DAY 80 — 21:42 (SHIPTIME)
The Union's mech bay smelled like hot coolant, cut metal, and the sour bite of old smoke that never quite left armor plating.
Three days of sitting still—three days of refit, teardown, reassembly, and arguing over the shape of problems—had turned Moonjaw's home into a workshop that felt more alive than any bar or port concourse. The bay lights were harsh and white, throwing long shadows under the legs of sleeping giants.
The Dire Wolf stood in its berth with panels open along the left torso, missile bay doors yawning like a mouth mid-breath. Its armor looked duller now, sanded and cleaned where the worst scarring had been, but Dack could still see the history in the edges—places where someone had patched and repatched the same seam because the machine refused to die.
Across from it, Jinx's Highlander had its right shoulder plating removed and a gauss feed line exposed like a vein. The tech cart beside it was stacked with clamps, seals, and a heat sink assembly that looked like it had been rebuilt by stubbornness alone.
Quill's Awesome was the cleanest of them—too disciplined to be messy, too proud to show weakness. Its PPC housings were open, wiring harnesses laid out neatly, and a coil assembly sat on a padded crate like a heart on a table.
Morrigan's new seat—the salvaged Orion—dominated the center pad now, held upright on a trio of stabilization stands. It looked wrong in the bay, like a captured animal forced to stand still. There were still scorch marks on the chest and a long gouge in the left side where something had tried to peel it open. Its left knee actuator assembly was partially disassembled, and the leg hung in a braced limp that made the whole machine look angry.
Taila's transition machine—the Marauder—waited off to the side with its cockpit open and coolant hose connected, ready for simulation runs. The Griffin sat farther back, stripped of a few panels and tagged as "reserve / training" in Lyra's neat handwriting.
Tool carts rolled. Welders hissed. Someone's music played faintly over a tinny speaker until Lyra walked by and turned it off without comment.
Dack moved through it all in a slow circuit, helmet on his hip, eyes on details most people missed: a loose cable tie, an over-tightened clamp, the way a tech's hands shook after too much stim.
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to.
When he spoke, it was short and it landed.
Rook and Rafe were on the Orion's left knee assembly, both in grease-stained coveralls that had been too big for them when they'd first boarded Moonjaw and now fit like they belonged there. Their hair was tied back, faces smudged, eyes bright with the kind of focus that made other people uncomfortable.
Rafe held a diagnostic slate.
Rook had a flashlight between her teeth.
Rafe: "Actuator—"
Rook: "—housing."
Rafe: "Warped—"
Rook: "—here."
Rafe pulled the flashlight down as Rook pointed. "If we replace the housing, we need a factory piece."
Rook nodded. "Not cheap."
Rafe tilted her head. "But if we shim it—"
Rook: "—and re-seat the—"
Rafe: "—bearing, we can—"
Rook: "—run it."
Dack stopped at the edge of the pad and looked up at the Orion's leg like he was reading a map. "How long it lasts."
Rafe answered first, because she always did when it was numbers. "Two months. Maybe three. Depends on heat and load."
Rook followed, because she always did when it was risk. "If Morrigan runs it hard, it cracks."
Morrigan was under the Orion's torso, arms crossed even while she listened, black hair falling in a sharp curtain as she leaned back to glare up at them. Her gothic dress wasn't here today; she wore a tight black tank and black cargo shorts, red straps crisscrossed at the hips like she'd turned the group colors into a warning. She looked annoyed by the universe.
"So I can't fight," she said.
"You can fight," Dack replied.
Morrigan's eyes narrowed. "Then why are you standing there like a judge."
Dack didn't blink. "Because you like charging."
Morrigan's mouth twitched. Not a smile. A crack. "Shut up."
Dack's tone stayed deadpan. "Stay mid-range. Make them come to you."
Morrigan rolled her eyes. "I know."
Dack looked at Rook and Rafe again. "Do the shim. Re-seat it. Mark it. I want a warning line in the diagnostic. Yellow at first sign."
Rafe nodded. "We can set that."
Rook: "We will."
