maybe he'd be ready to deal with spoons.

Jace eyed him with a bit of surprise, then chuckled and gave him a slap on the shoulder. "Oh yeah? Good for you, Viking, you need to relax once in awhile."

"Yes. Yes I do." He started to ask the polite, reciprocal question in this conversation, then thought better of it. "Do I want to know what you've been doing while you haven't been unpacking?"

"Absolutely not."

"I didn't think so."

The nearest exchange was one of the base's several Warmarts—someone had thought they were funny, apparently—which really was probably the best option for this. Some of the others could get pretty high-end. From the look on Sven's face as they approached the building, Jace felt confident he did not routinely buy his clothing at Warmart. "So, is it even worth asking if you've ever been shopping for normal clothes before?"

"I am wearing normal clothing," he answered in a resigned tone. "What kind of clothing do you consider normal, exactly?"

That… was an annoyingly good question, actually. Jace did not spend a lot of time thinking about the underlying philosophy of dress codes, he just knew you did not wear khakis to the Dancing Swan. "Jeans? T-shirts? Fuck, just…" Rolling his eyes, he shot a pointed look at the perfect crease in Sven's pants. "If you have to iron it, it's too high-maintenance to be normal, can we settle on that at least?"

"I suppose so." He did not look convinced, though jeans didn't sound too terrible.

"Here." They were nearly to the door. "If you can find it in here and it's not a bathrobe, it probably counts."

"I already have a bathrobe."

"…Of course you do. See? This won't be too painful." The medic lowered his voice. "For you."

Sven did not lower his voice. "Somehow I doubt that…"

"I heard that."

"I didn't say it quietly."

Being sassed by the Viking never failed to brighten Jace's day; it proved they were headed in the right direction. With a laugh and a flippant salute, he headed in the doors. "Okay, let's get in and get out and maybe we can still hit the club by the evening show."

"I'd rather we didn't do that second part." Sven had indeed not done all that much shopping for cheap clothing in his life, and was looking around in bewilderment as he followed Jace into the men's section. There was so much. Most of it seemed perfectly respectable. Some of it did not. His attention was drawn to what looked like damaged merchandise on one rack… he paused, realizing there were several such pieces, and glared at the rack as though it had personally insulted him. "There will be no jeans with holes in them."

"With you on that, actually. We're in the military, we'll get enough holes in us without buying 'em premade…" After another few rows they finally stopped, next to a rack of jeans with no holes in them. "Okay, have at it."

Have at what? Looking around at a veritable sea of denim and cotton and who even knew what else, Sven resigned himself to doing something he would absolutely regret. "Um, Jace?"

"…What?"

"Where do I start?"

Oh yes, he was definitely going to regret this. Jace worked his jaw a moment, considering and discarding several options, then looked around himself and walked over to one of the racks. "Know what, if you have to ask that, you start with these." He picked out a pair of glossy black pants and tossed them over.

Sven caught them, if having them land in his arms could be considered 'catching' them. "What on Earth are these?"

"Pants."

"Obviously, but…" He ran his hands over the non-fabric. It was slick and rough and heavy and surely had to be uncomfortable, never mind the questionable appearance. "What are they?"

Jace stared at him, then sighed. "Leather. It comes from cows. People wear it. Ask Lance."

In any other situation Sven might have been offended by that—he knew perfectly well what leather was. And he was reasonably certain it wasn't appropriate material for pants. "Why do they wear them?" he demanded with wide eyes, his voice a little shrill.

"Because it's better than being nak—"

"—Sven?"

Both of them startled and looked up, Jace looking confused, Sven a bit horrified. A pale young woman with short blonde hair was standing there, wearing an aerospace division uniform with a Deep Space Recon patch and an expression of mildly inscrutable curiosity.

"…Ina?" Sven finally managed. Ina Leifsdottir was his oldest friend, a brilliant pilot and analyst, one of the very few people who could understand his upbringing… and probably the last person he needed to see him standing there holding leather pants. Not least because she might ask him to explain them, and he was wholly incapable of such a thing.

"Yes." She watched him as he approached and gave her a warm hug, which had lasted precisely three seconds when she spoke again. "We've discussed this."

Sven sighed and released her. She didn't sound annoyed—she never was—just a bit bemused, and he supposed he'd asked for that. They had discussed this. "Yes, yes, I'm aware. The standard hug only lasts three seconds." A small grin crossed his lips. It was good to see her again, quirks and all.

"…Viking, you've got a girlfriend?" Jace demanded. There wasn't even a hint of sarcasm in his tone, just pure shock.

"What?! No, no, no—"

"—We are friends," Ina interrupted, looking confused. "And I am a female."

Jace looked between them, and Sven braced himself for a new round of mockery. But then, to his surprise, the medic just laughed. "Oh, it's one of those things. Got it."

Sighing again, he decided that was the best he could hope for. "Jace, Ina. Ina, Jace. Jace, Ina is a childhood friend from Norway, and Ina, Jace is…" Several options came and went. "…well, my friend."

"Nice to meet you. Most people call me Leif." Ina offered her hand while turning her head slightly towards Sven. "Does this mean he is your boyfriend?"

"I'm his team medic," Jace snorted as he shook her hand. "I don't need to see him any more naked than I already do, thanks."

"Oh. Why not?"

For the second time in much too short a timeframe, Jace found himself at a loss for words. He looked between them again, trying to figure out if that was supposed to be a commentary on naked Vikings or just… "…Que porra?" he finally muttered helplessly.

"It's not—she just wants to understand—never mind." Sven looked as flustered as he felt. "Ina…"

"Inappropriate?"

"Yes. What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Purchasing tampons," she said matter-of-factly, displaying the box she'd been holding in her other hand.

Sven's expression twisted into something truly spectacular, and it was all Jace could do not to choke laughing; that would kind of suck, considering he was the medic here. A sly grin crept over his face instead. "So, Viking, remember what you're doing here? You gonna try those pants on or not?"

No. No he certainly was not. Recovering and shaking his head, the navigator tried another tack, ignoring the question. "I've missed you, Ina. I didn't realize you were back from your mission." She'd been deployed when he'd left, running recon flights somewhere in the Outer Reaches.

"But I am standing right in front of you."

By now Jace was biting his lip almost hard enough to draw blood. But he was also pretty sure he was understanding Sven a lot better. If this is his childhood friend, no fucking wonder he asks me shit like what normal clothes are. …How is she not his girlfriend, they're perfect for each other.

