Morrigan asked to use the sims like she was requesting a weapon.
It happened in the Leopard bay while Lyra was finishing a motion-sensor junction install and Taila was helping a tech reseat armor brackets on the Griffin. The Union yard lights bled through the hangar doors in long white bars, cutting the bay into stripes.
Morrigan stood in one of those stripes—arms crossed, chin up, glare ready—like she was prepared to be refused.
"I want to try the simulator," she said.
Jinx turned slowly, grin blooming. "Awww. Goth princess wants to play mechwarrior."
Morrigan's eyes flashed. "I'm not playing."
Taila paused mid-tool handoff, surprised. Lyra looked up from her tablet without a word.
Dack didn't react immediately. He just watched Morrigan for a beat the way he watched terrain before stepping into it—measuring the slope, the risk, the payoff.
"You can," he said. "Rules."
Morrigan's jaw tightened. "Of course."
Dack's voice stayed flat. "You listen. You stop when told. You don't break our equipment."
Morrigan held his gaze, then nodded once. "Fine."
Jinx looked personally offended. "No speech? No begging? No dramatic 'I'll never join you' before secretly joining us?"
Morrigan snapped, "Shut up."
Taila, emboldened by the last few days, actually smiled. "Let her try."
Lyra's eyes flicked to Taila—approval—then back to her tablet. "I'll calibrate the harness."
That made Morrigan pause. Not because she didn't trust Lyra—because she didn't know what to do with someone helping without strings attached.
Lyra didn't comment on the pause. She just walked over, grabbed a clean neurohelmet liner, and said, "Sit."
Morrigan sat like she was surrendering to interrogation.
---
The sim pod wasn't comfortable. It wasn't meant to be. It was a stripped cockpit chair with restraints and a headset that made your teeth itch if the calibration was off.
Lyra ran the diagnostics with quiet competence, fingers moving fast.
"Start with a Griffin profile," Lyra said. "Same mass class Taila is training in. You'll have more control than a Centurion chassis if you panic."
Morrigan's eyes narrowed. "I don't panic."
Jinx leaned on the pod frame, smiling. "Everyone panics. Some people just look hotter doing it."
Morrigan's cheeks went pink with anger. "Stop talking."
Dack's voice cut in. "Focus."
Morrigan went still. She inhaled, then exhaled slowly like she was steadying herself before a fight she couldn't punch.
Lyra lowered the neurohelmet onto her head and tightened the harness straps—firm, professional. Morrigan flinched once at the contact, then forced herself not to.
"Okay," Lyra said. "Basic movement. No weapons yet. Just walk."
The sim booted.
A virtual basalt flat flickered into being around Morrigan. A Griffin's HUD overlay settled in. Gyro indicators. Heat readouts. Speed.
Morrigan's hands found the controls like she'd been looking for them her whole life.
She took one step.
Then another.
Not smooth. Not graceful. But not a wobbling disaster either.
Taila watched with wide eyes. "She's… not terrible."
Jinx's grin sharpened. "She's not terrible at all."
Dack stayed silent, watching the micro-adjustments Morrigan made—small corrections, quick learning. She drifted once, corrected without freezing. She overcompensated once, caught it before it became a stumble.
Lyra's voice stayed calm. "Good. Now turn. Keep your center. Don't fight the gyro—cooperate."
Morrigan's jaw clenched in the sim, but she listened.
The Griffin turned.
It didn't jerk. It didn't trip.
It moved like a pilot who'd been told she wasn't allowed to try and had been trying anyway in secret.
Jinx laughed softly. "Ohhhh. She's been imagining this for years."
Morrigan's voice crackled through the sim mic, furious. "I haven't."
Taila's mouth twitched. "You have."
Morrigan snapped, "Shut up."
Dack finally spoke, low and decisive. "Weapons."
Lyra blinked once, then nodded. "Okay. Single shot discipline. PPC only."
The Griffin's PPC charged in the sim.
Morrigan aimed at a target drone.
Her first shot missed—wide.
Her second shot hit, center mass, clean.
Her third shot hit again.
Heat climbed.