Jinx strolled in from the Highlander's bay with a ratchet in one hand and a grin that never quite left. Her long dirty-blonde hair was tied up high, messy ponytail bouncing as she walked. Today she wore a tight black crop top under a black jacket with red piping and the wolf-moon sigil stitched onto the shoulder. The jacket looked like it belonged in a cockpit or a fight. Her shorts were snug, combat-ready, and she wore tall boots that made her look like she could kick down a bulkhead and then flirt about it.
She glanced at the Orion, then at Morrigan. "So that's your new boyfriend."
Morrigan's glare sharpened. "It's a machine."
Jinx's grin widened. "So is Dack's. We still love his."
Taila's voice came from the Marauder's ladder. "Jinx…"
Taila was halfway up the ladder, leaning down over the rail with her hair pulled into a loose braid. Her black halter top hugged her chest, and her long black combat leggings had red stripes down the sides that made her legs look longer than they were. She'd started wearing the group colors without flinching, like she'd decided she was allowed to belong. Her cheeks were pink from exertion and heat, not embarrassment—at least not only.
Jinx glanced at Taila and smirked. "Ready to stop driving like you're in a Griffin?"
Taila's jaw tightened. "I'm trying."
Dack looked up at her. "You're doing fine."
Taila froze for a beat at the simple approval, then nodded once like she didn't trust herself to talk.
Morrigan made a small scoffing noise. "He says that and you melt."
Taila's cheeks warmed. "I don't—"
Jinx leaned in, stage-whispered, "She does."
Dack cut across them. "Sim time."
Jinx's eyes lit. "Yes."
Quill's voice came calm from near the Awesome. "Unit cohesion run or individual drills."
Dack glanced her way. Quill stood with her sleeves rolled up, dark hair tied back, face clean and composed even under bay light. She wore a fitted black underlayer with red striping—less revealing than Jinx's, more utilitarian, but still clearly part of the pack now. She'd adopted the colors like she'd decided there was no point pretending she wasn't already implicated.
"Cohesion," Dack said.
Quill nodded once. "Understood."
Lyra's voice came over internal comms. "Sim pods are ready. I built the scenario set. It escalates."
Dack replied, "Good."
Lyra didn't answer, but she didn't need to. She was always somewhere in the ship's veins, watching feeds, reading numbers, keeping them from bleeding money out through stupidity.
---
They ran the sims from the Union's training module—cramped compared to a real simulator facility, but it did the job. Cockpit mockups, wraparound displays, haptic feedback that bruised when you took "hits" hard enough.
Dack dropped into the Dire Wolf station first, hands settling on controls like muscle memory was a religion.
He didn't say anything motivational.
He just keyed the channel. "Form up. Don't chase. Don't tunnel."
Jinx's voice came bright. "Yes, dad."
Taila's came softer. "Okay."
Quill: "Acknowledged."
Morrigan: "Yeah."
They loaded in.
Scenario one: a planet-side escort through a broken canyon road. Raiders in light mechs, fast and annoying, trying to bait them into splitting.
Taila started to move like she was in her Griffin—too eager to close distance, too reactive to flanking feints.
Dack's voice cut in, flat. "Taila. Hold lane. Let them come."
Taila hesitated, then forced herself to stop chasing the blip on her right sensor. The Marauder's heavier frame didn't like quick corrections; it punished indecision with heat spikes and slow swings. She steadied, breathed, and held the angle.
A raider Jenner flashed through the canyon mouth, trying to dart past.
Taila fired—clean, controlled—and the sim registered a solid hit that would've stripped armor in reality.
She didn't celebrate.
She held lane.
Dack felt something in his chest loosen, just a fraction.
"Good," he said.
Jinx cackled. "She's learning!"
Morrigan snapped, "Shut up and shoot."
Jinx answered, delighted, "Yes, ma'am."
Scenario two escalated: mixed heavies, longer engagement, heat discipline required. Quill anchored perfectly, keeping the Awesome's posture stable and conservative, forcing the enemy to waste time trying to pry her loose. Morrigan tried to bull forward out of habit—then stopped herself with visible effort, holding mid-range like Dack had told her.