"I was also not aware you were back from your mission. Your mother called," Ina tilted her head slightly as if in imitation, "to chat, yesterday at 7:12 pm. She was not aware either."

All the color drained from Sven's face—there hadn't been that much to begin with, to be fair. "I… uh." He glanced over at Jace for help, which definitely wasn't something he'd have ever done if he were in his right mind, and saw the medic's dark eyes wide with new respect.

Not bad, Viking…

"Know what?" He approached and took the terrifying leather pants away, turning to the next rack over. "Maybe you don't need to try these after all, you're clearly making much better progress than I first thought." He pitched over a pair of nice normal jeans and went to put the leather pants back.

Catching the jeans, Sven let himself exhale; it had been enough of a distraction to at least get his wits back about him. A little. Maybe. "Ina. My mother doesn't know I've arrived back on Earth yet."

She tilted her head again. "I'm aware of that. She told me yesterday at—"

"7:12 pm, yes, I know." It was all he could do to keep his voice calm. Actually his voice wasn't the least bit calm, but at least he wasn't squeaking in the same panic he was feeling. He loved his parents, he did, but they'd been disappointed enough in his Explorer Team posting. If they found out he'd started lying to them, he might never escape their sight again. "Would it be possible for you to not mention that I'm back, if she calls again? And possibly not tell her when I actually arrived? Ever?"

"That would be lying," she observed with the same vague interest as one discussing the weather. "Both by commission and omission."

"Yes, I know." He said those words a lot around her. "Will you?"

"Yes."

"Thank you." With a long sigh of relief, Sven turned back to Jace, who seemed torn between wanting to rescue him or bury him. "I have jeans, can we go now?"

"Oh hell no. You need shirts too, and that's gonna be way more fun." Smirk. "So… Leif, huh? You want to help us out? I'm trying to help the Viking here shop for some clothes, and I'm pretty sure he's too smart to believe anything I say about how he looks."

Oh. Oh no. "Ina, you don't have to, you seem very busy with your… tampons…"

"I will." She looked curiously at Jace. "Why will shirts cause a higher level of enjoyment than pants?"

"Because pants are pretty simple. Shirts can be stuff like this." He'd been looking through a large rack of shirts, and tossed one in Sven's direction.

Looking between Ina's completely indifferent expression and Jace's obvious delight, Sven seriously considered just dropping the jeans and fleeing. But he knew he would never actually get away with that, so he caught the shirt and held it up. It was red, with the Alliance insignia and MANDATORY FUN SHIRT written in white block letters. "Oh." Glare. "Red's not really my color."

Jace shrugged and went back to searching; Ina peered at him. "Why not? The color doesn't clash with your skin pigmentation, or your hair?" Before he could even try to answer, another shirt came sailing at him; black this time, with WHISKY TANGO FOXTROT in even bigger block letters.

If Jace really thought he'd be caught dead in that, he had another foxtrotting thing coming. He'd sooner deal with his mother walking into the Warmart right then and there. No point actually saying it. Glaring even harder at them both, Sven vanished into the fitting room.

Still looking for other shirts, Jace had barely noticed the departure until he heard the door swing shut. Well, at least the Viking was trying. Shrugging, he moved on to a display of 'vintage pop' shirts, where he found something with very solid potential. Why not? It wasn't like Sven would know a dated reference if he saw one. Picking out a blue one, he tossed it over the dressing room door just as Sven came out in the first shirt and jeans.

Huh. Red really isn't his color. Crossing his arms, he studied the navigator carefully. "Hmm. It is kinda questionable. What do you think, Leif, how's he look?"

"He looks distressed," she answered without hesitation.

He glanced over at her, now a bit distressed himself. "I, uh… I meant how do the clothes look on him?"

"Oh." She tilted her head. "They look like clothes."

…I probably deserve this. "Yeah, they sure do. Try the next one, dude."

The next one. Right. Sven looked at the Whisky Tango Foxtrot shirt again and shook his head. "I'm not wearing this." Tossing it right back out of the fitting room, he turned his attention to the third shirt that had appeared there; it was dark blue with the words KEEP CALM AND TRUST THE NAVIGATOR. Whether he was missing a joke there, or Jace was just taking pity on him, he couldn't say… and he wasn't going to worry about it. He could only regret dragging this on further, so he pulled it on and walked out. "I like this one."

"You would."

"It does seem to compliment you much more effectively."

"Wonderful." He changed back into his original clothing, found where the Mandatory Fun Shirt had come from, and replaced it perfectly straight on the rack. "Now can we go?"

"Let's do it." Jace grinned, turning towards the checkout. "Plenty of time to still make the evening show!"

Oh, so he hadn't forgotten about that. Sven made a face. "Is it possible for us to do something other than that?" That got the WTF shirt waved threateningly at him, but then Ina intervened.

"If he has taken you shopping, it would be fair and reciprocal for you to take him shopping also. Perhaps somewhere he will enjoy as much as you have enjoyed this."

…Now that sounded like fun. Even more so when Jace dropped the shirt and turned to her with a very disconcerted look on his face. It was obvious he was trying to figure out just how much hell Sven could make his life in the next five minutes. Coincidentally, Sven was trying to figure out the same thing. A high-class shop seemed very likely to backfire on him. But one idea was springing to mind…

"Then it's settled." He smiled broadly. "We're going to the bookstore. Ina, would you like to join us?"

"No. I have to purchase these tampons."

"Alright. Just me and Jace, then."

"A bookstore?" The medic had finally found his voice. "Who said anything about… do they even have bookstores around here?" He couldn't even find a damn cookbook without making special orders.

"There's one a few blocks away from the housing section they've put me in. It's wonderful." Smirk. "You'll love it."

Maybe he's getting a little too good at this sass thing. Jace knew when he was beat, and sighed, grinning slightly. "Fine, fine, whatever. Let's go to the bookstore." If there were nefarious plans involving the erotica section already starting to form in his mind, well, the Viking would have only himself to blame. Though it actually sounded like it could be entertaining regardless. "And why stop there? We can just shop all night, could be fun."

Sven grinned back. "Let's do that."

*****

Canaveral Comics was not the only comic book shop that catered to the Garrison. It was just the closest, biggest, and best. And like always, it was a bit of a zoo. The harried sales staff was getting people checked out as quickly as possible, but they could only do so much.