Lyra said, "Watch your heat."
Morrigan adjusted immediately, backing off, letting the sinks work.
Taila leaned forward, fascinated. "She's… like me."
Lyra's eyes flicked to Taila. "Same level, yes."
Jinx's eyebrows rose. "That means she's useful."
Morrigan's voice came tight through the mic. "I'm not joining your—"
Dack cut in. "You're already here."
Silence, even through the sim.
Morrigan didn't answer.
She just fired again.
---
An hour later, Morrigan climbed out of the sim pod sweating lightly, hair slightly mussed, eyes bright with something she was trying hard to bury under contempt.
She looked… younger, for a second. Less armored by lace and spite.
Then she saw Jinx watching her with a grin and the armor snapped back into place.
"Don't say it," Morrigan warned.
Jinx held up her hands. "I wasn't going to say you're cute when you're competent."
Morrigan's glare turned lethal. "You did say it."
Jinx laughed. "Oops."
Taila stepped closer, surprisingly gentle. "You did good."
Morrigan stared at her like she didn't trust kindness. "It was basic."
Taila nodded. "So was mine at first."
Morrigan's mouth tightened. She looked away.
Lyra offered her a bottle of water without comment.
Morrigan took it after a long second, like accepting it cost her pride.
Dack nodded once, small. "You can train. Same schedule as Taila."
Morrigan blinked. "Why."
Dack's answer was simple. "Because you asked."
That hit Morrigan harder than an insult would've.
She swallowed, then snapped, "Fine."
Jinx leaned in close, eyes glittering. "Welcome to the pack."
Morrigan didn't answer.
But she didn't leave either.
---
That evening, Morrigan showed up looking like she'd decided to dare them to react.
Black miniskirt. Red tight shirt that clung like it was painted on. The Moonjaw sigil patch stitched onto the shirt's left side—wolf head and crescent moon, black and red. Her hair was in twin tails, tied high, and she wore long black knee-high stockings with black combat boots that made her steps sound sharper than they needed to.
Taila froze mid-corridor like she'd been hit with a flashbang.
Lyra paused with her tablet halfway up, eyes flicking over Morrigan's outfit with the same quick assessment she gave flight lines: functional… and provocative.
Jinx's face lit with pure delight.
"Oh," Jinx breathed. "Oh, you did not."
Morrigan's cheeks warmed instantly. "It's just—colors. And a patch. That's all."
Jinx walked a slow circle around her like she was inspecting a new machine. "Twin tails?"
Morrigan snapped, "Shut up."
Taila's voice came out softer than she expected. "It looks… good."
Morrigan whipped her glare at Taila, but it didn't land. Taila wasn't teasing—just honest.
Lyra cleared her throat, regaining control of her face. "If you're wearing the patch, you follow the rules. You don't freelance."
Morrigan's jaw tightened. "Fine."
Dack looked at Morrigan once—just once—and nodded. "Okay."
No comment. No teasing. No visible approval.
Which, coming from him, was a kind of approval Morrigan didn't know how to handle.
Jinx stepped in close anyway and, in a voice that was all wicked warmth, whispered, "You're going to make men stupid in that outfit."
Morrigan's glare sharpened. "Good."
Jinx grinned. "That's the spirit."
Taila's cheeks warmed for reasons she didn't want to analyze.
Lyra turned back to her tablet like it was suddenly the most interesting thing in the system.
---
They got the courier rendezvous point from the comm tower logs the next morning: a dead transfer spot on-world before the data went off-system toward Tortuga.
Lyra projected it in the Union galley—now a real space with a real table that didn't wobble as badly, lights that didn't flicker, and the faint smell of new filters.
"Salt flats," Lyra said. "Old refinery road. Abandoned checkpoint station. The courier meets a local runner, hands off a physical package, runner takes it back to port for uplink or DropShip transfer."
Jinx leaned forward, hungry. "So we catch the runner."
Dack shook his head. "We catch both."
Taila nodded, serious. "On-world. Ground."
Morrigan hovered near the bulkhead, arms crossed—miniskirt and twin tails making the posture look almost absurd, which only made her angrier. "They'll have a distraction."