Dack didn't praise her.
But he didn't correct her either.
That was praise in its own way.
Scenario three: worst-case mess. Ambush from two directions, civilians in the middle, and a "command" unit trying to pull them apart with bait targets.
This is where they started to look like a unit.
Not perfect.
But real.
Jinx's Highlander covered Taila's Marauder when Taila's heat spiked.
Quill's Awesome kept the center stable so Dack could maneuver his Dire Wolf for decisive angles.
Morrigan's Orion—still in sim form, still not real yet—held flank like a stubborn animal refusing to be pushed.
They didn't talk much.
They didn't need to.
When they finished, the training module lights came up slow and ugly, like waking from a dream you didn't enjoy.
Taila climbed out of her sim cradle with sweat on her collarbone and her hair sticking to her cheek. She looked exhausted and angry at herself in equal measure.
Dack watched her for a beat. "You're adapting fast."
Taila blinked. "I still messed up."
Dack's tone stayed deadpan. "Everyone messes up. You corrected."
Jinx leaned on the wall beside Taila, smirking. "And you looked hot doing it."
Taila flushed. "Jinx…"
Quill stepped out last, removing her glove with precise motions. "Cohesion improved."
Morrigan snorted. "Because he yells less than most commanders."
Dack looked at her. "I can change that."
Morrigan's mouth shut immediately.
Jinx's grin widened. "Please don't. I like you tolerable."
Dack replied, deadpan. "You like me useful."
Jinx's eyes brightened. "That too."
---
Back in the bay, Lyra had a slate waiting for Dack.
Not an emergency slate.
A planning slate.
That meant progress.
She held it out without ceremony. "Expenses. Fuel, parts, labor. Hatchetman sale covered the shortfall. We're stable. Not rich."
Dack took it, skimmed fast. "Orion refit."
Lyra nodded. "Cheap now, better later. The shim solution is fine for two to three months if Morrigan doesn't abuse it."
Morrigan called out from the Orion pad, "I heard that."
Lyra didn't look up. "Good."
Dack handed the slate back. "Next stop."
Lyra pointed to the nav line. "A machine shop world. Better parts markets. Better hiring pool. Better sim facilities if you want them."
Dack nodded once. "We need another pilot."
Lyra's eyes narrowed slightly. "I'm working on it."
Dack didn't push. Lyra pushed herself enough.
Jinx wandered in behind Dack, hooking an arm around his waist like it belonged there. Her jacket brushed his pilot suit, red piping bright under bay lights. "You know what we need next?"
Dack didn't look at her. "Money."
Jinx grinned. "Besides money."
Dack's tone stayed deadpan. "More money."
Taila stepped closer too, hands lightly touching Dack's forearm for balance, not clinginess—except it was both. "We need to be ready."
Dack glanced down at her hands, then back up. "We are getting ready."
Jinx hummed, satisfied.
Across the bay, Helena's room camera feed sat on Lyra's workstation monitor—silent, constant.
Helena Varr was still contained, still watched, still dangerous.
But she'd given a sliver about Selena. A name. A whisper. A direction.
And she'd looked at Dack differently when she'd given it.
Not soft.
Not safe.
Just… interested.
Dack didn't like complications.
He was starting to collect them anyway.
---
Later, when the bay quieted and the tech carts stopped rolling, Dack climbed into the Dire Wolf cockpit and sealed the hatch. The hum of the reactor steadied him—familiar, solid, honest.
He let his hands rest on the controls without powering up.
He said the number once, for himself.
"Eighty."
Then he stared at the training summary on his cockpit display: hit ratios, heat curves, cohesion timing, reaction lag. Hard data. The only kind of comfort he trusted.
They were improving.
They were building something real.
Which meant the next job could be bigger.
Which meant the next enemy could be worse.
Dack's jaw tightened.
Then he keyed ship comms, voice flat.
"Lyra. Set course for the shop world."
Lyra's reply came calm. "Already queued."
Dack stared forward into the cockpit glass.
Outside, the bay lights flickered.
The mechs slept.
And Moonjaw sharpened itself quietly for whatever came next.