Lance was leaning against the front counter, flipping through a display comic with a frown on his face as he waited on his pull list. The art was questionable, and the story… well, there probably was one. Somewhere. Newer stuff is so hit or miss…

One of the clerks emerged from the back room, a small stack of comics in her arms. A moment later the signal bell sounded. "Lance McClain!"

He dropped the disappointing comic and crossed over to the clerk, flashing a brilliant smile. "That's me!"

She blushed a little—as she ought to, of course—before setting out his comics one by one. "Beyond Torchwood, Star Wars Falcon Legacy, Warpspeed, Into Andromeda?"

"Looks like that's everything." He eyed the Falcon Legacy books particularly eagerly, it appeared he'd missed two issues. He was very ready to get home and—

"—Yo, stranger!"

The voice was familiar, but definitely not one he'd expected to hear here. "Hunk!" Turning, he saw Hunk trotting up to the counter, carrying a very large stack of comics… it went up to his chin, if he were a smaller dude he'd certainly have tipped over. "Wow, you really like comics."

"Yeah, I always get kinda carried away while I'm waitin' on my pulls." Grin. "I like to read, yeah?"

"I thought I liked to read, too…" He stared at the stack for another moment, then turned back to his own small pile feeling slightly flustered. He covered it with another smile at the clerk, who blushed again.

"On your usual account, Lieutenant?"

"Uh, yeah, the usual," he glanced at her nametag, "Juanita."

Nodding, she rang him up and slid the books into a bag; Hunk gave a whistle of appreciation. "Hey, you've got good choices, bro!"

"Yeah, it's just my usuals, the basic stuff, nothing extra this go around…" Why was he babbling like he was intimidated by a huge stack of comics? By Hunk, no less. Hunk was awesome, not intimidating. "If I run out I guess I know where to go to borrow some, huh?"

The big man chuckled. "Any time, bro. You'd probably love Crash Buster, it's like Warpspeed but with crush cars instead of planes."

Planes, obviously, were the superior vehicle in that equation. Or pretty much any equation. That being said, crush cars were a solid runner up. "Yeah, that doesn't sound half bad. Have you checked out Into Andromeda? It's about a World War Two pilot that finds himself in the future, pretty new but it's awesome." He eyed Hunk's haul again. "You set to check out?"

Hunk glanced over at Juanita, who was scrolling down a datapad at her register. "Hey Comic Lady, where'm I at on the list?" Grin. "No rush, just wonderin'."

She actually blushed a little at that, too. "You're about ten down, Hunk." Somehow, Lance wasn't at all surprised to hear she knew him by name. "Do you want me to hold those while you're waiting?"

"Nah, I've got 'em. If you hold 'em I'll just end up with more."

Ten down sounded like a lot… but this, Lance decided, was a thing he could help with. "Oh Juanita, beautiful, couldn't he go next?"

Now her slight blush went full bright red, especially when he gave her that dazzling smile again. "Oh, I… really shouldn't…"

Of course she shouldn't. Like that ever stopped them. Lance poured on the charm. "It's just he and I are going down to the Rambling Barrel. Gonna get settled, watch a game or two, talk about the new Falcon Legacy… say, what time do you get off?"

It took her a very long couple of seconds to find her voice. "...I, um, I'm going to be in all night I'm afraid, the Sol Regulars are getting in tonight, it's all hands on deck, you know how it is…" She trailed off, looking between them, seeming to realize she was babbling.

"Aww, that's a shame." Wink. "Maybe another time."

Apparently she'd had enough blushing, because she giggled and turned away quickly. "Hunk, I'll go get your books." She vanished into the back room.

Hunk stared after her, then looked down at Lance. He was pretty buddy-buddy with Juanita, but she was strictly business when it came to the line. He'd never seen her do a favor like that for anyone. "Dude, how'd you do that?"

"It's just a gift. So far only that cat thing is immune." A little shudder ran through him at the memory.

"Oh, good." Hunk made a face. "I'd hate to have to put Comic Lady in a box, I like her."

Lance shuddered again. "Yeah, let's never have to do that box move again. Ever."

"I'm totally for it."

Juanita came out of the back room then, carrying another armful of comics almost as big as the stack Hunk had gathered up. "So you've got X-Men Eternity, Crash Buster, Warpspeed…"

As she counted out the comics, Lance felt one of his eyebrows raising. And raising. And raising. "Big guy, do you like, have a comic book wing at your place? Next time I might just ask to come over instead of, you know, buying stuff."

Hunk shrugged, maybe a little sheepishly. "I uh, kinda went through a phase of buildin' bookshelves outta junk cars… gotta have books to put on 'em, yeah?" Grin. "Plenty of money for comics when all your furniture is homemade junkyard chic."

"Huh?" Lance took a moment to parse that, because the words homemade junkyard chic were certainly not words he'd ever have imagined hearing in that order. But coming from Hunk, it didn't really seem at all strange. "Okay, that's something I need to see, dude."

"You can totally drop by any time! We can eat popcorn and read comics and rock out…"

Juanita was finally to the end of the pile. "…Gearbolts, Bunny Bomb Squad, and Legends of Metal." She smiled and started bagging the books—double bagging in fact, which seemed like a very good decision—as Hunk flipped her a credit chip without missing a beat.

"Wanna swing by after, uh…" He looked at Juanita and coughed back whatever he'd been about to say. "…after we get done at the bar?"

Lance grinned broadly, winking again at the clerk as she finished up with the comics. "I don't know, since we're gonna be deprived of Juanita's presence let's just skip the bar thing. Another time."

And now she was right back to blushing. "Oh, Lieutenant, I found something else of yours in the back." She produced an unfamiliar Falcon Legacy issue—a variant cover, he realized after a once-over. There was a strip of paper tucked inside. Another number for the collection, without a doubt, and one he would definitely utilize.

"Wow, this is great!" He flashed her his most brilliant smile in gratitude, tucking the comic into his bag. "I'll be seeing you sooner rather than later, Juanita."

Hunk looked between them, chuckling slightly. Dude's unbelievable. He accepted his bag from the very flushed clerk, grinning. "Thanks, Comic Lady."

"Enjoy your comics, gentlemen." Smiling back, she checked the list on her datapad and fled to the back room.

"That… was adorable."

"She was pretty cute." Smirking, Lance watched after her for a moment, then he and Hunk headed for the door. "The ones that babble are usually the most fun to talk to, and I know she knows her comics."

"Totally. She introduced me to half the stuff on my list." Hunk was still grinning. "Definitely gotta do that bar thing sometime."