Lyra glanced at her. "How do you know."
Morrigan's mouth tightened. "Because I would."
Jinx smiled like she loved that answer. "She's learning."
Lyra tapped the map. "We set up here—broken concrete berm. Dire Wolf center. Highlander right. Griffin left. Leopard stays high for sensors and extraction."
Taila said, "And me?"
Dack looked at her. "You hold lane. Don't chase."
Taila swallowed. "Copy."
Lyra added, "Morrigan stays with me on the Leopard. If the package gets thrown or a runner breaks, she can spot it and call it."
Morrigan's eyes narrowed. "I can do more than spot."
Lyra didn't argue. She just said, "Prove it."
Morrigan's cheeks warmed. "Fine."
Jinx leaned back, smirking. "Look at her. All offended at being useful."
Morrigan glared. "Shut up."
Dack stood. "We move at dusk."
---
The salt flats looked like a dead sea.
White crust cracked under mech feet. Shallow puddles of brine reflected the sky in broken mirrors. The old refinery road cut through it like a scar, leading to an abandoned checkpoint station—two concrete guard huts, rusted barriers, and a half-collapsed comm pole.
Perfect for a dead drop.
The Leopard circled high, almost silent at that distance, Lyra's eyes on sensors, her voice in their ears.
"Convoy approaching," she said. "Multiple vehicles. One medium 'Mech escort. One light scout."
Jinx's Highlander shifted slightly, eager. "What are they bringing."
Lyra's tone sharpened. "Scout is a Locust. Escort is a Vindicator. Vehicles include at least one SRM carrier profile and two technical trucks."
Taila's breath came steady. "That's not just a courier."
Dack's reply was flat. "They expect trouble."
He didn't move. He didn't flinch. The Dire Wolf waited behind the berm, Moonjaw sigil facing the road like a warning sign.
The convoy rolled into view: trucks with tarps, a flatbed, a low armored carrier, the Locust skittering ahead like an insect, the Vindicator walking with calm confidence beside the lead truck.
They slowed near the checkpoint station.
A man got out of the lead vehicle carrying a small hardcase—black, sealed, too clean.
He wasn't nervous.
That made Dack's stomach tighten.
Lyra's voice cut in. "Runner is already here. Heat signature inside the left guard hut."
Morrigan's voice came through too, sharper than usual. "That's the handoff."
Dack waited until the courier stepped toward the hut.
Then he moved.
The Dire Wolf rose from behind the berm like a cliff deciding to walk.
Jinx's Highlander stood with him, heavy and mean.
Taila's Griffin came up on the left, careful, disciplined.
The Locust jerked like it hadn't expected the ambush to be this big.
The Vindicator turned immediately, PPC charging—too confident to retreat.
The courier froze mid-step, hardcase still in his hand.
Dack fired first: LRMs, controlled, bracketing the convoy's rear vehicles—not to annihilate, but to block the exit and force panic.
Jinx followed with a gauss shot that punched through a technical truck's engine block and turned it into dead metal.
The Locust tried to sprint wide.
Taila fired a PPC shot that sliced armor off its leg and forced it to limp, momentum broken.
The Vindicator answered with its PPC, the bolt slamming into the berm near the Dire Wolf's feet, salt crust exploding into a white spray.
Then the SRM carrier fired.
A storm of missiles ripped toward the Dire Wolf's center mass.
Dack didn't stand there and take it. He stepped—clean, practiced—letting most of the salvo impact the berm's edge instead of his torso, then answered with a gauss round that punched through the SRM carrier's front armor and turned the vehicle into a flaming crater.
Jinx laughed, delighted and cold. "That's one."
The Vindicator shifted, trying to use the checkpoint station as partial cover, PPC charging again.
Dack fired his autocannon into the concrete hut—deliberate—not collapsing the whole thing, but cracking the wall enough to deny it cover.
Taila kept the Locust honest, not chasing, just firing enough to keep it from becoming a problem.
The courier, realizing the deal had gone wrong, did exactly what they feared—
He threw the hardcase.
