It was 15:00. Gravel tapped his communicator, initiating the call to Elsa before he could talk himself out of it. He leaned back in his chair, keeping himself as expressionless as possible. Across the table, Xaxx and Nastija were engaged in a fierce debate about whether front-row seats at Zarqball were worth the risk of getting hit with a rogue player. He figured they weren’t paying attention. Hopefully.

  The line clicked. Then—

  “Oooh, a punctual man? Gravel, you’re gonna make a girl think you actually care.”

  Nastija’s debate came to an abrupt halt, and her bottomless eyes immediately drilled a hole into his head. Xaxx’s gaze soon followed, and his eyes narrowed. Probably because the lips behind his mask had turned into a wide, mischievous grin.

  “You’re on shift, yeah?” he said, doing his best to redirect. “That mean you’re in the hangar right now?”

  “Mm-hm,” Elsa hummed. “All suited up and ready to get my hands dirty. You thinking of dropping by? Or maybe you just like hearing the sound of my voice?”

  Xaxx theatrically covered the part of his mask that covered his mouth. Nastija’s eyes gleamed. Gravel resisted the overwhelming urge to rub his temples.

  “Need some info,” he said gruffly. “About that last batch of gliders that came through.”

  “Ahh, business talk. And here I was getting excited,” Elsa sighed. “Alright, alright. Hit me.”

  Gravel finally spared a glance at Xaxx, who gave him an exaggerated thumbs-up. Nastija simply arched a brow, then went back to sipping her drink.

  “I need a solid description of the man who you told me about. Y’know, the man who wore a helmet and got his necklace stolen?”

  Elsa let out a low whistle. “Oof. Yeah, see, technically, I shouldn’t be telling you this. Confidentiality and all that. Bad for business if I start spilling customer details.” She paused, then her voice dipped into something more playful. “But, uh . . . what exactly do I get out of this?”

  Xaxx practically jolted from his seat, leaning in with wide, eager eyes and a clear intention of eavesdropping.

  Gravel sighed, already regretting where this was going. He rubbed the back of his neck. “What do you want?”

  Elsa hummed, dragging out the moment. “Hmm. Lemme think . . .”

  Gravel could already hear the smirk forming.

  She continued, “You, me, a date, Friday, 8 sharp. Can I count on a punctual man?”

  A beat of silence.

  Then Xaxx slammed his hand against the table in barely contained glee.

  Gravel stopped breathing. A full second passed. Then two. Xaxx stared at him like a kid watching a slow-motion explosion.

  Gravel said, “A what?”

  “Oh, don’t play dumb,” Elsa said breezily. “You, me, dinner. Somewhere nice. And no backing out once you realize you’ve been tricked into putting in effort.”

  “. . . Not a problem. I’ll be there, early.”

  Elsa perked up. “Oh, starfire yes!”

  Gravel winced as Xaxx silently fist-pumped next to him.

  “Alright, alright, I’ll spill,” Elsa said, clearly thrilled by this development. “So, the guy? Real broad-shouldered, definitely military-trained, had that whole ‘walks like he’s about to kill someone’ thing going on—”

  Gravel barely processed the details.

  Because Xaxx, still grinning, was already pulling out his communicator.

  Recording.

  For blackmail purposes.

  ***

  Elsa’s description had been more than detailed. Apart from what Gravel had already heard, he’d noted down more distinct features.

  The helmet obscured most of his face, but what little was visible hinted at a strong, defined jawline. His skin was dark—not necessarily by birth, but possibly from years spent under an unrelenting sun. No visible scars marked his features, but his hands told another story. Thick with callouses, they weren’t just a pilot’s hands. These were the hands of a fighter, someone who had seen real combat. The kind that left its mark in ways a simulator never could.

  And that was enough for Nastija. By the time the call ended, she was already working on her step one: profiling.

  The man was trained. Military. But whose?