"Yeah, maybe with Flynn or something."

"Drag Sven along too, find out how much he really knows about comics and bigger comics. It'll be fun!"

Lance shook his head. "Yeah, Sven needs beer and pop culture education as bad as Flynn, except for Iron Man apparently."

"Hey, it counts! Gotta start with one thing before you can be an expert on all the things, yeah?"

"Yeah, I suppose so. Hell, I wasn't even an expert at flirting when I first started, so…" Lance frowned thoughtfully. "Bet he'd love Thor, he's a Viking, seems like a no-brainer."

"That's definitely gotta happen." They reached the main street; the comic shop was tucked away in an alley. Pausing a moment to adjust his bags, Hunk pointed off to the left. "I'm down there in the bunker 'burbs. It's not much of a walk."

Huh. Lance arched an eyebrow. The bunker 'burbs were a section of military houses on the Garrison outskirts, catering to soldiers who weren't big into apartments. They had a reputation for being cheap, sturdy, and small. "You got room in one of those places for those car shelves you were talking about?"

Hunk just laughed. "They ain't that small, bro. And I've got a roommate that doesn't mind an old Jag chassis or three in the living room." It occurred to him right after he said it that maybe he'd buried a lede there. "Uh, she's not here though, been out on deployment since February."

"Damn, I love meeting new people." And anyone who could be roommates with Hunk had to be way more interesting than most. "She an engineer too, liking car parts and all?"

"She's a siege tanker. Loves her bolts and her BOOMS." He chuckled. "She's a kick, whenever she gets back I'll introduce ya."

"Awesome." They'd reached the bunker 'burbs, winding down several streets of identical little cottages. Every so often someone had put out flags or signs or something to differentiate their place from the rest. It was a cozy little neighborhood, really. "This must be a great location for parties."

Grin. "We do get some pretty good block parties goin' here. A whole street full of grills, it's the prettiest thing you've ever seen…"

Now that was pretty damn on-brand. "I dunno, seen some real pretty."

"Yeah, bet you have!" Laughing again, Hunk veered onto a short dead end street. "Right down this way." Looking down the street, Lance could immediately guess which house they were going to: it had to be the one with half a dozen inflatable Halloween decorations squeezed onto the front lawn.

October was still a week away.

Sure enough, that was the driveway Hunk led him to, and he gave a low whistle. "I love a house that knows the proper holiday to rock out for."

Hunk glanced over, shifted his bag again, and held up a hand for a high-five; Lance slapped it with a smirk. "You're on Team Halloween? Shoulda known you'd be awesome like that!"

"Best holiday there is! Free candy, great costumes…"

"You know it." The big man walked up to the garage and put his hand on the access panel, and the door started sliding up. "Welcome to Hotel Metalfornia!"

"Holy shit." Lance looked around the garage with wide eyes. Everything looked, sure enough, like homemade junkyard chic—the three grills along the wall, the four wheeler that looked like a crush car stripped down to be street-legal… "This is fucking awesome. You made all this?"

Hunk blushed. "Me'n the roomie. I uh, might smuggle some scraps back after jobs every once in awhile instead of 'properly disposing' of 'em. Next thing you know, this happens."

Lance burst into cackling laughter. "Do what you gotta do, big guy!" Looking around he felt pretty sure the scrap here had, indeed, been properly disposed of. "If I thought you gave a damn, I'd tell you this place could be a guy or girl magnet."

Now he blushed almost as bright as Juanita had earlier. "It's an epic magnet, that's all it's gotta be!" Motioning for Lance to follow, he opened the door to the house. The inside was somewhat less impressive than the garage, mostly just clean and sparse. What furniture there was, though, fit right in with the theme: car bookshelves, several beanbag chairs, and a huge overstuffed couch that appeared to have been framed with tank treads.

"I can work with epic." Lance went directly to the first bookshelf—they were large and colorful, with headlights and grilles on the top and wheels stuck to the sides. None of them were even close to full, but even so. "Your collection is fucking awesome."

"Gotta be awesome enough to match the shelves, yeah?" Hunk chuckled a little sheepishly. He wasn't actually used to company, let alone company that appreciated the decor. "I'll go grab a couple beers, back in a sec."

"Sure thing, I trust your beer abilities."

"Now that I'm gonna take as a heck of a compliment!"

"It's one of the biggest I give."

The fridge was pretty full—grocery shopping had been the first order of business after returning home, the mission had run him flat out of murder pepper sauce—but he was pretty certain something in here would meet Lance's approval, if he could just find it… aha! There you are. Pulling two cans of Rabblerouser out of the back, he returned to the living room and tossed one to Lance. He caught it and nodded his appreciation, cracking it open and returning his attention to the comics.

Hunk flopped into one of the beanbag chairs, grinning. It was always fun to find other people who were amused by his hobbies.

Moving on to the next shelf, Lance paused at the sight of a bit of plastic sticking out. Pulling it free he found himself holding what appeared to be a vintage X-Men comic in a protective sleeve. "Is this seriously what it looks like?"

The big guy looked startled for a moment, and tried to hide behind his beer can, which was pretty much a lost cause. "Oh. Yeah, uh… one of my brothers used to be a really serious collector, he kinda got me into it. I usually just hoard the modern stuff, yeah? But when he stopped he gave me a couple of my old favorites."

There had been a time, before deciding to just play along with the looks, that a comic about misunderstood mutants had really been what had kept him going.

"Yeah?" Lance was studying the comic still, though he'd taken in the cover twice over by now. A small frown that had nothing to do with the X-Men crossed his face. "How many brothers do you have?"

"Four!" Laughter. "I'm the runt, that's why they call me Hunk." That sent Lance's eyebrows up even higher than his pull list had, but he didn't get the chance to ask about it. "You got any?"

"Um…" He shook his head a bit, trying to clear it from the sudden onslaught of old memories. It didn't work. "One, kinda. I mean, well… I had one." A glimpse of the old living room table, rough-hewn wood, his father trying to convince Drew to do his reading homework while Charlotte giggled in the background. "He hated reading…"

Okay so that wasn't a good question. Hunk set his beer aside and stood, watching Lance carefully. "You okay, bro?"

"Yeah, just… I was the reader, comics, they were where I hid when I got here. Earth, I mean. Drew, he uh, liked frogs. Beau Terre had these huge ones, they were browner than the ones I've seen around here…" Coughing, he took a long drink of beer to try to steady himself. "Anyway, uh, you're born and bred on Earth right?"

