A distorted, terrified scream. Olivia, running, stumbling, tripping through a ceaseless, green mist. An enormous, grotesque claw reaching out for her, grasping at her. A flash of light and horrible, incomprehensible pain.
Olivia woke with a start, bolting upright. Sweat ran down her skin, her soaked clothes clinging to her body. Terrible pain seared behind her eyes, as though someone had stabbed a knife through her temples. Confused, dazed, she looked around her dim surroundings, but a blue haze blurred her vision. Where the hell was she? Blindly, she reached out around her, searching, until her hands found a small box. She grasped it, clawed at its lid, and pulled out a small pill. Swallowing it, the relief was almost instant.
The stinging agony in her skull subsided and the mist that seemed to surround her lifted from her vision. Olivia panted, taking deep breaths to calm her nerves. She glanced around her dark surroundings, the only source of light being the nighttime cityscape outside the great windows. Her apartment. The mercenary sighed. She must have fallen asleep on the couch again. Breathing in deeply, she reached up and wiped the sweat from her forehead.
It had been the same nightmare again. The same, awful recollection of what had happened that dreadful day two months ago. Olivia was beginning to fear that it might never stop haunting her dreams, that she would be doomed to spend every night waking up, frightened and soaked in sweat.
Exhausted, she got to her feet and walked across the dark living room to the bedroom door. She stepped through, glancing around the smaller space in the dim city light shining through the windows. One wall was lined in floor-to-ceiling closets, most of which were, of course, empty. Her modest collection of attire filled only a few drawers, shelves, and hangers. Her bare footsteps muffled by the room's soft carpet, she approached the farthest wardrobe and swung open its tall door. It stood empty, save for a black crate nestled on its floor. Bulletproof, explosion-resistant, and sealed by a biometric lock, it had once been used to transport Bretonian high-yield explosives, then to smuggle cardamine, then to store a mercenary's personal weapons. Now, it housed only one object.
Olivia crouched down before the box, reaching out for its lock. For a moment, she hesitated, her hand hovering an inch from the small scanner attached to its side. Then, a sudden impatience overcame her, and she pressed her thumb to the device. With satisfying clunks, a set of latches came loose and the crate's lid unsealed with a quiet hiss. Greedily, Olivia grabbed the top and threw it open. A cold, blue light lit up the room from within the box, casting Olivia's long shadow across the far wall. She leaned over it, gazing at the glowing orb within.
A sudden calm washed over her, casting away the scared, confused thoughts that coursed through her mind, replacing them instead with peace and idyll. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, as though she could inhale the light emitting from the crystalline sphere. Her body relaxed, the last vestiges of the night's migraine receding into faint memory.
Olivia still had no idea what the orb was, nor whether it was safe to keep around. But something about it intrigued her, drew her to it, kept her from disposing of it. She knew she had to find out what it was sooner or later - but the simple fact that it helped calm her weary mind was enough for her to keep it around for the time being. Something told her, however, that it would be for the best to keep it a secret, that no one else should know it was in her possession.
Carefully, she grabbed the crate and hoisted it out of the closet onto her bed, before crawling onto it herself. She curled up around it, like a cat around a warm body. Tomorrow, she would find a safer place to store the mysterious object. But now, she would let its reassuring presence help her fall back into a more peaceful sleep.
Olivia slumped back into the pilot's seat and listened as the ship's engines spun down with a lowly whine. She glanced at the comms panel, eyeing it suspiciously, as though expecting it to light up with yet another unwanted message. The screen, however, remained dark. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
Pittsburgh.
Had things really come to this? Had her loathing for the man really driven her to say that she would like to kill him? And had he really invited her to that god forsaken wasteland to do so? Of course, it had. The ship's logs had stored the conversation for posterity, for better or for worse.
Why did she hate him so much? She wondered.
He was a Xeno. The Xeno. A terrorist. God knew how many innocent lives he had taken, either through his words or his own actions. Hundreds. Thousands, perhaps. Irredeemable crimes that deserved every ounce of judgment she laid on them. And yet, when it had been her less-than-innocent life on the line, he had stepped in, intervened, saved her. Why?
