Trigger, even from a tender age, was never normal, and perhaps he was never meant to be, either in deed or in life.

  The pilot's earliest memories were of the orphanage in the small town of Gaul, a few hours south of Oured. No one is quite sure who his parents were, as a kind soldier extracted his swaddled form from a building flattened by the Ulysses meteor fall. Although Usea was hit the worst by the disaster, the rest of the world didn't escape unscathed, and whatever family he had was gone in meteoric fire. After a few days in the care of some Osean soldiers, Trigger was surrendered to Gaul's orphanage.

  There, he grew up amid other children. Some were torn from their parents by tragedy, either from Ulysses or the shortly following Continental War. Others, more cruelly, were simply unwanted.

  It quickly became apparent that Trigger wasn't like the rest of the kids. The matron said he rarely cried as a baby, and stopped shedding tears entirely as a toddler. In his roughhousing with the other boys, Trigger almost always came out on top, either through will or through skill. Scrapes, bruises, and the like, he ignored. He picked up the lessons taught by the matron faster, retained the info more thoroughly, and drew connections that never crossed other children's minds.

  The most profound skill he developed, though, was his spacial sense.

  The orphanage had a small playground, and on that playground, was a basketball hoop. It was old, with peeling paint and the net long since gone, but it worked just fine and was a fixture in the kid's lives.

  It only took a week before none of the kids wanted to play games with him anymore.

  From anywhere on the court, from awkward positions or even with his back turned, Trigger could sink any shot. He himself couldn't rightly explain how he did what he did. It's like the position of the hoop was burned into his memory, and the memory adjusted itself perfectly with how he moved. Once he had the mass of the ball and how it moved through air figured out, he stopped missing.

  The older kids were allowed to play dodgeball, and once Trigger was old enough, he made himself hated there, too. No jukes, dips, dives, or dodges worked, and his throws always found their mark. Trigger saw how their muscles tensed, the little tells and micro movements they made as soon as he set his sights on them, and he led his shots for fun-ruining effect.

  One day, they ganged up on him.

  Trigger had to keep moving, keep dodging. His own team stayed out of it and even fed balls back to the other side, wanting tough-guy Trigger to finally feel the sting of defeat.

  Not that it mattered. By then, keeping track of everything moving around him and predicting flight paths was child's play. He wove through the barrage, catching some, and using balls to deflect throws that were inconvenient to dodge, all while remaining on the offensive and giving as good as he got. Even fifteen on one, he won.

  As luck would have it, an Air Force recruiter was visiting that day to talk about military careers, and the astounded man saw Trigger in action. A conversation and a handshake later, Trigger was left with a card with a number to call if he decided the air force suited him.

  Years came and went. More children arrived, some were adopted, but many just aged out like Trigger. Over those years, he tried to find something to do with his life, something that called to him, but every summer job and internship just wasn't right; it didn't fill the yawning void inside of him, one that grew larger and more hollow the closer adulthood got.

  Young and lacking direction, he fished the old recruiter card from his things and gave the number a call. Later that day, he was in a taxi headed for Oured.

  The physicals and tests were a breeze, so was bootcamp and the following stint in officer school. The instructors took notice of him, and he skipped flight screening entirely to pilot training.

  That was the day. The day he finally felt it. The T-38 trainer jet he flew with his instructor, it felt like a second body. His wings, his engines, his nose-tip, his flightstick fed him so much input from touch alone.

  When they left the ground, Trigger banked the plane so he could peer down at the ground.

  The land and sea below, and the sky above. It was beautiful, and the sight began to close the empty cavity in his chest.

  The exercises his instructor gave him were too damn easy. A little yaw, a gentle roll, and the world's slowest loop. He asked for more, and his instructor went silent, before radioing down to command. "Alright then, Trigger," the man eventually said. "If you wanna be a hotshot, I'll put you through your paces."

  The instructor had chuckled at first, thinking Trigger was just another overeager cadet. But that changed the moment Trigger executed a perfect Split-S into a tight half-Cuban, then leveled out without a single wobble or over-correction.

  "Alright, bucko," the instructor had muttered, half amused, half wary. "Let's see what you've got. Try these on for size."