  She pulled up a mental list of factions that operated in and around Bor’tho. Republic Military? Possible, but unlikely. Most ex-Republic soldiers carried themselves with a more rigid, regulation-engrained presence. Besides, most of them didn’t linger here long unless they had to.

  Nastija started with the Border Legionnaires, a notorious faction made up of deserters and war criminals from various military backgrounds, sifting through known profiles and past encounters. They were a ragtag mix—deserters, war criminals, and mercenaries who had abandoned their original causes. But the moment she ran the description through her mental filter, she shook her head.

  “Border Legionnaires didn’t wear helmets like that,” she said.

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  They weren’t exactly subtle operators. Their entire aesthetic leaned towards intimidation—scarred faces, mismatched armor, loud insignias from whatever past life they’d left behind. If one of them wore a helmet, it’d be something scavenged, broken, or patched together with no regard for sleekness.

  “Which job did she actually do before joining you?” Gravel asked Xaxx, who was now playing softball against the wall.

  Xaxx caught the ball mid-bounce, spinning it lazily in his palm before answering with a grin, “She didn’t join me. I joined her.”

  Gravel arched a brow.

  Xaxx tossed the ball again, letting it bounce once before snatching it. “Back then? Info-broker. Independent operator. Didn’t like working for anyone, but people kept trying to hire her anyway.”

  Wait. She’s a data broker with extensive knowledge of Mendax-12? Priest could’ve just come to her instead of the Archive! But then again, he shouldn’t have. It’s better to get their facts from multiple sources, and how could he have asked her to dig through the data without revealing an iota about the drive?

  Nastija didn’t look up from her datapad. “Because I’m good at what I do.”

  Xaxx smirked. “Because you’re a paranoid freak.”

  Nastija narrowed it down to the three most prominent syndicates operating in Bor’tho, each with a distinct profile. Or at least, Gravel thought there were three, from the names he could read from her screen.

  She stared at her holo-screen, then looked up at Gravel. “Black Thorn or Vayvoss. I need more.”

  Gravel hesitated. He could give her more—hell, he had plenty more—but doing so meant dragging out the whole sabertooth tiger incident. And that was a can of worms he wasn’t sure he wanted to open. Because the moment he did, Nastija would start connecting the dots. And once that happened, it’d only be a matter of time before she started prying into how, exactly, a Republic mech and a McPherson warlord got tangled up in this mess.

  So instead of answering immediately, he exhaled and leaned back in his chair, watching as Xaxx tossed his ball against the wall again.

  Nastija fixed him with a stare. “Captain Gravel.”

  “Mm.”

  “The pause means you’re holding out on me.”

  Xaxx snorted. “Always does.”

  “Fine,” he muttered. “But if I’m telling you this, I want a drink first. Not Grosmunster, please not Grosmunster.”

  Nastija leaned forward. “Start talking.”

  Gravel tapped his fingers against the table. “We went down there looking for the Hashimoto Syndicate,” he said. “Thought we had a lead on their operations. Instead, we found a whole nest of mutated sabertooth tigers.”

  Silence.

  Xaxx stopped tossing his ball. He stared at Gravel. Then at Nastija. Then back at Gravel. His mask physically twitched.

  “That,” Xaxx said slowly, “is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  Gravel shrugged. “Didn’t say it was smart.”

  Xaxx threw his hands up. “Oh, for void’s sake. You expect me to believe that you, a professional, went on a mission expecting to find some shady crime bosses, and instead, you stumbled into a goddamn zoo of death? Where? In the desert? Sabertooth tigers in the desert?”

  Gravel told him the approximate location they’d encountered the tigers.

  Nastija, meanwhile, had gone unnervingly quiet. She was staring at Gravel, and her fingers drummed on the table, matching Gravel’s rhythm.

  “You’re not lying,” she said.

  “Not about this.”

  She hummed, contemplative. “That would explain the reports . . .”