Not toward the runner.
Toward the salt flats.
A sprinting figure broke from behind the hut—fast, light—catching the hardcase midair and bolting down a shallow brine channel toward a waiting hovercraft.
Lyra's voice went sharp. "Runner moving! He has the package!"
Morrigan's voice cut in, suddenly electric. "I can stop him."
Lyra snapped, "Morrigan, stay—"
Morrigan didn't listen.
She was already moving inside the Leopard—yanking open a side hatch locker, grabbing a compact carbine the port guards had stashed as "standard security," and snapping a sling over her red shirt like she'd been doing it forever.
Lyra's voice went tight. "Morrigan—!"
Morrigan's reply was furious. "I said I'm useful."
The Leopard dipped lower, just enough to give her a line.
Morrigan knelt at the open side hatch with wind tearing at her twin tails, miniskirt snapping against her thighs, stockings and boots braced like she was on a firing line.
She tracked the runner through the salt glare.
Her first shot missed—wide, kicking brine.
Her second shot hit the hovercraft's rear assembly and sent it wobbling.
The runner stumbled as spray hit his face.
He didn't fall.
He kept running.
Morrigan bared her teeth and fired again—controlled this time, not angry.
The round punched into the hovercraft's steering joint.
The craft spun, skidded, and slammed into a salt ridge, flipping.
The runner went down hard, hardcase sliding from his arms.
Morrigan exhaled, shaking, then keyed comms with a voice that didn't sound like a prisoner anymore.
"Package down," she said. "Runner down."
Lyra went silent for a beat.
Then, quietly: "Good."
Dack didn't comment. He didn't have time.
The Vindicator was still fighting, stubborn and competent, PPC hammering at angles, trying to keep Moonjaw busy long enough for the courier to escape.
Jinx moved to cut the courier off, Highlander pounding through salt crust, missiles tearing up the road ahead of the man's vehicle.
Taila held left lane discipline, firing LRMs into the Locust when it tried to rejoin the fight, forcing it to limp away from the main engagement.
The courier's vehicle tried to reverse.
It hit the berm crater and stalled.
Dack's Dire Wolf stepped forward and leveled the gauss rifle at the hood like a judge aiming a sentence.
The courier raised his hands through the windshield, frantic.
The Vindicator, seeing its escape collapsing, tried one last push—charging toward the Dire Wolf's flank to force a gap.
Dack answered with LRMs followed by his autocannon, punching into the Vindicator's torso, stripping armor, forcing it to stagger.
Jinx finished it the brutal way—gauss shot into the center mass at close enough range that the Vindicator's cockpit glass spiderwebbed and the machine stopped pretending it was alive.
The Vindicator collapsed into the salt flats with a grinding crash that sent white crust spraying like snow.
Silence hit hard after the noise.
Only engines idled. Only heat vents sighed.
Lyra's voice came through, clipped. "Port patrol vectors are shifting. You have minutes."
Dack's reply was immediate. "We take the package. We leave."
Taila held her Griffin steady while Jinx stomped the courier's vehicle door open with her Highlander's foot like it was peeling a can.
The courier crawled out, coughing, hands shaking.
Jinx leaned down, voice sweet and dangerous. "You're going to tell us everything."
He tried to speak. Nothing came out.
Dack's Dire Wolf loomed over him. "Who."
The courier swallowed hard. "I—I don't know Vanta. Vanta is… a name. Orders come through Mother Lark's yard network. I just move the physical."
Dack's voice stayed flat. "Tortuga."
The courier nodded rapidly. "Tortuga route, yes—data moves there, then it disappears."
Jinx smiled like she wanted to break him just for fun.
Dack didn't let it turn into a mess. "Bind him. Move."
They didn't linger for trophies. They didn't salvage in the open. They grabbed the hardcase, the courier, and the runner—still groaning near the flipped hovercraft—and moved back toward the Leopard under Lyra's guiding calls.
Morrigan stayed at the hatch, breathing hard, carbine still in her hands like she was afraid if she let it go she'd become useless again.
Lyra's voice was calm now. "Ramp is down. Move."