Does it matter? A voice in the back of the mercenary's mind whispered. Olivia supposed it didn't. The debt she had incurred that day had been paid back as far as she was concerned. But the question remained. He was horrible, a murderer, and yet he had saved her out of what could only be called the goodness of his heart. So why did she hate him? He had never harmed her, never tormented her, never asked anything of her at all.
Olivia furrowed her brows as her uncertainty only grew.
Do it, the voice whispered. Kill him.
Should she? She would be doing Liberty a great service, ridding it of the most dangerous terrorist alive. With its head cut off, the Xeno Alliance would collapse in short order, and - with any luck - the rest of the movement would follow suit. Innocent lives numbering in the thousands, otherwise lost to acts of terror, would be spared. And yet...
We would be heroes.
Hero. The word had little meaning to Olivia. She was no hero. She wasn't made of the stuff that heroes were made of. No, she was the opposite. A monster. How many lives had she taken? How many widows and orphans had she created? How many families torn apart like her own? How much longer could she hide behind the excuse that it was her job, that she had been hired to kill? Was it even an excuse? And what of the people of the village? What excuse did she have for her part in their deaths?
Olivia reached up and rubbed her tired eyes. They were beginning to hurt, a dull ache spreading into her brow and temples. The presage of another migraine.
Olivia's eyes fluttered open. Wiping the sleep from them, she groggily glanced around herself. Her hands froze near her face and she furrowed her brows in confusion as she noticed that she was in her ship's cockpit, sitting in the pilot's seat. Through the canopy, she could make out the bustling activity of a commercial hangar bay. With a start, she straightened up, any remaining slivers of tiredness swept away by alarm and bewilderment.
Where the f*ck am I, she thought as she overlooked the bay. It looked familiar to her, the rusted and smog stained deck and walls indicating that it was not a well-maintained station in house space. Searching for clues as to where she was, she looked over to the far end and found what she needed. Five words, printed in enormous, black letters across the steel wall, the paint chipping off in places but still clearly legible.
Welcome to Ames Research Station.
She slumped back into her seat, no less confused than before. Reaching up again to rub her temples, she wracked her brain for memories of how she had gotten to the Zoner freeport in Kepler and - more importantly - why she was here. But, instead of clear images or any usable hints at all, she drew only blanks. The last thing she could remember was her maneuvering her ship through the gentle traffic of Stanton's outskirts, climbing further and further in altitude on her way to the planetary docking rings. A simple trip around New York was all she had intended. How had she ended up out here?
No answers came to mind.
A flashing screen and a quiet chime tore Olivia away from her mental detective work. A message from the station's dock control appeared on the communications display; an automated reminder to pay her docking fee. Three identical messages had apparently already been left unread by her, the first dating three hours ago. Reflexively, she pressed the small confirmation button, authorizing the transfer of funds from her neural net account.
Why was she here? To meet someone? She had docked three hours ago and not been disturbed while apparently happily sleeping in her cockpit. Surely, anyone waiting for her would have come to check. Had she just needed a place to relax? She couldn't come up with any reason why - she couldn't remember anything of what must have been the past half day. Besides, if she wanted to come to a quiet, comfortable place, a busy freeport in the midst of a cosmic storm would not have been her choice.
No. It must have been something else. Something she just could not remember. In frustration, she hit a clenched fist against the canopy. First, ever more frequent and ever more painful migraines, now a complete blackout? The doctor on Denver had insisted that she would get better with time, that her issues were only caused by stress. Instead, everything was getting worse, day by day.
She clenched her fist tighter, her knuckles turning white. Something was wrong with her. And she had no idea what.
Olivia eyed herself in the small mirror of her small quarter's small bathroom. She leaned in close, shifting her head to get the most out of the flickering ceiling lamp's dim light. White lines ran across her left cheek and jaw, scars from where shrapnel had cut across her face. They were faint - noticeable, but not disfiguring. Similar marks covered her outer thighs, reminders of where the explosion's debris had lacerated her legs.
