Two weeks of quiet didn't feel like peace.
It felt like a held breath.
Kestrel Basin kept moving the way it always had—refinery lights burning through rain, shift horns cutting the dark, trucks and loaders crawling along mud roads like insects that refused to die. Holt's militia ran checkpoints and patrols with a discipline that hadn't existed before we tore the Ash Hounds out by the roots. Salvage crews stripped wrecks under floodlamps. Prisoners got marched in lines, heads down, hands bound, boots sinking into mud that didn't care what side you were on.
The basin was rebuilding. The basin was bracing.
And the strangest part was what we didn't hear.
No Ash Hounds. No new raids. No Sable.
No thin, clean voice in the comm static. No "educational" surprises.
Just weather, work, and the slow, relentless clank of repairs.
My Dire Wolf's armor had been pulled, patched, replaced the right way—plates seated properly, seams checked, heat sinks flushed, actuators aligned until the machine moved like it was meant to move, not like it was surviving out of spite. Jinx's Highlander got the same treatment. Holt's techs stopped calling it "the hostage 'Mech" and started calling it "the asset" once they realized it wasn't going to explode or betray them in the night.
Taila spent most of those two weeks in the spaces between—comm van, repair bays, the militia command room with the captured data archive locked behind three doors. She watched everything like she expected the world to turn violent again if she blinked too long.
I understood that instinct.
I had it too.
It had been fourteen days since Hound Den. Fourteen days since Kess tried to buy his way out of my father's blood and learned that money doesn't work on everyone. Fourteen days since we'd cracked a war open and found a ledger underneath.
And it had been **twenty-seven days** since I first took the contract that started this whole chain—since the moment I'd said "yes" to a job that looked like standard merc work and turned out to be a leash.
Twenty-seven days wasn't a long time.
It felt like a lifetime anyway.
I noticed it the way you notice scars: not because you're staring at them, but because you move and they pull.
That morning, I was under the Dire Wolf's left arm assembly, checking a new actuator bracket. Grease on my forearms. Rain drumming the hangar roof. Tools laid out in clean rows because I didn't like chaos anywhere I could control it.
Jinx wandered in first, barefoot in boots unlaced—somehow still dangerous even while looking like she'd just rolled out of a bunk. Taila followed a step behind, slate tucked to her chest, hair tied back like she was trying to look like she belonged in a military bay instead of someone's life.
They'd been spending more time together. Not because anyone ordered it. Because they kept ending up in the same places.
Taila had stopped flinching when Jinx touched her shoulder. That alone was progress.
Jinx stopped filling every silence with noise. That was… rarer. But it was happening.
They'd both changed in small ways that mattered.
Taila still wore practical clothes, but she'd started choosing ones that fit like she wasn't trying to erase herself. Jinx still dressed like a challenge, but she'd stopped doing it purely for attention. Some days she looked tired and let herself look tired.
It made her more human.
Which made her more dangerous in a different way.
Taila watched me work for a moment, then said quietly, "The sims are open."
I paused. "Holt cleared it?"
Taila nodded. "She said… it's safer if you don't have to rely on only two pilots forever."
That was Holt: pragmatic enough to turn fear into policy.
I set the tool down, wiped my hands, and climbed out from under the Dire Wolf. "Alright," I said. "Let's go."
Taila's posture tightened. "I—" She swallowed. "I want to try again."
Jinx leaned in like she couldn't help herself. "Look at her. Voluntarily choosing fear. That's character development."
Taila shot her a look. "Don't make it worse."
"I'm making it better," Jinx said cheerfully. Then, softer, "I'm here. We do it slow."
Taila's throat worked. She nodded once.
We walked across the hangar district to the sim module—an ugly prefab building bolted to the refinery's edge, protected by concrete barriers and guard posts. Inside, it smelled like hot electronics and recycled air. The sim pods weren't fancy Clan gear or noble-house toys. They were militia-grade: reliable, worn, updated in patches when someone could afford it.
Taila stopped in front of the pod like it was a coffin.
Her fingers flexed at her sides.
I didn't push. I didn't coax. I just stood there as steady as a machine that didn't lie.
"You control the pace," I said.
Taila took a slow breath. "Okay."
Jinx—miraculously—didn't joke. She just reached out and tapped Taila's shoulder twice. A signal. You're not alone.
