“That’d be Snarl. Sort of.” Bokis leans in. “You’ll love her.”
We reach the cockpit—a claustrophobic space crammed with panels, wires, a cracked viewscreen, and a bucket seat that looks like it was stolen from a junkyard rollercoaster. Sitting in it is a woman. Tall. Angular. Silent.
Her hair is shaved down the middle, leaving two white-blonde streaks on either side of a dark fauxhawk. She’s wearing spiked armor that clinks when she turns. But it’s the wings that draw my eye—leathery and thin, curled close to her back like dormant nightmares.
Snarl doesn’t acknowledge me. Just keeps her hand on the throttle, eyes locked on the void.
“She doesn’t talk much,” Bokis offers. “Or... ever.”
“No kidding.”
“She’s half Reaper. Like, genetically. Don’t ask how. Or why. Or who survived. Anyway, she flies better than she flirts. Which is sayin’ something.”
“I wasn’t planning to flirt with her.”
Bokis grins. “Then you’re ahead of the curve.”
I move on before I say something I’ll regret. The ship’s not big, but it feels like a maze—dark corners, locked doors, the occasional exposed circuit that pops and hisses as I pass. We come to a heavy door that’s clearly been reinforced with whatever scrap was handy.
Inside is a nightmare.
The walls are lined with weapons. Not neat, standard-issue lockers, either—this is a hoarder’s paradise. Blasters. Vibro-knives. Throwing disks. One thing that looks suspiciously like a bone saw.
And standing in the center of it all is him.
One Horn.
I know it’s him because he has literally one horn. The other side of his head is jagged where something snapped it off. He’s tall, half-Kilgari probably, with skin like sunburned leather and a smile that feels like a dare. He’s sharpening a blade against a whetstone the size of my face.
“Ahh,” he says without turning. “Our precious cargo.”
Bokis nudges me. “I’ll leave you two to bond.”
Then hebolts.
Coward.
I swallow hard. Reflector buzzes close, scanning rapidly. “Warning. Subject exhibits highly aggressive biometric markers. Recommend repositioning behind armored object.”
One Horn finally turns. His gaze slides over me like I’m a particularly interesting cut of meat. “Didn’t think you’d be so... squishy.”
“Didn’t think you’d be so cliché,” I snap.
He laughs. Loud and low and grating. “Oh, I like her. Got bite.”
He steps closer. I don’t move. Not because I’m brave—because my knees have locked. His breath smells like fermented synthmeat and engine grease.
“Look,” I say, voice brittle. “I don’t care what sort of pirate cosplay this is. I’m not part of it. I’m a client. I’m under contract.”
“Sure,” he says. “But contracts break. Real easy. Especially when the Hulk’s involved.”
He leans in.
“Especially when you’re alone. Withme.”
Reflector lets out a shrill, panicked beep and zaps him with a low-voltage warning shock. One Horn snarls and swats the droid aside. I grab Reflector before he can tumble to the deck, heart hammering in my throat.
“That’s enough,” a new voice says behind us.