  What followed wasn't just skill, it was raw instinct. Trigger handled the T-38 like it was a part of him, throwing it into maneuvers most pilots didn't dare attempt until months later. Barrel rolls, high-G turns, stall recovery, a full vertical climb, then a dive towards the ocean that had his instructor cursing and near-ready to rip control away from Trigger. Or he would have, if the man's body would respond under the G load. The radio lit up, the control tower was in a panic. Words like "suicidal" where thrown around. The plane's HUD was screaming with a terrain warning.

  The adrenaline flowed and his blood sang.

  Trigger pulled out of the dive with meters to spare, putting so many Gs on the plane that his instructor nearly blacked out, and cutting a white line through the water with his airwash.

  The edges of his vision barely even went dark.

  By the time they touched down, the tower was already buzzing. He'd only flown once, but Trigger knew they'd seen it. And more importantly, so had he.

  Finally, he had found what he was missing.

  Beep-beep!

  Trigger opens his eyes and returns from his trip down memory lane. Looking down at the X-03's HUD, he finds that he's being hailed by his temporary wingmate, the yellow creature named Mila.

  Following his intervention with the pirates, the duck lady captaining the merchant vessel Ladybug begged him to escort them the rest of the way to the station they were to sell their cargo to. Without any other direction to go upon, Trigger reluctantly agreed.

  It was easy enough to plot an autopilot route that was slaved to the beetle-like merchant ship. The Wyvern's AI's managed it, and even established an uplink to the Ladybug's systems and longer-range radar. How it managed to interface with alien tech, he hasn't any idea. The AI even asked if he wanted to change the IFF tags of the Ladybug and Mila's fighter to 'friendly' without prompting. Trigger gave the okay, then resolved to keep an eye on the program.

  After all the drones he's splashed, anything AI is getting the side-eye from him.

  Once everyone was situated, the Ladybug took off at a clipped pace, her escorts on her wings and the last leg of the journey at subluminal speeds. It was a good thing that without gravity or air resistance, Trigger only needed to get the Wyvern up to speed then could cut the engines and coast indefinitely. "Subluminal" is slow in space, but the Ladybug's cruising speed would be screaming fast in atmosphere, and screaming fast speeds means fast fuel burn.

  Trigger managed to forestall any conversations from Deb the duck merchant and Mila by saying they should stay focused on getting to the station safe, giving him some time to think over this great fucking mess he's stuck in. Four hours later, and he still has no idea what could have happened.

  He got the brief. He listened to Count complain. He was told it would tingle a little. He got in his plane. He flew with his squad. Then with a flash that made him see stars, he was in space literally seeing stars, just a few klicks from a space pirate raid.

  God damned Belkans…

  His HUD beeps with another hail attempt, and Trigger blows out a sigh before tapping a button and opening the channel. "Yes?"

  A video feed opens up, projected onto his cockpit canopy (Why did Schroder add this feature? What other nonsense is stuffed in this plane?). On the other side is Mila, the only survivor of the Ladybug's hired escorts.

  Trigger really takes a moment to inspect her, still having some trouble believing what he's seeing. Animal people? He's tempted to blame Belka again. Genetic experimentation would be right up their alley if they quit trying to ruin Strangereal out of spite.

  The video feed doesn't show much, just Mila's upper body and weathered bits of cockpit behind her. Yellow fur, red eyes, blonde hair, a short muzzle with a pink nose, and two rounded ears on top of her head. Her flight suit looks to be a blue color, and said flight suit is partially unzipped, showing off the choker around her neck and a bold amount of chest. If Trigger has to guess, he'd say she's a weasel of some sort.

  Maybe it's just a virtual avatar?

  "Hey, just wanted to talk a bit now that we're back in hi-sec space," she smiles. "I don't think we actually got to do any intros. Mila Minks is the name, and thank you for the save! I was nearly mincemeat there."

  Trigger raises an eyebrow and files the 'hi-sec space' tidbit away for later. "Is that M-I-N-K-S minks, or M-I-N-X minx?"

  The presumed mink girl flushes. Much of the color is in her ears, where the fur is thinner. "The former. You don't know how many lower tech ports and stuff mess that up when they ask via radio, so I have to spell it out often. Half my documentation is wrong and getting it fixed takes forever, So I just give up when they get it wrong…" She shakes her head and her smile returns. "I never caught your name, did I?"

