The thought of being separated—even with the bond stable—makes my stomach clench with immediate rejection. Not because we physically can’t handle it, but because we don’t want to. We just fought through hell to stay together. I’m not letting bureaucracy tear apart what we’ve built.
“We’ll file the paperwork,” I say firmly. “All seventeen forms. Today.”
“Excellent.” Dr. Yennix stands, apparently satisfied that we’re not going to die of bond-related complications in the next hour. “Director Morrison wants to see you both in Communications Bay Seven in two hours. Something about ‘addressing the situation before it becomes an interstellar incident.’”
Oh good. More bureaucratic doom.
Mother does not look happy.
On the comm screen, OOPS’s formidable director regards us with the expression of someone who has personally dealt with too many catastrophes today and we’re catastrophe number forty-seven.
“Well,” she says, her voice carrying that particular tone that makes even Crash straighten his spine. “I see you’ve survived your little adventure.”
“Mother—” I begin, but she cuts me off with a raised hand.
“Safety Inspector Cross. When I assigned you to perform a routine safety inspection of a courier vessel and courier safety compliance, I did not anticipate that you would: one, engage in unauthorized combat operations; two, create an interstellar incident involving a wanted gladiator; three, trigger a militaryblockade of Kallos Station; or four, permanently bond yourself to your inspection subject.”
She pauses, letting that sink in with the weight of professional disappointment.
“However,” she continues, and something in her tone shifts slightly, “you also successfully de-escalated a blood feud, prevented significant civilian casualties, brought back my ship in perfect condition, and—according to Kallos Station Security—provided the most entertaining combat display they’ve witnessed in fifteen years.”
Crash and I exchange glances. Is that... approval?
“Which brings me to your new classification,” Mother says, pulling up something on her screen. “Cross-Maxone Solutions, registered courier partnership. I’ve reviewed your preliminary formation paperwork. Approved. You’ll operate as a two-person team taking specialized high-risk deliveries that standard couriers can’t handle.”
“High-risk deliveries?” I repeat carefully.
“The kind that involve complex navigation, potential combat situations, or volatile cargo that requires both tactical thinking and creative problem-solving.” Her expression might be softening slightly. Might be. It’s hard to tell with Mother Morrison. “The kind of work that bonded partners with complementary skillsets excel at. You’ll receive hazard pay, priority docking, and immediate medical support when needed.”
She leans forward slightly, her dark eyes sharp. “You’ll also file reports on time, maintain proper documentation, and absolutely will not create any more interstellar incidents without giving me advance notice. Understood?”
“Yes, Director,” we say in unison.
“Good. Your first official contract briefs in one week. I suggest you spend that time completing your partnership paperwork, getting medical clearance, and—” her lips twitch in what mightbe the ghost of a smile, “—figuring out how to operate as a bonded pair without violating safety protocols in quite so many creative ways.”
The screen goes dark, leaving us staring at each other in the suddenly quiet communications bay.
“Did we just get promoted?” Crash asks.
“I think we got promoted, scolded, and given a week off simultaneously,” I reply. “I’m not entirely sure how Mother does that.”
“It is a terrifying talent,” he agrees.
We stand there for a moment, processing the fact that we have jobs. Partnership. A week to figure out how to actually be Cross-Maxone Solutions instead of two people who accidentally bonded during a firefight.
“So,” I say eventually. “Paperwork with a deadline, a week until our first official contract, and absolutely no idea what we're doing.”
“Sounds accurate,” Crash says, then adds with careful formality, “Partner.”
The word makes something warm unfurl in my chest. Not just mate. Not just bonded pair. Partners. Equals choosing to build something together.
“Partner,” I echo, testing the word and finding it fits perfectly.
The partnership formation paperwork turns out to be exactly as bureaucratically nightmarish as Dr. Yennix promised.
Crash and I have been hunched over datapads at the small galley table for hours, working through forms that require everything from emergency contact information (we list each other, which creates a circular reference the system flags as an error) to detailed equipment inventories (turns out Crash has been flying with an expired medical kit for three months) to liability waivers that make my engineering brain hurt.
The regenerative bandaging is doing its job, but healing takes time, and bureaucracy waits for no one's healing process.