  Gravel didn’t like the sound of that. “What reports?”

  “The ones about bodies turning up in the lower sectors. Shredded bodies.” She turned off the holo-screen. “We’ll need you to pay up, Gravel.”

  “Pay up?” Xaxx asked as his neck jerked back. “How much?”

  “One million ducats.”

  “What? Why? I don’t have a million ducats just lying around.” Gravel gestured toward Xaxx with his chin. “Even Xaxx here is surprised. Why charging now?”

  “Because . . .” Nastija narrowed her eyes. “If he’s involved with the tigers, and he’s not from any faction in Bor’tho . . . He’s a Republic agent, Gravel.” She paused for a second. “Or have you already known that?”

  ***

  Nastija didn’t tell Gravel how she knew about the connection between sabertooth tigers and the Republic, and Gravel, in return, told her nothing about the drive they’d retrieved on Namor. After a few rounds of haggling, they ended up with a fair number of 800,000 ducats, and Nastija got to work.

  Nastija had spent years cultivating her network of informants—dockworkers, bartenders, shuttle operators, and even low-level enforcers who had no loyalty beyond their next payday. If someone breathed in Bor’tho, she could hear about it.

  She started with the usual channels. A few coded messages, some discreet inquiries. A figure who never removed his helmet? That was uncommon enough to stand out. A smart sum of money was spent, and she gained access to the transit records of the last month. Then came information about the underground fight circuits. Men who never removed their helmets were often hiding something, be it disfigurements, affiliations, or identities too menacing to reveal. Next, the tech smugglers. That helmet of his? If it was a full-time feature, it wasn’t just standard headgear. It was part of his identity. That meant maintenance, modifications, and custom work.

  Gravel was thoroughly impressed with the efficiency of her work. It had taken Nastija less than a day to dig up more than he would manage in a week of dead ends and frustrating leads. Their team, though capable of prying through data, was consisted of people who had no concept of a healthy social life, let alone having an intraweb of connection.

  The first breakthrough came from a low-tier shuttle dispatcher. A man matching that description—silent, helmeted, heavily armed—had been seen traveling between the lower industrial sectors and the upper executive zones.

  The second lead came from a former pit fighter. “Never seen his face, but I’ve seen him in the rings,” the man admitted. “Didn’t compete, just watched. Doesn’t talk. Just watches.”

  The third, and most damning, came from a black-market cybernetics dealer. Someone had placed an order for specialized oxygen filtration mods—ones built into a helmet. That wasn’t standard gear. That was long-term survival equipment.

  All signs pointed to the Outer Ring Warehouses, a no-man’s-land of smuggler routes, abandoned storage lots, and a few high-end black market exchanges.

  “If you really want to catch him, do it alone,” Nastija warned. “You know Republic officers don’t operate by themselves, so you’d be really foolish to tail them.”

  “Great. Fantastic. Love that for me.” He shot Nastija a dry look. “You know, I came to you for intel, not a funeral invitation.”

  Xaxx clicked his tongue. “She’s got a point. If he’s Republic, he’s got backup. If he’s deep cover, he’s got even worse backup. Are you still gonna follow through?”

  “I just need a place where I can catch him alone. We just talking, that’s all.”

  Nastija studied the outline of the industrial district where the warehouses are located. Her way of interacting with her holoscreen was wildly different from how Fang would do it. ang would have everything open at once, zooming in and out like some kind of manic artist, her fingers flying across the interface with no real sense of order. She’d have applications running that Gravel had no idea how to use, overlays flashing and overlapping until it all became a chaotic web of mumbo-jumbo he couldn’t decipher. There’d be a dozen different things active at once, and no clear idea of what any of it meant. Nastija, on the other hand, opened one overlay, analyzed it for a moment, and then closed it. She’d then open another, evaluate it, and move on.

  “There might be a possibility,” after a minute, Nastija said.

  That sounded like a ‘let’s do this’ to him.