"Especiallywhen I break furniture."
"Fine. Especially." A pause. "But we're paying for the bench."
"Agreed."
Sleep comes easier than yesterday. The anxiety is still there, banked, waiting for the next overwhelming choice or crowded room. The conditioning doesn't vanish.
But tonight it's quieter. Held at distance by the weight of her against me, the knowledge that tomorrow starts something I chose. Not a fight scheduled by handlers. Not a containmentprotocol. A job. A route. A delivery that matters because someone at the other end needs what I'm carrying.
Freedom isn't the absence of fear. It's the presence of something worth being afraid for.
She's sleeping against my chest, dreaming in frequencies the bond lets me almost-feel, and I am learning what freedom feels like.
One broken bench at a time.
17
The Last Collar
Horgox
ThereisanOOPSjumpsuit on the bed.
Orange and white. Official courier colours. Station supply adjusted it for my frame, which means it will fit across the shoulders and chest without splitting seams, though the leg length is an approximation at best. The fabric is durable, practical, designed for work rather than presentation.
But that's not what stops me in the doorway.
On the shoulder: a name patch. White embroidered letters against the orange fabric.
HORGOX KA'REEN
Not HX-347. Not a product designation, not a subject number, not a facility code. My name, stitched into clothing that someone prepared for me because I have a job and a partner and a place in a system that wants me here.
Krilly feels the moment land. She's in the kitchenette, making something that involves the beverage dispenser and a level of concentration usually reserved for bomb defusal, but her hands still and her attention sharpens. She doesn't come over. Doesn't crowd the moment. Just lets her warmth reach me while I stand in the doorway looking at my name on a uniform.
"Put it on," she says from across the room. "I want to see."
The fabric settles over my skin differently from anything I've worn before. Not the rough utility of arena combat gear. Not the clinical functionality of facility jumpsuits. Not the borrowed station clothes that never quite fit. This was made for me, adjusted for my body, and the OOPS insignia sits over my chest like something I've earned rather than something I've been assigned.
I catch my reflection in the viewport glass. Emerald skin, obsidian horns, circuit traceries visible at the collar. The claiming color threading through my markings in opalescent pulses. And the orange jumpsuit with my name on it, fitting like it belongs.
"You look official," Krilly says softly from behind me.
"I look like I belong."
She crosses to me. Reaches up to straighten the collar, which doesn't need straightening, but the gesture isn't about fabric. Her fingers brush the circuit traceries at my throat, and the touch resonates through the bond.
"You do belong." Her voice is steady. Certain. The voice she uses for things she's measured and verified. "With me. With OOPS. Here."
My hands settle on her waist. "The orange is for rookies."
"The orange is for beginners. Which you are." Her grin. "We'll earn darker colours together. That's the point."
Together. Beginning at the bottom. Earning what comes next through competence rather than violence. The concept settles into me with a weight that's warm rather than heavy.
"Bebo," I say. "How do I look?"
"You look like a courier who could bench-press the cargo he's delivering," Bebo responds from the core unit. "I have updated my visual recognition database. You are now flagged as 'Horgox Ka'reen, OOPS Security and Logistics Specialist' rather than 'unidentified Varkaani threat.'"