Olivia smiled, satisfied. Ever since she had received her new, unscarred skin, she had felt strangely naked. The many battle scars that had once covered her body had meant something to her; mementos of her many ordeals, both victories and failures. They had, like a book whose pages were written across her body, told her story. But, with her near-death, the words had been erased, leaving behind a blank slate.
Now, a new story was waiting to be told, each new adventure to be again marked down on her body.
Olivia ran her right hand over her left arm. her fingers stroking the black, polymer sleeve that covered it. Beneath her fingertips, she could feel the lattice of electrodes interwoven with the plastic, at regular intervals stimulating the muscles underneath with light shocks. Her hand reached the med-stasis band that was firmly clamped around her upper arm, regulating the electrodes and regularly administering steroids into her body. Even through the thick sleeve, Olivia could feel how skinny and frail her left arm was. It looked out of place on her otherwise athletic, toned body.
The skin had recovered well - if badly scarred - from the horrific injury she had suffered, the swaths that were torn away in the explosion replaced with cloned tissue and grafts. The same applied to the flesh, tendons, and muscle tissue underneath - the latter, however, could only be regrown in a cloning vat, not retrained. It would take weeks, maybe months of dedicated training, electro-stimulation, and medication to return her arm back to its previous form.
Olivia sighed, pulling on a jacket. Until she recovered, she would have to rely mostly on her right arm. Not much of a hindrance when in the pilot's seat, but hand-to-hand combat and even firearm handling would be ill-advised for some time.
But she had a mystery to solve, and had finally - after weeks of uncertainty, fear, and frustration - been given a first, usable clue. She zipped the jacket up around her and stepped out of the bathroom, throwing on a belt and holstering her weapons. She didn't have time to be slowed down by injuries.
Olivia slumped back into her pilot's seat as she watched the Bloom's contact vanish from her sensors.
As always, it had been a treat to see Isla again - even if a hundred yards of hard vacuum had separated them. It was enough to see a friendly face, hear a friendly voice again, and know that there was someone out there who trusted and supported her, no matter what happened. Well, not quite, Olivia thought, thinking back to her return from the dead a few months ago. But that felt like it was ancient history by now and she still found herself unable to fully blame Isla for her behavior that day. Really, it had been Reyes' doing. And that just made her friend's latest news all the more unbearable.
The two were getting married. Olivia rubbed her eyes, wearily. Had Isla and Reyes really already been together for that long? Eight months, Olivia recalled. And now they were engaged to each other. Olivia knew that she was supposed to be happy for the two, or at least for Isla. Friends were supposed to be supportive of each other, after all. So, why did she instead feel upset? Afraid, even?
She will forget you. A presence crept into her mind, whispering from the back of her head in her own, distorted voice. She will leave you behind.
"Shut up," Olivia growled out loud. "I'm not talking to you."
Her response garnered a guttural, entertained chuckle. You should, the voice replied. You are all alone.
Olivia shook her head, as though trying to dislodge the voice from her mind. "Shut up."
Its chuckling receded, and with it the uncomfortable presence, crawling again into the shadows of her subconscious.
Olivia sighed. She hated it. Whatever it was. But, she admitted to herself regretfully, it had a point. Isla was one of the few constants in her life. One of the few people she could rely on, look to for help. And now the girl was stepping onto a new path in her life, getting married to Reyes, of all people. Olivia would be left behind, fighting whatever forces she was up against on her own.
She reached down beneath her seat, pulling out a simple canvas bag that was tucked away underneath. With deft fingers, she unzipped it and let its content's blue light flood the cockpit. Olivia leaned back again, breathing deeply, and felt herself relax, the light coursing over her, exuding a comforting warmth. But even it could not wash away her melancholy.
The bottle cap fell to the cockpit's floor with a muffled clang. Olivia sighed, raising the bottle to her lips and taking a long pull, emptying it by half. One leg up on the dash and reclined leisurely in her pilot's seat, she glanced out through the canopy into the station's small hangar bay.