"…Yeah." Hunk had absolutely no intention of asking what any of that was about, but he walked up and gave Lance's shoulder a squeeze. Hiding in comics, he did get that. "Mom's from Japan. Pops likes to say he's half Silitz and half Everything Else." Shrug. "Nothin' too exciting, probably."

Lance let himself relax a little, shaking his head. This time the memories retreated back where they belonged… far in the back of his mind. He looked at the comic again. "Mind if I borrow this one?"

"Not at all!" Something else occurred to Hunk, and he paused a moment. Would it help? Would it hurt? Impossible to say for certain, but he thought… "Here, got somethin' else you might like too, wanna give it a shot?" He went to a different shelf and pulled out a thin volume, offering it to the pilot with a small grin.

Hesitantly, Lance took the book from him; it was a colorful little trade paperback with the whimsical title The Adventures of Hopper the Brave. It looked cute. And the cover art seemed sufficiently badass—a combat helicopter with a pair of caped superheroes hanging from the skids. One of them appeared to be an anthropomorphic frog.

Stiffening a moment, Lance turned to look at Hunk, who was shifting a little nervously. Then he looked back at the book, a small smile crossing his lips. "Thanks, dude."

Clearly relieved, the big engineer picked up his beer and saluted with it. "Any time, bro."

Returning the salute, Lance's grin became an outright smirk. "Now, you mentioned popcorn?"

"Oh hell yeah, I mentioned popcorn. What's your thing? Butter? Caramel? Cheddar? Murder pepper?"

"Murder pepper?" he repeated in disbelief. On popcorn? Though really, why was he shocked? "That sounds awful, let's try it. But uh, also the caramel."

"Bringin' the sweet and the heat! Good choice!" Hunk disappeared back into the kitchen, and he could hear cabinets opening and closing.

"I've been accused of that a time or two, really."

Laughter from the doorway. "I'll bet you have!"

Grinning, Lance looked back at the comic in his hands before tucking it away in his bag. It was okay… it was all good here.

*****

Keith and Flynn had arranged to meet up at the personnel office; they had unit evaluations to submit. Which had surprised both of them, truthfully. What was the point in unit evaluations on an Explorer Team? Everyone had pretty well been evaluated.

Nonetheless, the reports were in and it was time to have a command retreat. Or something. Not like they'd had any time for social visits before they'd left the first time.

"So, a drink?" Keith glanced at his datapad. "Looks like the nearest bar is… the Twisted Candle?"

"We can't go there," Flynn said quickly. A little too quickly, really.

"Why not?"

"Because I'm not allowed back since the time I decked a bartender for hitting on me," his second answered matter-of-factly. "Turns out it's basically a gay—"

"—Gay panic, Kleid?" Keith arched a disapproving eyebrow. "You really didn't strike me as the type."

Flynn looked back at him with an expression that might actually have been even more disapproving. "…I'm gay and I was panicking, if that's what you mean." Scowl. "What I was going to say was it's basically a gay counterpart of the Hare Astoria, which… I suppose you might not get that reference, Commander Crystal Spur, but—"

"—No, I get it." The Hare Astoria was more often known on the Academy campus as the Harassatorium, and for good reason. Even Keith knew that. And he felt particularly foolish once the first part sank in. "I… sorry, I didn't realize you were gay."

"What, you haven't noticed me staring at your backside whenever Lance references it?"

Keith went bright red. "N… no, I haven't!" he sputtered. As if Lance wasn't bad enough on his own? "Have you really been—"

"—Well that's unfortunate, because I've only been doing it to annoy you." Flynn gave a rather exaggerated sigh. "Not that you're bad looking, but you're not at all my type."

…Was that supposed to be a compliment or an insult? Maybe it didn't even matter. Shaking his head, he started down the street. "Well, now I need a drink more than ever…" He stopped as what Flynn had called him earlier sank in, and turned back around. "And how do you know about that?"

"…Is it a secret?" It had not been that difficult to find, once he'd gotten around to going looking for the file he hadn't been given. The Alliance didn't usually keep medals quiet.

"Well, I don't advertise that I have that ridiculous thing."

"Kogane, you advertise it just by being you." Pausing at an intersection, Flynn got his bearings and looked off to the west. "The Whistling Arrow, you think? Lance tells me I'm no judge of beer quality, but I know they at least have a lot of options."

Keith shrugged. "I don't like beer, but I'm sure it'll do."

"You don't? Why doesn't he give you grief then?"

Grin. "Probably because I bought all his beer for the last mission."

"Oh. So you're not advertising the Spur, you're just gunning for another one." Smirking as they reached the Whistling Arrow, Flynn pushed the door open and motioned him in. Possibly just to see if he would actually go first.

He did, staking out a couple of empty barstools. "Commanding an Explorer Team? That won't happen."

"Explorer Teams aren't all that bad. Isn't that why we just had to do more paperwork?" He pulled the beer menu closer and glanced over it, looking for anything Lance would approve of. Or should he try to expand his horizons again? "I suppose you'll just be annoyed if I ask you how you came about the first one."

"Drink first. Then story." Keith flagged down the bartender.

"What can I get for you, gentlemen?"

"I'll take a rum and a lemon lime soda."

Flynn had not gotten any closer to deciding on a course of action, so he closed his eyes and pointed at, well, something. Looking to see what his finger had landed on, he blinked. "Elven Squirrel Ale?" He really did not understand beer at all. "Whatever, let's go with that."

Keith arched an eyebrow. "To hear McClain tell it, I figured you'd order something cheap and sugary. Maybe with a little umbrella for class."

Oh had he. Flynn started to object to that, then hesitated. "I mean… technically we don't know it won't be."

"Good point." Keith nodded slowly. "But if you turn into an elvish squirrel, I'm not taking responsibility."

"Be a hell of a way to get out of paperwork. Bit of a waste right after we've turned it all in, though."

"I suppose it would be, yes." Chuckling, Keith accepted his drink and stirred the ice slowly, nodding to the bartender.

Flynn's beer came in a glass with a picture of a little pointy-eared squirrel; it was carrying a fancy longbow. He stared at it for a long moment, then just shook his head. "That'll give me nightmares." Well, he had it now, so… he took a sip and shrugged. It tasted like beer.