  "Trigger."

  "Trigger? Is that your real name or a callsign?"

  The pilot shrugs. "It's the name that matters to me."

  "Oooohhh, mysterious!" Mila's smile widens into a grin. "Hey. How about we get a drink or something once we're in port? I owe you one for saving both my tush and my paycheck, and I gotta know where you learned those moves! You were like lightning out there!" She waves a hand with her pinky and thumb spread, miming the Wyvern flying. "You were all woosh! Bang! Seeya bastard!"

  Small talk? Not Trigger's cup of tea. He is in need of info, but he's sure he can find out what he needs to without getting tangled up in anything else.

  Despite that, though…

  "Sure."

  Mila reminds him of someone. He can't put his finger on who, but that niggling in the back of his head pushes him into accepting.

  "Not much of a talker, are you?" Mila asks, amused. "That's okay. I'll still get those sweet, sweet secrets from you!"

  Trigger's radar, still wired to the Ladybug's pings, showing him a massive signature with a number of smaller blips buzzing around it.

  Looks like they're arriving.

  Before long, the space station where the Ladybug is due to drop its delivery off comes into visual range. To Trigger, it's an impressive installation. A great, tower-like structure that must be nearly five kilometers from top to bottom and close to three kilometers the widest point in its center, with a number of platforms branching off into smaller sections. All around, ships of all sizes and shapes swirl around it like bees. With its pink nebula backdrop to complete the look, it's like something out of a sci-fi movie.

  The radio crackles. "CVF Ladybug and escorts, this is STN-Kalibo III traffic control. We read you. Right on time." A pause. "CVF Ladybug, one escort is not transmitting valid IFF data. Unknown escort, respond."

  Shit.

  Before Trigger can begin to formulate a deflection, Mila chimes in. "STN-Kalibo III, this is MVF Slinky. The escort in question is MVF…"

  "Stratos Wyvern," Trigger provides, hoping she's fishing for his plane's name.

  "MVF Stratos Wyvern. His craft is damaged and that's why you aren't reading his transponder. We were in an altercation with pirates one sector back. Transmitting logs as proof."

  The station traffic controller is quiet for a moment, then: "MVF Slinky, logs verified. A recovery team will be sent to the site within twenty-four hours, and you'll be contacted if applicable bounties are confirmed. MVF Stratos Wyvern, have your craft repaired before leaving Kalibo III."

  "Acknowledged, control," Trigger says back, grateful for the quick save.

  "CVF Ladybug and escort fighters, civil dock four is open and waiting." The traffic controller sends. "Sending vectors now. MVF Stratos Wyvern, do not deviate. If we lose track of you, station security will not be pleased."

  The radio goes silent as traffic control disconnects. A loading circle on his HUD turns before the X-03's AI parses the incoming route data and displays a path.

  Trigger takes his flight stick and follows on the Ladybug's wing. The dock they're flying towards is a great rectangular opening in the side of the station, and from the people visibly milling about inside, there must be something invisible over the open bay door keeping the station's atmosphere isolated from the harsh vacuum outside. As they fly closer, he can make out a faint blue-ish shimmer on the bay threshold, similar to the energy shielding of the Arsenal Bird.

  The Ladybug breaks off, turning towards a side of the dock that looks to be segregated for larger, cargo-carrying vessels. Trigger's HUD points him to the opposite side, where a number of circular pads for smaller ships reside. Only a handful are occupied.

  "Here we go. First time flying VTOL…" Trigger murmurs as the Ladybug slips through the atmosphere shielding first. He flips a dedicated mode shift switch on his controls and watches his instrument panel closely.

  The X-03's mechanicals shudder, the engines angling down, the wings folding in, and the canard thrusters burning to life. As the plane passes the shielding into the station, there is suddenly air and gravity again, making the plane's previously mute engines roar as the craft wobbles and almost falls before Trigger ups the power.

  From there, Trigger drops his landing gear and brings the jet down gently, right in the center of a landing spot, before killing the engines and silencing the plane.