It was quiet, save for a few maintenance crews trying their hardest to keep a handful of Xeno fighters spaceworthy. Off to the side, a small group of pilots stood together, discussing among themselves. Olivia couldn't make out what they were saying, but their debate looked heated. One of them had bandages wrapped around his head, spots of blood staining the gauze. Likely, they had returned from combat with a Libertonian patrol.
The mercenary's gaze wandered to the far side of the bay, where a small vessel stood out from the uniformly beaten up ships of the terrorist cause. Its scarab-like hull and aggressive, swooping wings gave it an almost alien appearance, not entirely unlike-
Olivia closed her eyes. Fragments of the Nomad's visions flickered in her mind, like images from a broken holo-projector. A black sea; great monoliths piercing a white sky; a long, discordant screech, like a distorted cry.
Jesus Christ, Olivia thought, opening her eyes again. What the fuck was I thinking?
Apparently, coming back to Liberty despite being a wanted criminal had not been exciting enough for her. No, she just had to go ahead and risk her life - or her sanity; she wasn't sure which was at greater risk - luring a Nomad warform away from populated space. It had been a reckless, foolhardy decision, one she wasn't sure why she had made. She had never considered herself particularly selfless. So why had she risked it all just to drag a dangerous alien life form away from a hive of scum like Fontana?
She shook her head. In the end, it had worked out - somehow. The Nomad had followed her all the way to the northern outskirts of Ontario where, by sheer luck, they had run into an LSF cruiser. In the ensuing confusion, Olivia, Romero, and Darche had been able to escape back to California; shaken and exhausted but otherwise alive and well.
Relatively well, Olivia thought, reaching up with her free hand to rub the side of her head. She could feel a migraine coming, the first one in weeks. Whatever was going on in her mind, having it invaded by alien thoughts probably wasn't going to help. She took another long draught from the bottle, emptying it. Sighing, she tossed it aside, letting it clatter to the floor behind her, and reached down between her legs, producing another from a small crate.
Olivia's gaze wandered back out over the hangar again, lingering once more on the strange ship in the shadows on the far side. A lone man stalked around it, inspecting it despite its clearly pristine condition. His dark clothing made him hard to make out in the dim light, and so it almost seemed as though he faded in and out of visibility as he slowly moved about. Unconsciously, Olivia nudged the canvas bag and its crystalline contents beneath her seat with a foot, as if to push it farther out of view. Getting that man's attention would mean trouble.
The Sickle crashed onto the hangar deck with a shudder, a shower of sparks erupting from beneath its belly. The landing gear still stowed away, the ship tilted to the side, its starboard wing striking the floor with a shriek of metal on metal. The engines sputtered and died. Dockworkers and pilots looked on in confusion.
Inside the ship, Olivia grabbed at her seatbelts, fingers sightlessly searching for the release latch. They found and ripped at it. With a groan, the mercenary crawled out of her seat, feeling around her as she made her way into the craft's rear compartment, blinded by black dots obscuring her vision. She got to her feet and crashed into the small storage locker inserted into the wall. Pain shot up her left shoulder but was barely perceptible over the agony she was already suffering. Sweating, her fingers found the number pad beside the locker and punched in the code. The closet slid open as Olivia collapsed to her knees again, the pain in her head threatening to knock her out.
Come on, she thought to herself. Almost there. Dizzily, desperately, her hands groped around the locker's interior, searching for the soft touch of a canvas bag. The mercenary cried out as an ache shot through her head like a bolt of lightning. But her fingers finally found their prey and pulled the bag out onto the cramped deck.
She couldn't see it, but she knew that a faint blue light leaked through the sturdy cloth - and it was this light that she so desperately needed. Hungrily, her fingers tore at the bag's zipper, nearly ripping it off. The content rolled out onto the steel deck and Olivia fell forward, crashing down next to it. Warmth washed over her as she, barely conscious, reached out for the glowing, crystalline orb, running her hands over its smooth surface. The pain in her head subsided, stilled like the sea after a storm.