They were both quiet for a minute, listening to the background hum of the bar. It was crowded, but not overly so. Most bars near the Garrison could be expected to have a crowd from sunrise to closing time, anyway. The Whistling Arrow was popular with Hydrans, so several of the largest screens were showing trekur and castimau matches along with the standard various forms of football. Flynn was trying to make some sense of castimau—it looked something like volleyball, but with a javelin—when Keith decided to go ahead and speak up.

"The Vesuvius… she was a big warship, a good one. Avenger-class. Good crew, for the most part, everyone has their quirks. I was the night shift lead." He'd been a step away from being groomed for his own warship command. Strange to think about that now. "We'd run several drills the night before, there were some issues, so my report was taking longer than usual."

Flynn nodded silently, sipping his beer. A few tables away there were several yells, someone somewhere had scored, apparently. Keith waited for the noise to die down before continuing.

"I cleared it with the skipper to have a subordinate take my next shift while I finished it up. Not like I would be that far away if anything actually happened." He stopped and took a very long drink.

"…Well that's not ominous," his second muttered.

"Yeah." He supposed he was leading a bit with that phrasing. "To make a long story short, we hit a hypermetric anomaly. Kelly didn't realize the severity, he thought he could handle it without contacting me or raising any alarms…" He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly. "There was damage to the ship. Three crewmen died. Because I was supposed to be the shift lead and I wasn't there, I stepped forward to take responsibility."

Flynn eyed him sympathetically, but still said nothing. Something about the sequence of events didn't sit right, but he was pretty sure the commander would get to that…

"I don't know why the skipper didn't just have me take the blame. Maybe because I'd cleared it previously, but… that doesn't seem good enough."

There it was. Leave it to Kogane… to blame himself for not being on a shift he'd been duly relieved from.

"There was a messy court martial proceeding. They bounced between blaming any or all three of us. In the end Kelly got the blame, Skipper got a reprimand…" Sigh. "And I got a stupid medal for exceptional chivalry. So yeah. I don't advertise it. It makes me feel a bit awkward."

"Sounds like they got it right," Flynn said quietly. "For whatever that's worth."

"Yeah, maybe it was right, but a medal? For doing the right thing?"

"No, for doing the excessively noble thing." His second's tone held just a hint of playful teasing. "It wasn't at all your fault, Kogane. You can't be everywhere at once. You cleared it." Flynn eyed him. "And you can't expect to do everything for your subordinates just to be sure it gets done correctly."

Now that might not have been a comment on the Vesuvius incident at all. "Yeah, I know. But I like to be accountable. To not ask anyone to do something I wouldn't do myself, you know?"

"I get it."

Keith had wondered at the time, and still wondered, what the correct way to deal with the situation was supposed to have been. The one that wouldn't have earned him a ridiculous medal. Surely not just throwing one of his people under the bus. "What would you have done, though?"

Flynn considered that for a minute, frowning at his glass. "The bay is very different from the bridge, you know."

That seemed like an understatement. "Yeah. But even so?"

He was quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. "There's a long tradition in engineering of not worrying about blame. You come in after something goes wrong and start throwing threats and charges around, people start trying to cover their asses instead of finding the problem. That's how more people get killed." He sipped his beer, eyes narrowing slightly. "I'd have told them even when everything is done according to procedure, sometimes things still happen. You don't need a damn court martial just for the sake of one."

That did sound like him. Keith nodded slowly. "Court martials are unpleasant."

"I didn't mind mine." His second laughed. "But I was right."

…That also sounded like him, really. "I'm afraid to open that can of worms."

"Probably for the best." Flynn drained his glass, making a face. "I'm sure you've seen all the important parts, anyway, you don't need to know how many times I called my Captain an idiot on the record."

Keith's knowledge of the incident that had sent Flynn to the 686 consisted of three main points: he'd blown up a trillion-alcred engine, he'd been exonerated for it, and his Captain had indeed been an idiot. "Given the situation, you were right. You have to trust your engineers. Nothing is worth risking lives for, especially not just making a cargo schedule." He sighed and took another long sip. "Anyway, I'm fairly certain we're getting to know each other better, but… I feel like it's dragging the mood down. So, how did you get into engineering?"

Answering that in any sort of detail would require either a much better reason or a lot more beer. Flynn caught the bartender's eye and signaled for a water, buying a few moments, then shrugged. "Born into it, you might say. What about you? What got to you into… piloting or commanding or whatever it is you do that got my ship so beat up last time out?"

That earned him a mild scowl, which he defused with a wink, and Keith chuckled. "I liked the challenge of command, or the thought of the challenge, anyway. It's harder than some people let on… but enjoyable. Seeing people succeed when you order them to get a job done." He leaned back and stretched for a moment. "Piloting, that's just the sense of freedom. Only other place I get that is my motorcycle."

Flynn visibly brightened. "Kogane… have you thought about what you're doing here?"

"Um… drinking? Talking?"

"You just said the word motorcycle to a mechanic." Smirk. "Which means I'm now obligated to ask you which model, pass judgment on it, offer several useless pieces of trivia, insist on coming to see it and probably upgrading the engine for you…"

Keith burst into laughter. "As long as you don't go off and tell Lance it was a date… it's a Ducati UltraStar. Top of the line."

Flynn arched an eyebrow. Did not see that coming. "Not bad at all."

"You look impressed."

"Shouldn't I be? You're going to completely ruin your boring reputation."

"Boring? Me?" Keith laughed and signaled for another drink, swatting his second lightly.

"Oh, you'd surely at least noticed that." Flynn sipped his water and grinned. "Nobody on an Explorer Team can really be all that boring, though. Probably."

"True." A challenging grin danced along Keith's lips. "So, the several pieces of useless trivia?"

"Only civilian bike—and one of only three civilian vehicles—made from pure voidforged alloys. The others that advertise voidforging only use it for critical components." Flynn took another sip of water, frowning thoughtfully at nothing in particular. "I'm sure you know it's heavily based on the Nova shuttle, everyone knows that… only problem is, it's actually not. Ducati had a contract with Centauri Sky, some lines got blurred in the design process."

The engineer telling him about the forging technique and the relationship to a spacecraft seemed pretty much on-brand. "Is that a distinction that people really worry about?"

"It is when your maintenance class is working on a Nova, and about sixteen different people want to tell Colonel Greyla all about the UltraStar…"

Keith chuckled as the bartender refilled his drink. "That must have been some class. Did Greyla have one or were they just trying to score some extra credit?"

"Oh, they were just trying to impress her." Smirk. "Imagine their expressions when she showed up the next day on a limited model."