They boarded.
And the Leopard lifted away just as distant lights began to crawl across the flats.
---
Back in the Union, the hardcase sat on the table like a sleeping animal.
Lyra scanned it three times for transmitters before she even touched the latch.
Jinx paced behind her like a hungry cat.
Taila sat on the table edge, hands clasped, eyes bright with adrenaline and pride she didn't want to admit.
Morrigan stood near the wall, twin tails slightly messy now, red shirt clinging, miniskirt still daring anyone to comment. She looked like she was pretending she hadn't just saved the mission.
Dack watched Lyra's hands.
"Clean," Lyra finally said, and opened the case.
Inside was a data stick sealed in foam, plus a thin paper ledger—actual paper, old-school paranoia. Handwritten codes. Transfer points. Buyer tags. A list of "units evaluated," with notes like heavy assault, disciplined formation, new paint, unknown support ship.
Moonjaw was on the list.
Not as a name.
As a product.
Jinx's smile went cold. "They're selling us."
Lyra's eyes tracked the ledger, sharp. "They're selling everyone. This is a market."
Taila's voice was quiet. "Can we burn it."
Dack's reply was simple. "Not yet."
Lyra tapped a section. "Here—Mother Lark's yard nodes. Here—Tortuga route. And here—local in-system couriers."
She looked up. "This gives us leverage. Targets. A way to cut more of it."
Jinx leaned over the ledger. "And money."
Lyra didn't argue. "And money."
Morrigan spoke from the wall, low. "You're going after Mother Lark."
Dack's eyes flicked to her. "Eventually."
Morrigan's jaw tightened. "She'll come after you now."
Jinx grinned, sharp. "Let her."
Taila surprised everyone by nodding. "Let her."
Lyra watched Taila for a second, something proud in her eyes.
Then Lyra looked at Morrigan—really looked.
"You did well," Lyra said, calm and sincere. "You didn't freeze."
Morrigan's cheeks warmed. "I didn't—" She stopped, jaw clenching. Then she forced the words out like swallowing glass. "Thanks."
Jinx's eyebrows shot up. Taila's eyes widened.
Lyra just nodded once, accepting it without making it a spectacle.
Dack stood, took the data stick, and handed it to Lyra. "Copy everything. Triple backup. Then we decide."
Lyra nodded. "Already."
As Dack turned to leave, Morrigan's voice stopped him—quiet, reluctant.
"Dack."
He looked back.
Morrigan's fingers brushed the Moonjaw patch on her red shirt like she needed to remind herself it was real. "If I'm wearing this… I want to train more. Sims. And—" She hesitated, then snapped the rest out fast. "If you ever let me in a cockpit for real, I won't waste it."
Dack held her gaze for a moment.
Then he nodded once. "We'll see."
It wasn't a promise.
But it wasn't dismissal either.
Morrigan's throat bobbed. She looked away first, but her mouth wasn't twisted in anger anymore.
Taila watched her go, then whispered to Jinx, "She's… trying."
Jinx whispered back, delighted, "She's adorable."
Taila elbowed her lightly. "Don't say it where she can hear."
Jinx grinned. "I'm going to say it louder."
Taila groaned.
Lyra, still reading the ledger, didn't look up—her cheeks faintly pink anyway, like she was listening to everything while pretending she wasn't.
---
Later, when the Union quieted, Dack climbed into the Dire Wolf cockpit to run a final check.
The machine hummed around him, familiar and heavy, like an old promise.
His thumb found the marks beneath the HUD.
He scratched one more line—clean, deliberate—then sat still for a moment, listening to heat sinks tick down and the ship's new sensors whisper faintly through the net.
Outside, Moonjaw's crew moved through their new home with soft footsteps and occasional laughter. Jinx's, louder than the rest. Taila's, quieter but real. Lyra's, rare but warming. Morrigan's… not laughter yet, but the slam of a door that didn't sound like rejection so much as someone learning how to stay.
The ledger was on the table.
The courier chain was cut.
And the next target had a name that sounded like a lullaby and a threat.
Mother Lark.