  'Sloppy. I'll do better next time.' Trigger frowns. Reaching under him, he pulls out an injection molded box made just for fitting under the Wyvern's seat. 'Bet this one-off thing cost way more than it should have.'

  He pops the latches on the emergency kit and runs a quick visual inventory. Everything's there. 9mm pistol in its retention-holster, two spare mags, flare gun, sealed ration bars, water purification capsules, survival knife, first aid kit. No surprises, but also nothing particularly helpful.

  The plane itself is fine. No alerts, fuel still plenty high, and only a single missile and EML slug expended so far. The situation with his invalid IFF is going to need to be addressed, though, and he's not sure how difficult that's going to be.

  Taking a look out the cockpit, Trigger zeros in on the belts of the various… animal people around the dock, noting how many rough-looking individuals openly sport guns. Good enough for him. Taking the pistol from the box, Trigger belts it on and slips the spare magazines into his pocket before hitting the cockpit release.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  With a faint hiss and a hydraulic clunk, the canopy begins to lift. Warm, filtered station air rushes into the cockpit, carrying with it a metallic tang and the faint smell of grease, ozone, and too many people living in too small a space. Not pleasant, but not wholly unfamiliar, either.

  He stands slowly in the cockpit, taking off his helmet and pausing for a moment to look over the interior hangar from this new angle. The inside of the dock is less impressive than the outside. Patchwork steel, big gantries, overhead cranes, forklifts, boxes of cargo, and goddamned robots operating forklifts to move boxes of cargo.

  Then there are the people.

  Dogs, cats, birds, frogs, foxes, pigs, squirrels, rats, and others all clothed and human-shaped. If he wasn't looking at it with his own eyes, he wouldn't believe it.

  'I suppose the virtual avatar theory is a bust. For aliens, they look eerily human.'

  Most don't pay Trigger much mind, but there are still a few people in mismatched uniforms and tool harnesses glancing at him from a cautious distance. A few point at the Wyvern. One, a coyote lady in overalls and a crop-top, raises a handheld device — scanning it, probably. Others look like they're trying to figure out what kind of ship just landed in their port.

  Trigger pays them the appropriate amount of attention, which is none, and jumps down from the Wyvern's cockpit, bending his knees on landing to soften the jolt of the drop. Walking over to the front landing strut, he feels around in its storage bay.

  'C'mon, where is it? The manual said it would be - Gotcha.'

  His finger hits a button, and the cockpit closes, hissing slightly as it seals shut. Now to-

  "Afternoon, spacer."

  Turning, Trigger finds the coyote who scanned his plane standing before him, a tablet computer held under one skinny arm. She's looking not at him, but at the Wyvern.

  "She's a loud one, eh?" The coyote states with a nod, more to herself than him, then she turns her gaze to Trigger. "I'm your service lady for the day. You need fuel or maintenance for your ride? A muffler, maybe?"

  Trigger waves her off. "I'll let you know after I discuss payment with my client," he deflects.

  "Heh, same old story," she shakes her head with a smile and walks off, headed to another fighter further down the way. "Just ask someone to page Jodie!"

  Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Trigger makes his way over to the Ladybug, weaving between mechanics pushing tool carts and space-suit clad animals.

  Only minutes after landing, the Ladybug's rear hatch is already open and a ramp has been lowered, letting forklifts start the process of unloading pallets holding large, plastic tanks of water. Off to the side of the hatch, the duck ship captain and Mila are in a heated argument. As Trigger gets closer, he can start to make out words over the din of the busy dock.

  "Bullshit!" Mila points an indignant finger down at the shorter duck woman. "We got shot at and lost three fourths of the escort! I was nearly killed! If you're going to pocket my dead teammate's money, then I want a combat multiplier at bare minimum!"

  Deb, who is all of four-feet tall, doesn't at all seem intimidated by the clawed finger inches away from her bill. "Dear, the contracts stated that all members of the team would be paid out after the mission, and the amount was fixed," she turns her nose up and fingers the pearl necklace around her thin neck with a feathered hand. "The intention was for an even split, and with only one to collect…"

  Mila growls, then she takes notice of Trigger's approach and smirks. "So you're not going to give Trigger his fair due, then?"

  "Beg pardon?" Deb blinks.