Oh, that was very nice. "They were all drooling, weren't they?"

"That… and horrified." Flynn gave a mock shudder, then snickered. "An instructor and a superior officer who's smarter and cooler than them? How were they supposed to handle that?"

Most of Keith's instructors had been both smarter and 'cooler' than him, he was pretty sure. "Those are usually the best kind."

"Usually. Does make it inconvenient when you want to bitch about them, though." His second crossed his arms on the counter and leaned forward a bit, frowning at nothing. "In any case, I'm still much more impressed with your posting on an Avenger-class than with your motorcycle."

"It's just a ship." He shrugged and sipped his new drink. "A nice one, but still."

"Just a ship." Flynn rolled his eyes. "That's the Alliance's most iconic battleship you're slandering, Kogane."

"Yeah, but it's just a ship nonetheless." He could tell he was about to get an argument that would probably involve all of the Avenger's specifications and history, and opted to change the subject. "So, what do you like to do on your downtime?"

That got him a skeptical look; Flynn was not fooled by his diversion. But he laughed. "Engineering."

…Of course engineering. And people said he was too into his job. "All work and no play?"

"All play and no work." Shrug. "Some gunsmithing—never mind, that's also engineering. I play some lacrosse?" He hesitated a moment, looking up at one of the screens. "Not well, mind, but I threaten to hit people and it works out. Beats sparring."

Keith gave him the same look about lacrosse beating sparring as he'd received about the Avenger just being a ship. Though he knew something on this subject himself. "Lacrosse? Isn't that a First Nations game?"

"…Is it?" Flynn gave him a blank look. The extent of his background knowledge on the sport was that he'd needed an elective and it had been open. "What, the Kolaliri? Seems like them."

It was all Keith could do not to burst into laughter. The Kolaliri were one of the Founding Powers, the six civilizations that had originally banded together to form the Alliance. They were most certainly not one of the First Nations. "Um, no," he managed after a long drink. "The indigenous peoples of Canada. It's a very popular sport there."

"Oh." A slight blush crept over Flynn's cheeks. "I… don't know a lot of Earth history, outside of mechanics and mythology. Not a focus. More your speed?"

"Sometimes. Depends on how much downtime I have." Keith certainly did enjoy history, when he had the chance to read up on it, particularly the ancient tales of his own heritage. But he usually preferred learning through actions, not books. "But that's a tidbit I learned in grade school."

Grade school? Not that Flynn knew anything about Earth's regional educational system either, but that seemed like a very specific detail. "You're from Japan, aren't you?"

"I am Japanese… but I was born and raised in Vancouver."

Aha. "Got it. You just went back for the swords." He tilted his head and gave Keith a playfully indignant look. "Which you fight with for fun, and then you call me all work and no play."

"Well… yeah." Now it was Keith's turn to blush. "The sword is actually a family heirloom. I've trained with it since I was young. My parents insisted on me learning the old ways, discipline and honor and the history of our people… it's a comfort, you know?"

Flynn did know, sort of; he felt the same about his sidearm. Right down to the firing it off for fun, he supposed. Finishing up his water, he eyed Keith, who was getting close to the end of his own drink. "Seems reasonable. So about that motorcycle…"

"Not tonight, I've been drinking." He laughed. "Maybe tomorrow, if we don't have to go yell at intel about anything."

"What does you drinking have to do with me fixing your engine?"

"Because I'd want to ride it!"

"I guess that's fair." Though he'd been grinning at first, it became a scowl as he got to addressing the other point. "I hope intel is having a very, very hard time with all the stuff we brought back."

That wasn't the most professional thing Keith had ever agreed with, which didn't stop him from agreeing wholeheartedly. "They deserve a hard time. We had one, they should too."

Flynn laughed, rather humorlessly. "I'm sure it's poor form to want to throw a bunch of underpaid analysts into that lightning gauntlet. And yet."

"Toss them into that arctic water," Keith agreed; just thinking about it made him shiver.

"…You're Canadian, wasn't it just like home?"

"Oh, ouch." He scowled in a way that wasn't wholly convincing. "Just because I'm Canadian doesn't mean I'm into the Polar Bear Plunge."

Just the name of that was concerning. "Do I even want to know what that is?"

"A bunch of idiots who like to jump into large bodies of water… in the middle of the winter."

Flynn stared at him for what felt like a very long time. "…That seems like it ought to be a self-correcting problem."

"Usually they were just in and out, but still. Too damn cold for my taste."

"Entirely understandable." To be fair, Flynn's personal idea of inhumanely cold was somewhere around sixty degrees Fahrenheit. But still. Shaking his head, he looked around the bar's screens again. "Well, if we can't go play with motorcycles, may as well have another drink? Got to be some reasonably interesting game on soon."

"Sounds good to me." Flagging down the bartender again, Keith followed his second's gaze. "Between the two of us, you think we can figure out what's going on in a castimau match?"

"Unlikely, but it won't be the craziest thing we've ever attempted. Let's try it."

Chuckling, Keith nodded. "Not even close." And it probably wouldn't be the last crazy thing they attempted, either. No, surely not. May as well enjoy the break while it lasted.

*****

King Alfor knew the Arusian tunnels better than anyone. They were ancient construction, dating back to the War of Golden Revival or beyond; he had wanted to explore them long before the Drules attacked, but the duties of the High King had prevented any serious expedition. But he had sent scouts, and studied the maps, and learned all that he could… all in preparation for the day he could delve into their secrets.

This certainly was not how he'd have chosen to have the opportunity arrive.

Alfor took a deep breath in frustration as he pondered the current problem before him. The tunnels were all supposed to be connected. He'd encountered a few cave-ins already, and now here he was… standing in one of the connecting tunnels with a few trusted knights, before a heap of rubble that might have collapsed at any time in the last few centuries. Then again… he also knew there were some false walls in the system. If the enemy breached one shelter, it wouldn't do for that to compromise the whole network. He had yet to find one of those walls, but something about this location was tugging at his mind.

"All my information says this path continues on," he said quietly. “Somewhere there must be a switch, or something of that sort, that allows us to move on to other tunnels. Look around." The knights scattered, investigating the surrounding walls, while Alfor took a closer look at the rubble itself.

Wait… is that… aha! There it is.