Taila climbed into the pod.
The harness clicked over her shoulders. The helmet settled. Her breathing was loud for a moment on the external monitor.
Then the screens lit.
I chose the scenario: basic movement, basic target acquisition, no pain feedback. No "education." No punishment loops.
A simple light 'Mech profile. Not a Dire Wolf. Not a Highlander. Something forgiving. Something that wouldn't feel like trying to carry a mountain.
Taila's virtual chassis stepped forward on the sim's feed—hesitant at first, then steadier, the gait smoothing as her brain accepted what her body kept trying to reject: *you are safe.*
"Good," I said quietly.
Taila's voice crackled through the comm link, thin but controlled. "It's… loud."
"It always is," I replied. "Breathe through it."
She did.
She walked the light 'Mech through a set of pylons. Turned. Stopped. Pivoted again. Her first attempts were stiff, overcorrected. Then—minute by minute—she stopped fighting the machine and started working with it.
Jinx watched from the side, arms folded, like she was witnessing a miracle she didn't want to scare off.
After fifteen minutes, Taila said, "Targets."
I switched the drill.
Simple pop-up silhouettes at medium range. No enemy return fire, just timing and accuracy.
Taila's first burst went wide. Her shoulders tightened in the harness. Her breathing spiked.
Then she tried again.
Better.
Again.
Better.
By the end of the set, she was hitting more often than missing, not because she was naturally gifted—she wasn't—because she was present. She stayed in the moment instead of drowning in memory.
When I cut the sim, the pod went dark and the helmet release clicked.
Taila sat there for a second, breathing hard, like she'd run a kilometer.
Then she laughed—quiet and disbelieving.
"I didn't throw up," she said.
Jinx's grin flashed. "See? Not fatal."
Taila climbed out on shaky legs and then, without thinking, reached for the nearest stable thing.
Me.
Her hands grabbed my jacket lightly, like she needed to confirm I was real. I didn't move away. I just steadied her with a hand on her upper back.
Her head bowed. "I did it."
"Yes," I said. "You did."
Taila's eyes looked too bright. "I'm—" She swallowed. "I'm not useless."
The words weren't for me. They were for the version of her that still believed she was inventory.
I kept my voice low and certain. "You never were."
Jinx made a sound that was dangerously close to emotional and immediately tried to strangle it with humor. "Okay. Great. Everyone's alive. Nobody cried. I'm proud and disgusted."
Taila actually smiled. A real one. Fast, shy, gone again.
But it existed.
That mattered.
---
Two weeks of quiet does strange things to people who've been living in adrenaline.
It makes you notice touches.
The way Taila started standing closer without realizing it. The way she'd bump her shoulder against mine when we walked through the hangar, like she was testing whether she was allowed to lean on someone.
The way Jinx started stealing casual contact like it was currency—an arm draped around my shoulders when she said something stupid, a quick kiss on my cheek in the middle of a sentence like she wanted to see if she could knock my discipline sideways.
She didn't.
Not outwardly.
Inside was a different matter.
We'd become… familiar. Not safe—nothing is safe—but real.
After the sim session, we stopped by the mess hall for food that tasted like it had been cooked by someone who hated joy. Holt sat at a table with two officers, going over patrol rotas. She nodded once when she saw us. That was her version of warmth.
Taila ate quietly, still riding the aftershock of success. Jinx ate like she was performing eating—too loud, too dramatic—then started poking Taila's sleeve.
"You know what happens now?" Jinx asked.
Taila narrowed her eye. "What."
"You're officially trainable," Jinx declared. "Which means you're officially eligible for my patented motivational program."
Taila looked suspicious. "No."
Jinx leaned closer, voice conspiratorial. "Yes."
Taila turned to me like she wanted backup. "Dack."
I kept chewing. "Don't injure her."
Jinx beamed like she'd been granted permission to commit crimes.
Taila groaned.
They started walking ahead of me back toward the hangars. Taila's step was lighter than it had been in days. She was still stiff, still guarded, but there was a thread of confidence now—thin, but real.
Jinx fell in behind her like a shark behind a wounded fish.
Taila made it exactly six steps before Jinx delivered a quick, playful swat to Taila's backside—more a tap than a strike, the kind of thing that would've been harmless if Taila's entire nervous system wasn't tuned to danger.