  "Don't be like that!" The mink exclaims. She grabs the sleeve of Trigger's flight suit, making him frown, and literally pulling him into the conversation.

  "You were swooning over the mysterious hero who burst in and wiped out the assholes threatening to space you, but now when it comes time for repayment, you suddenly get amnesia?" Mila gapes with bombastic exaggeration. "What would people say if I… Gave out the recordings of that daring rescue, then told people the victim was too cheap to slide a bit of cash her savior's way?"

  Now the duck looks decidedly uncomfortable. "L-Lets not go that far. I assure you, I have my reasons for wishing to adhere so strongly to the spirit of our contract over the written word. Times are tough here in the frontier," she says, apparently missing the irony in her own words as she fiddles with her necklace.

  Trigger crosses his arms, standing silent beside Mila. He doesn't glare, doesn't puff himself up or say anything clever. He just stares down at Deb. He keeps a slight forward angle to his stance that somehow makes the space between them feel very small, a little trick he picked up during his time in the penal unit.

  The duck shifts her weight and shrinks on herself. "Now, now, let's not be uncivil…"

  Trigger lifts a brow. "Those pirates were aiming to kill. Your ship would be floating in chunks if I hadn't intervened. Might have still been floating chunks if Mila didn't preempt two bogeys for me."

  "I was going to negotiate," Deb says quickly. "They'd have backed down—"

  "Sure," Mila says, voice sickly sweet. "They were definitely going to back down after saying 'we're mad your cargo isn't worth stealing so we're just gonna kill you'."

  Trigger doesn't budge. "Your security team's dead. She's not. Pay her. I'm getting a cut as well," he says, daring the merchant to argue.

  A beat of silence. Then the duck cracks under Trigger's stare. "Fine. Gods above and below. Eleven thousand credits each, including a hazard bonus, and not a credit more!" She says, taking a small datapad hanging from her generous beltline and handing it off.

  "Imagine that," Mila smirks, taking the pad and tapping the transfer fields with practiced speed. "Suddenly we can all read fine print."

  Hmm. With no bank account, collecting his pay is going to be awkward, and Trigger is under no illusions about how long returning home might take. This neck of the woods clearly isn't post-scarcity like so many sci-fi stories he's read, so not having money isn't an option. He's going to need food, a place to stay, clothes, hygiene products, and the like. Depending on how long Schroder and the rest of Osea's best minds drag their feet, he might even need plane parts, ammo, or some sort of official ID, problems that only a lot of money fixes.

  Hell, there's a chance he never returns.

  The realization sends a rare spike of dread through the pilot, and it's just as quickly replaced by resentment. Of course this happens less than a year after he exits a war where he was the fulcrum. His rotten luck wouldn't allow anything less.

  For a brief moment, the lost Osean considers trying to find a legitimate government and beseeching them for aid, but his memories of his time in the 444th penial unit halts that dead.

  His own government failed him and would have let him rot if he wasn't useful. For months he flew outdated aircraft on suicide missions, and only after dragging Spare Squadron kicking and screaming through successful mission after successful mission did they even consider reopening the investigation around Harling's assassination.

  Trigger's hands clench into fists in his pocket. That mission is burned into his memory.

  President Harling's Osprey hounded by Erusian drones. A simply impossible number that he had to shoot down himself. The rest of this squad felt like they were flying through molasses.

  AWACS Sky Keeper screaming in his ear to do something as if that would help.

  The unknown "friendly" loitering in his blindspot, one that Trigger foolishly discounted because the IFF tag was friendly.

  And the missile that same "friendly" fired. It came from behind him and blew the president's transport to pieces, at an angle perfect for hasty conclusions around who fired it. Just like the transport, Trigger's career crashed and burned.

  The first finger was pointed at Trigger, and the rest joined in unthinkingly to damn him. The Osean brass weren't interested in proof, because a scapegoat made the humongous circus that was a dead president go away faster. One court martial later, and he was forced into the 444th penal unit, "Spare Squadron", where he lived as a pawn with a proverbial gun to his head for months.

  The whole plot was a smashing success for Erusia. Proof that their IFF spoofing worked, and they even removed Osea's most promising pilot from the war, all in one fell swoop.

  Trigger takes a deep breath and calms himself.