Finding an odd depression in the rubble, he pushed a few rocks aside to reveal a small cavity with a gravel-covered lever. He gave it a cautious push. The sound of gears moving echoed through the tunnel, and Alfor smiled; triumphs were few and far between anymore. Off to the left a false wall slid open to reveal a large chamber, branching out into three separate paths that would presumably give them access to other shelters. Sending some men farther down to scope out what they held, he stepped through and scanned the area immediately around him.

It was an unremarkable-looking cave, featureless except for a few rocky nooks here and there. That, he knew, was a lie. Finding ancient glyphs by some nooks indicating something was hidden there, Alfor went to the nearest one and pressed on the glyph. Another rocky panel swung open. Beyond it, he was greeted with a sizable room filled with old fabrics, weapons, and mummified food. Sighing at the age of the supplies, no doubt left there from the last time the system was used, he noted that most of the weapons were still very much in usable condition. In this time of need, even the most basic of defenses would be valuable.

While seeing to it that every usable item was gathered, something caught his eye. A rock with ancient writing on it—ancient Arusian, and not just the signal glyphs being used elsewhere. On closer inspection, it turned out to be a clay tablet that had been repurposed as a tile. Parts were broken away, but a section was still legible. He gave it a quick but careful scan before moving on, pondering the few words he'd been able to read.

…open… by the feet of Li-ten…

His mind keeping going back to the unfamiliar word. Li-ten. It could be nothing… but considering he was down here searching for lost knowledge, anything he didn't recognize could be critical. Either way, he would have to return to take a closer look when the day was over. For now, there were other rooms to search through.

*****

It was Larmina's sixteenth birthday.

It should have been a great celebration. She should have been walking down the grand staircase in that sleeveless gold-trained monstrosity, dancing with suitors she had no use for, fulfilling her royal duty to the Seven Isles. She should have been on display before a dozen noble Sons of Arus, a pawn to be bargained for. She should have been miserable.

Well, at least she was miserable anyway.

The tunnels were becoming cold and damp as autumn fell on the Crown Province—couldn't the Drules even have the courtesy to attack in the summer? People were sniffling in the chill, and those who weren't coming down with something were getting more and more on edge. Larmina herself occasionally wondered if the tension was getting to her; she kept seeing ghostly flickers on the edges of her vision, hearing voices she couldn't place. Stir crazy, no doubt. And trying to get information about anything specific on the surface was a lost cause.

No, nobody had heard from the Seven Isles. No, no scouts had dared go that far.

A small troop of the village militia had arrived to the tunnels earlier. They had been doing what they could to search for survivors, but when the Drule infantry had arrived they'd fled. The militia was basically a volunteer police force, not meant for real combat. If the Golden Knights were failing to stop the invaders, what chance did they have?

They'd brought useful supplies, at least. Some food, warm blankets, and a small stockpile of simple weapons. Larmina was holding one of the bows now… rough wood, a durable string. Nothing but the necessities. It could hardly be less like the bows Auntie had been training her with. But it was familiar in her hands, and could even have been comfortable if it weren't for the memories it kept stirring. The lessons, the laughter, the trick shots she probably would never master now…

Not so long ago it would have seemed impossible that she might be missing life at the castle.

"Hey! Hey you, girl with the bow!" She startled at the voice, the characteristic rough accent of the farm country coloring the words. Looking up she saw a trio of the militia members, an older woman with two young men, carrying bows of their own and pulling a transport sled. One of the men was the speaker, a dark-haired soldier probably around Auntie's age. "Yeah, you!"

It wasn't often Larmina was called out by a stranger—especially not by common villagers—especially especially not as hey you, girl with the bow. She jumped to her feet awkwardly, then looked at the weapon in her hands. "Oh, uh… do you need this?"

"You know how to use it? What we need is as many for the hunting party as we can get." He gave a sly grin, almost daring her to say yes.

She wasn't going to pass that up. "Oh, I'm pretty decent with it."

"Think you can hit a roli?"

…Good question. She'd certainly never tried. Rolis were fuzzy leaping mammals common near the castle. Small and quick… but not too small or too quick. Maybe she couldn't bounce an arrow off a pillar, but how hard could a roli be? And if it would help, if it would get her out of here… "Totally."

He smirked. "Think you can hit more than me?"

…What? Oh no he didn't. "Bring it on. I hope you've got plenty of room on that sled."

The woman chuckled, waving for silence. "Welcome aboard, then. I'm Captain Sarial of the Dolce Vita militia. These two are Hanso and Allendar." Hanso was the one who'd spoken earlier, and he gave a cheerful smirk as Allendar smiled shyly. "And you are?"

They were all looking at her… businesslike, but welcoming. Not one was expecting a curtsy, or a title, or any of the frills that didn't matter anymore. Just a name for a fellow hunter. Almost like she were an equal.

The debut is a moment of transition. You are stepping from childhood into your new life, and your duty to Arus and your people!

Yeah. Yeah, maybe I am.

She managed a small smile. Small, but genuine. "My name's Larmina."

*****

Courtship.

Courtship!

Lotor had pummeled no fewer than seven holographic training dummies into submission with his bare hands as he contemplated courtship. His father was punishing him, he'd decided around dummy number three. What exactly he'd done to deserve punishment he wasn't certain, but it was really the only explanation. He'd rather have been back with Dayak, the royal governess, whipping him for any errors…

Of course, any errors in courtship might cause him even more grief. His father had made that quite clear as well. Very well then.

"Kalindra!"

"I am here, my Lord."

Kalindra was one of his favorite slaves; she was clever and loyal as well as strikingly beautiful. He was very particular about his personal servants. There were some who jokingly called his small collection of favored slaves his retinue, though that wasn't accurate. A Drule monarch's retinue was a living heraldry of sorts, a display of peaceful conquests: wives and husbands, duly courted and wed to acquire their territory, their health and well-being reflecting on the monarch's own honor. They were emphatically not mere slaves.

Lotor had always thought they sounded inconvenient.

"We will be receiving a guest soon," he muttered finally, not turning to the voice from the doorway. "You will see to it that appropriate clothing is prepared for her, and comfortable quarters in my personal wing. When she arrives you will be her aide, and treat her with the utmost respect."

Out of the corner of his eye he could see the motion as she bowed. "As you command, my Lord." There was a slight ruffling sound as she departed.

Scowling, Lotor finally turned to the empty door. That had better be sufficient. Was he supposed to tend to such preparations himself? Surely not. And he could think of no greater honor for this soon to be wife than placing her in the care of his most favored servant.

Yes, this was surely the correct approach… nodding to himself, he turned again and called up training dummy number eight.