She blinked once, twice. The black dots that had blinded her faded, revealing the inside of her ship, cast in a brilliant blue light. Relieved, she inhaled deeply, breathing in that light and its accompanying warmth, cleansing herself of the migraine's last vestiges. Feeling her heartbeat settle, she curled up around the sphere, pulling it tight against her body, and fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.
Olivia awoke to the sound of a fist pounding against the Sickle's canopy. Wearily, she cracked her eyes open and found herself still lying on the ship's deck, curled up between the storage locker on one wall and her bunk recessed into the other. Tucked against her, her arms wrapped tightly around it, was the crystal orb. It glowed dully, much of its light dissipated as it often did when she held it for longer periods.
The mercenary clambered to her feet, muscles aching from her uncomfortable resting place, and carefully placed the sphere atop her bunk. She looked around the ship's interior, noticing that everything stood at a slight tilt. She furrowed her brows. The pounding coming from outside the cockpit grew louder. Someone shouted, though she couldn't make out the words through the thick glass.
Where was she? Shaking her head to rid herself of her drowsiness, she reached up and rubbed her temples. Something had happened last ... night? What time was it even? Wary, she stepped up to the access hatch just behind the cockpit and thumbed the touchpad beside it. The hatch slid open and a set of steps extended from the hull to the hangar deck outside. The mechanism whirred angrily as the tilted angle of the ship kept it from fully extending.
Olivia glanced out across the bay, frowning. It looked rather familiar...
"Oh, it's you," a voice came from her left. She glanced over and saw a man in an oil-stained coverall round the Sickle's nose, arms crossed. He scowled at her. She recognized him.
"Manchkin," Olivia muttered, relaxing. The old junker shook his head as though disappointed, then nodded at her ship.
"Did you have to scrape up my deck like that?"
Olivia stepped down onto the hangar's floor and turned to inspect her craft. The paint along its belly was scratched up badly where the hull had struck the deck. She glanced at the starboard wing, its tip dented slightly and resting on the floor.
"Sorry," she sighed. Then she cast a sidelong look at the dockmaster, Manchkin, and smirked. "Not like it looks any worse."
The older man threw up his arms in exasperation and strode off angrily, calling over his shoulder, "Beaumont deserves better."
Olivia sat down on the short steps leading back into her ship, which had finally given up on trying to fully extend. She rested her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands and took a deep breath. Images flashed through her mind. Rocks slowly tumbling through space. A group of small ships scattering in a panic. An enormous, glowing, blue shape appearing from out of nowhere. A brilliant flash of light. A chase through the rocks.
Right, Olivia thought, lifting her head again and gazing out over the hangar bay, watching the bustle of activity as mechanics and dockworkers hurried about from ship to ship. More Nomads.
Memory finally came to her. She had been in Hudson, flying alongside Morreti and Locke, the strange researcher Abrams, and a freelancer, when another joined them. What had been the ship's name? Pennybrooke? Olivia closed her eyes, trying to sort through the images. They had all been chatting amiably, Morreti and her joking around, when the Pennybrooke activated a hyperspace beacon and summoned an enormous Nomad ship right on top of them. They had all scattered wildly, putting as much distance between themselves and the alien vessel as possible. The Pennybrooke's pilot had actually spoken to it, referring to it as her ... girlfriend?
Olivia shook her head at the thought, then continued remembering. Abrams, that god damned moron, had chased after the two ships, even when the Nomad reopened a breach into hyperspace. She had tried to go after him, keep him from getting too close, but Morreti stopped her. Then, the Pennybrooke and her Nomad disappeared in a flash of light, leaving behind only a smaller alien. They had all gone after it. Olivia winced at the memory. She had felt so angry at it. Why? It probably didn't matter. They had swarmed the small form and destroyed it, scattering its remains across the asteroid fields.