  No, Trigger's own government failed him and would have let him rot if he wasn't useful. If not for the innocent lives on the line, if his ability to fly didn't hinge on playing nice with the military, Trigger might have gone AWOL the moment he was out of the 444th. They never even apologized when the conspiracy used to frame him came to light.

  So why would an alien state, likely one with concerns greater than anything Osea could worry about, bother with a total unknown? Considering the myriad of species he's seen, one more is nothing special.

  Going it alone is the answer, at least for now.

  Trigger looks away, to a far corner of the docks hoping to confirm a way out of the payment predicament he's in. There, he sees a pig man in almost stereotypical biker clothes pass a handful of metallic silver tabs to a short, coat-wearing raccoon in exchange for a plastic baggie, answering a few questions.

  'So, they still have physical money here, or something used in its place. Osea was trying so hard to become cashless, and that went nowhere. I guess some things are just timeless.'

  By now, Mila is done with the datapad handed to her and goes to give it to Trigger, only for the man to hold up his hand and halt her.

  "I want mine in cash," he tells Deb.

  Both look at him with surprise. "Cash?" Mila questions, glancing over her shoulder to the same corner Trigger previously looked at, where another drug deal is underway. "On a station like this? Doesn't that seem…" She twirls her wrist, searching for a word. "Risky?"

  "I can handle risk," Trigger responds evenly.

  Deb's lips draw themselves into a thin line, which is a feat considering she has a duck bill. "You have some nerve, mister! Demanding money from me, then deciding to be difficult about it! I've half a mind to say no and give you nothing!"

  Trigger stares down at her, eyes narrow. "Reconsider."

  No threats, no gestures, nothing she can act on. Just a single word to get her imagination turning. It's yet another tool Trigger picked up during his prison stint. Bandog and the other guards actively looked for reasons to punish him and the other inmates, including aggression towards each other, sometimes. Getting your point across in as few words as possible and without raising your voice comes in handy.

  Once again, Deb doesn't last long before giving in, and hurriedly waddles back to her ship with a "wait here!" over her shoulder. A moment later, she returns with a full envelope that she shoves into Trigger's hands with a scowl.

  "Eleven thousand in frontier barter notes," she says tersely. "If you're a scoundrel that was hoping for venomian marks, then tough luck. A reputable lady like myself doesn't keep dirty money."

  Credits, frontier barter notes, venomian marks. Three money systems already. Fun…

  Trigger slips the envelope into his flight suit and turns on his heel. "Safe travels," he mutters, walking back to his plane.

  "Hey, Trigger, hold on!"

  Mila quickly catches up and halts him with a hand on his arm. "Where are you going? I promised you a drink, didn't I?"

  The man casts a distrustful look around the dock. "Will my fighter be fine alone?"

  "Kalibo III isn't a fancy Lylat core station, but it's not… a total slum, either," the mink answers, looking him up and down. Her eyes linger on the Osean flag patch on the breast of his suit. "The guards won't let anyone mess with your stuff. How would the station suck the money out of everyone's pockets over and over if every ship that docks ends up on blocks?"

  Fair. Trigger hums. "Is there a fee for docking?"

  "First two days are paid for, courtesy of Deb," Mila raises an eyebrow. "Standard stuff even a cheapskate like her can't wiggle out of without looking bad."

  Oops. Suspicious question. Trigger nods along and gestures towards the innards of the station. "Lead. I'll follow."

  The other pilot grins, her suspicion apparently forgotten. She takes his hand and pulls him along, away from the dock and further into the station.

  The hallways in the space station are cramped, even the ones intended for high-throughput. Mila takes him down a path labeled "Dining / Recreation" with a holographic, neon-colored sign, and the hall is just barely wide enough for three people shoulder-to-shoulder. Likewise, doors are narrow where practical and the only stairs to be found are steep fire escapes. The floors are merely unpainted grates with pipes and wires visible underneath, with access hatches here and there. The whole installation seems to be designed with the philosophy of being frugal and functional to Trigger's eye, which makes sense considering the hard limit on space.

  As they go, they of course pass other people of all shapes, sizes, and species busy with their own affairs. It's a chore to not stare at them all.