Taila froze mid-step like she'd been shot.
Jinx smiled innocently. "Motivation."
Taila's face went red to the ears. "Jinx!"
"Good posture," Jinx said brightly, and walked past her like nothing happened.
Taila stood there, mortified, then spun and hurried after her, half furious, half flustered, trying to decide if she was allowed to be angry or if she'd lose something by being angry.
I caught up and spoke quietly, close enough only Taila could hear.
"If you don't like it, say so."
Taila's eye flicked toward me, then toward Jinx's bouncing stride ahead. Her voice was tight. "I— I don't know what I like."
"That's fine," I said. "But you're allowed to have boundaries even while you're figuring it out."
Taila swallowed hard and nodded once.
Ahead, Jinx glanced back and—shockingly—read the moment. She didn't apologize. She didn't get defensive. She just slowed slightly, fell into step with Taila, and spoke in a lighter tone.
"Tell me if it's too much," Jinx said. "I'm… testing the 'normal people' setting."
Taila muttered, "You don't have one."
Jinx grinned. "Exactly. So we calibrate."
Taila's cheeks were still red, but she didn't pull away when Jinx bumped her shoulder.
That told me enough.
They were bonding the way people like them bond: awkwardly, aggressively, in small brave steps.
---
That night, back in the Dire Wolf bay, the three of us ended up in our new routine: repairs, quiet talk, and the kind of affection that didn't ask permission every time because it was built on the understanding that permission had already been given.
Taila sat on an overturned crate with a manual open on her slate, studying sim control theory like it could become armor. Jinx sprawled on a tool cart like she was allergic to sitting normally.
I was tightening the last internal brace, finishing the final checks before closing the panel.
"You know," Jinx said, voice casual, "it's been two weeks."
Taila looked up. "Since…?"
"Since we murdered the most annoying rich man in the sector," Jinx supplied, cheerful.
Taila's face tightened. "Don't say it like that."
Jinx shrugged. "Fine. Since we ended his career."
Taila went back to her slate.
Jinx looked at me. "Boss. You ever think about how long it's been since this whole thing started?"
I paused with the tool in hand.
The question landed in the place where I kept my timeline, where I tracked days the way pilots track heat.
"Twenty-seven days," I said.
Jinx blinked. "You counted."
"I always count," I replied.
Taila's head lifted slightly. "Why."
Because if I didn't count, the days would blur. Because if they blurred, my father's death would blur too. Because if it blurred, it would become just another story, and I refused to let it become that.
"It helps me remember what changed," I said.
Taila looked at the Dire Wolf—at the machine that had outlived a man.
Then she looked down again and said quietly, "A lot changed."
"Yes," I said.
Jinx hopped down from the cart and walked over, kissed me quickly—casual, practiced now—then kissed Taila on the forehead like she was stamping her.
Taila made a mortified sound. "Stop doing that."
Jinx grinned. "No."
Taila turned her face away, but she didn't move away.
That mattered too.
I finished the brace, closed the panel, and stepped back. The Dire Wolf looked whole again. Not untouched. Not innocent. But ready.
Holt would come tomorrow with the contract closeout.
Payment. Salvage shares. Formal statements. The basin's gratitude packaged in numbers.
And then we'd leave.
Because a mercenary who stays too long becomes a local problem.
That night, Taila practiced her sim breathing drills on the crate—inhale, hold, exhale—like she was training her nervous system the way you train muscle.
Jinx kept making excuses to touch her—shoulder bump, arm hook, another "accidental" swat when Taila walked past the tool cart.
This time, Taila spun and hissed, "Jinx."
Jinx raised her hands. "Too much?"
Taila's face burned, but she managed, "Not— not always. Just… not when people can see."
Jinx's grin softened. "Copy."
Then she leaned in, whispering something I didn't catch, and Taila's expression turned even redder.
Taila shoved Jinx lightly. Jinx laughed. Taila tried not to smile.
I watched them and felt the strange, steady truth settle deeper:
This wasn't just a contract anymore.
It had become a life.
A dangerous one. A messy one. But one I was now responsible for.
And somewhere out in the dark between stars, Sable was still breathing.
We just hadn't heard him yet.
Which meant one thing:
The quiet wasn't peace.
It was the pause between lessons.
And next time, we wouldn't be caught learning in the middle of the fire.
We'd be ready.