Then, her head had exploded. Or at least it had felt that way. A migraine, more sudden than any before, had practically blinded her. She had fled, first towards Barrow, but something had made her turn away. The stranger who resided there, the man in black with the strange-looking ship. Who was he? She had asked around on the station, but no one could say. Or no one would. Either way, something about him told her that she couldn't use the crystal orb with him around, and so she had set course for Texas and somehow managed to make it all the way up here, to Beaumont.
"Jesus Christ," Olivia muttered and lay back onto her ship's deck, feet dangling from the hatch. She stared up at the Sickle's compartment's ceiling and wondered, as she so often did these days, why her life had gotten so messed up. Migraines, murders, aliens. It often seemed like she couldn't rely on anyone or anything to make sense anymore. She strained her neck and glanced over at her bunk, the strange, blue sphere still resting on top of it, giving off its familiar, blue glow. At least she could rely on it, if nothing else.
Olivia stood arms akimbo before the scorched, dented, and thoroughly mangled wreck that was her Stinger. Smoke still billowed from the hole in its center, a gaping wound burned clear through the ship's core with edges of molten steel. The reactor within continued burning, the mechanics and technicians unable to approach the still reacting fusion mass. It would need to burn out on its own, hopefully not melting the rest of the ship as it did.
Once the fire was doused, the repairs could begin. They would take weeks, if not months, and would cost the mercenary a fortune - most of her savings, in fact. The owner of this small maintenance business had told her as much, suggesting that she would be better off selling the Stinger's remains for scrap and spare parts. Renzu parts did, after all, fetch a handsome price on the used market; which was exactly why insisting on the ship's restoration would bleed Olivia's credit accounts dry. Nevertheless, she insisted.
"Take good care of her," the mercenary growled at the the stocky proprietor beside her.
"Of course, ma'am. We offer only the best services at Matthew And Matthew Limi-"
Olivia shot the man a glare that could have molten through three feet of armor plating. He stammered a farewell and hurried off to the small office room at the far end of the hangar, a swarm of employees abandoning their cautiously distant inspection of the Stinger's wreck and following him.
The mercenary glanced back at what remained of her ship and sighed. It looked to be in little better shape than what remains she had found of her first model, her Sutinga. Though, while that ship had been far beyond recovering, not to speak of repairing, she held out hopes that this one would one day fly again. Until then, she would need a new ride.
"I see your manners haven't improved! Hah!"
Olivia turned on her heels, crossing her arms before her. Approaching her from the hangar's open doors was a lean man, his hair a mess of short, dirty blond, a tan trench coat billowing around him as he strode jovially towards the mercenary. An enormous grin seemingly split his face in two. Olivia frowned at the sight.
"Now, now, don't scowl at me like that," the man chided with a laugh. Coming to a stop before her, he spread out his arms as if to embrace the mercenary, but, seeing her make no move to return the gesture, lowered them again. "It's not me who wrecked your ship!" Another laugh.
"Beige, please," Olivia finally managed to mutter through gritted teeth, wrestling with the urge to punch the man - her friend - square on the nose, "I'm not in the mood for jokes."
Beige glanced over the woman's shoulder, raising an eyebrow at the sight of her Stinger's smoldering remains.
"No," he said with faux seriousness, "I suppose you wouldn't be." Then his face broke out into a blinding smile again as he stepped beside Olivia and threw an arm around her shoulder, pushing her toward the hangar's door and the small landing field beyond. "Come on, old girl! I've got something to show you!"
Begrudgingly, Olivia let him push her along, out of the hot interior of the hangar, reeking of smoke, molten metal, and spilled coolant, into the relatively fresh air outside. The field was little more than a few acres of concrete on the outskirts of an industrial zone on Houston. Half a dozen ships stood in the open, varying in size from small personal shuttles to far larger long-haul freighters, each in various states of disrepair and decay - likely awaiting a final lift to the nearest scrap yard. One ship, however, quickly caught the mercenary's attention, and it was this craft that Beige prodded her towards.