  There is a tired looking rat man in a bulky safety-orange EVA suit with his helmet, shaped for his snout, under his arm. In the fur around his eyes is some sleep crust, and he walks around everyone else absently, looking down at an urgently flashing device in his free hand. The airman can't help but sympathize.

  A pair of cat girls deep in the bottle, one with purple fur, the other black with stripes, and both in risque outfits, nearly collide with him as they stumble down the way. "Sorry!" The purple one giggles as she and her friend turn down a hall labeled "Elevator - Lodging".

  A tall, thin, and quite official looking woman resembling an ocelot in a suit speedwalks by, her eyes focused on something only she can see. Judging from the glowing, metallic implants jutting a few millimeters from her temples, that might actually be the case.

  Trigger sighs, overwhelmed for the first time in what feels like forever. A part of him had hoped the Stratos Deployment went haywire, resulting in a crash with his concussed brain having a wild dream as help came his way. Then he'd wake up in a hospital, tell the brass and their pet Belkan Schroder off, then take up the flight instructor position the air force had been holding for him.

  The more he sees, however, the more wild that hope becomes. He runs his hand through his short hair.

  'Hair is almost too long for regs,' he thinks, unbidden.

  His eyes fall to his impromptu escort's tail.

  The appendage is covered in yellow fur that's a little matted, and almost long enough to drag on the ground. He can count each strand, and it sways a bit with each step. It looks real, too real.

  Some way, somehow, this is all real.

  Mila peeks over her shoulder and follows his gaze down to her rear, a flirty smirk rising to her lips. "See something you like?" she asks, putting more bounce in her step.

  Trigger pulls himself out of his thoughts and doesn't rise to the tease. "Just thinking how tails would be a pain with sealed suits," he says, looking away.

  The mink lets out a mock gasp of affront and takes her own tail, hugging it to her chest. "Rude!"

  "Am I wrong, though?" He shoots back, his lips upturning just a touch.

  Mila sniffs and refuses to answer.

  The hallway eventually opens to a largeish, mall-like mezzanine with two levels, and if Trigger's mental map is correct, this must be just above the core of the station. The lower one looks to be mostly entertainment, as Trigger spies a small theater showing "Biteforce 3: Return of Justin Barker", a small casino because of course there is a casino, a few booth-like installations in a corner labeled "VR SIMS", and several other places to waste time.

  After an elevator ride to the upper level, the two pilots peruse the various eateries and bars, before Mila goes "Here we are!" and pulls Trigger into the cheapest looking cantina of the lot.

  The metal door slides open with a sound like a dying compressor, letting out the low murmur of half-hearted conversation and the vague reek of old oil, stronger liquor, and damp carpet that hadn't been cleaned since the station was assembled.

  The inside is long and narrow, with a small handful of battered booths and the bar where a few patrons sit, one slumped over. Behind it, a pelican in a stained apron is polishing a glass with a rag, not bothering to look up at them. The shelf behind him boasts a full display of bottles, some labeled, some not, and at least one glowing faintly.

  Only one of the booths is unoccupied, and it's swiftly claimed by Trigger and Mila. Before too long, a horse waitress with a cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth walks by.

  "What'll it be today?" She asks, pen and notepad in hand.

  "A Cornerian Sunrise, please!" Mila smiles.

  "Surprise me," Trigger says simply.

  The waitress jots both down and walks back off. Once she's out of earshot, Mila turns and levels Trigger with a curious stare.

  "Okay, on a scale of one to ten, how lost are you?" The mink girl asks.

  Trigger raises an eyebrow. "What makes you think I'm lost?"

  "Puh-leeze," She bats her hand in the air. "No transponder, asking for cash, and asking about standard practices like docking fees? There is no way you're a newbie with your moves and that crazy fighter, so you're obviously not from around here."

  She pauses as the waitress returns, setting down a pink and yellow drink in a tall glass for her, and a tumbler of dark green liquor in front of Trigger.

  Mila takes a pull from her glass before resuming. "I don't think I've seen your kind around, either. You're a little ape-ish, but like, one step left of how they usually look," she says, lifting a finger off her glass to point at him. "So are you from a low-tech backwater, or a hero with amnesia, or… Oh!" The mink grins widely. "Maybe you're a super secret Venomian bioweapon made to cull pirates and silence anyone who crosses the crazies who still follow Andross? Well? Which is it? C'mon, the suspense is killing me!"

  Rather than answer right away, Trigger instead lifts his own drink and takes a sip. The taste is similar to battery acid and it's strong enough to double as jet fuel, but it's not his dime paying for it, so he downs another mouthful before setting it back on the table. "You watch too many movies," he finally says.

  The mink girl groans. "Okay, but talking seriously for a second," she wipes the humor from her face, taking a firm expression. "You saved my life out there, with the pirates. I was seconds away from being spaced, and I legitimately saw my life flash before my eyes. I didn't know how many regrets I had until then, like not telling my family I loved them one last time, never making up with my best friend after we had a falling out, never visiting the Minks home village…" She looks down solemnly at the table. "And those are just the big ones."

  Chewing her lip, she returns her attention to Trigger. "I owe you. I owe you a lot."

  Finally, Trigger realizes who Mila reminds him of, and with the realization surfaces a bitter memory.

  She reminds him of Brownie, AKA Golem 2. An up-and-coming pilot with the potential to be an Ace, and Trigger's self-proclaimed rival in the opening days of the Lighthouse War.

  A rival that never got to see the end of the war.

  Trigger's fingers tighten around his drink, his knuckles white.

  "I can't shake him!"

  Trigger turned and pushed his afterburners to max, swatting down every drone in his way.

  "Someone! Support!

  The speedometer climbed, and the sound barrier broke, but it wasn't fast enough. More drones harried him, but went ignored.

  "Mage 2! Support!"

  His F-16 was groaning, fighting him as he pushed it to its absolute limit.

  "Trigger! Help-!"

  Then with one missile, her plane was fire and debris. When he got there, Shilage, her murderer, was already long gone.

  Taking a deep breath, the man banishes the static-stained screams echoing in his skull and drains the rest of his drink, the sting and horrid taste good distractions.

  Regrets, huh? He knows a thing or two about that.

  "This idea of yours," Trigger begins softly, almost too softly to be heard over the bar chatter. "What is it?"

  Mila starts. "What makes you think I've got some kind of idea?"

  Trigger looks up from his empty glass, giving her the tiniest of smirks. "You're not the only one who can read others well. You're leading into something."

  She huffs and crosses her arms. "You're just throwing points into the 'mysterious hero origin' bucket, you know," she says with a roll of her eyes. "But yeah, I guess I did have an idea. How about we team up?"

  Trigger blinks, genuinely surprised. "Team up?"

  "Yeah!" The mink girl is all-smiles again. "You kick some serious ass. Like, Star Fox levels of ass, but being a solo spacer out here in frontier space can be pretty demanding, so how about we partner up? I'm not a veteran, but I can show you the ropes as we go, and I'm pretty good in a dogfight, but clearly there's tons to learn from you. We can work together, learn a bit from each other, and I think we'd have the start of a dream team! Sounds fun, right? What do you say?"

  "Trigger! Help-!"

  Trigger looks away, focusing on a dent in the dingy wall.

  If Brownie had known a bit more, had been a bit more skilled, would she have gotten away? Would she have lived to be the ace Trigger knew she could become?

  What about Mila? Would she have gotten out of that scrape with the pirates if she had more skill to draw on?

  "Trigger?"

  He sniffs and swings his gaze back to the woman across from him. "I do have some things I can teach you, so…"

  "So…" Mila leads him on, leaning forward.

  Trigger leans forward too, his hand reaching out and fingers grabbing the zipper of Mila's flight suit.

  Mila jumps, eyes dropping to his hand with a blush. "Uh…"

  Then Trigger pulls and zips the suit all the way up to her neck, hiding her cleavage.

  "Ack! Hey!" The mink paws at her neck as Trigger sits back down.

  "I like being professional," Trigger starts, signaling the waitress for another drink. "If we're partners, then you should look the part, too."

  "Every team needs sex appeal!" Mila shoots back, returning her zipper back to where it was. She takes her fruity drink grumpily and sips on it.

  Trigger nods slowly in agreement, surprising her. "I know. But we already have me."

  Mila laughs between coughs as her Cornerian Sunrise goes down the wrong pipe.