"Now, isn't that just a beauty?" He exclaimed as they approached. Olivia stopped a few yards short of the vessel, crossing her arms again as she inspected it.
"It's seen better days," she muttered, noting the patches of rust, stained heat exhaust ports, and scorched hull panels. Beige guffawed.
"Oh, come now! I know you've always wanted to fly one of these!" He stepped towards the ship, puffing out his chest and raising his arms in a grandiose gesture. "The mighty Falcon, a staple of CTE Manufacturing's ingenuity and reliability!"
Olivia glanced at him.
"Did you pull this out of a junkyard?"
Beige deflated before her and sheepishly looked back over his shoulder.
"Yeah."
Sighing again, Olivia reached up and rubbed her eyes.
"But look!" Beige's eyes lit up again as he skipped back to her side. "You said you needed a ship, and here it is! And," he nudged her with an elbow and winked, "it's free of charge!"
Olivia gave him a sidelong look at the notion, then walked up to the Falcon's discolored nose. She could see herself reflected in the ship's tinted canopy - a frightful sight. Her hair a greasy mess, bruises covering half her jaw and neck, and two long scars running across her face. A slight smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Maybe, she thought, this battered mess of a ship was just the perfect match for her.
She glanced over her shoulder, seeing Beige grinning at her and knew he'd had the same thought.
"Will she fly?"
Beige leapt forward with a hoot and slapped the mercenary on the shoulder.
"Oh, she'll fly alright! Fastest thing you've ever sat in, and nimble, too! Just," he leaned in close and whispered in a conspiratorial tone, "take it easy in atmosphere. The rudder's a little stiff." Then he leaned back again and let out a whooping laugh. "Oh, Sable, you're gonna love each other!"
“And now you don’t want her anymore? She’s as good as new! Better than new, even! The new power distributor alone-”
“Beige.”
“...
Aren’t you at least gonna take her for a test flight?”
“I don’t need to.”
“But she’s your Stinger! She's practically your baby! Do you have any idea how much trouble it was to find all those replacement parts?”
“And I’m really grateful for all your help acquiring them, but-”
“But now you’re just gonna sell her? Like the mechanics told you to do in the first place? You could’ve saved everyone a lot of time and effort and credits if you’d listened to-”
“I’m not selling.”
“Wait. You’re not? But then what are you gonna do with her? Just let her collect dust in some rusty hangar?”
“I won’t do much of anything with her.”
“Huh?”
“She’s yours now.”
“She’s- What?”
“She’s yours. I’m giving her to you.”
“You’re… Are you serious? Now hold on a second. I don’t know how many credits you think I make with my gambling but I can’t afford that kind of-”
“Not selling. Giving. For free.”
“For free?”
“Yeah.”
“But… Why? You invested everything you had into getting her fixed up again!”
“Exactly, Beige. I can’t afford her anymore. Hell, I don’t even want to guess at how much money I’ve spent over the years just keeping my Stingers in flying shape. I need to be more careful with my money, and that means I need something more reliable and less expensive.”
“But, you’re Sable! You fly Stingers!”
“I’ve flown other ships in the meantime. And the Falcon’s great. It’s a hell of a lot cheaper to run, too.”
“I did tell you you’d love it.”
“You did. And I’m grateful for that, too.”
“So, you’re just gonna hand the Stinger’s keys over? But what am I supposed to do with her? You do remember I’m retired, right?”
“I don’t know, Beige. Take her out for some joyrides. Impress your wife. Sell her and pay off your gambling debts.”
“Hah! Like I’d sell your ship after all the work we’ve put into it!”
“Then use her to fight off the sharks when they come to collect.”
“Now that sounds more like it! Hah!”
“...
Thank you, Beige.”
“What are you thanking me for? You’re the one handing out gifts! I should be thanking you!”
“Just… Thank you. For everything.”
“Now, don’t you go getting all sentimental on me, Sable. That’s not like you, hah!”
“It’s not, is it? But I feel like it needed to be said.”
“Hah! Well, in that case, Sable, you’re very welcome.”