He looked at her. “Quiet falls apart the second something goes wrong.”
“Fast falls apart the second someone sees us.” She stood, facing him. “This isn’t a warball match. We can’t just charge through the defense and hope we’re faster than they are.”
“And we can’t tiptoe around hoping no one notices us either.” He was on his feet now, too, the space between them shrinking. “The moment one thing goes sideways… one guard out of position, one door that doesn’t open… your quiet approach turns into a draanthing disaster.”
“At least my approach gives us a chance to abort,” she threw back, chin lifted in challenge and fire in her eyes. “Yours commits us the second we breach the door.”
“Commitment is the point.” He stepped closer, close enough to see the flush rising in her cheeks. “Hesitation gets you killed. You go in decisive, or you don’t go in at all.”
“Decisive isn’t the same as reckless?—”
“If the two of you are finished posturing,” Fred interrupted, “I would like to point out that neither plan survives if you are still arguing about it when we reach the station. Pick one, and we run with it.”
They both stopped, and the words hung in the air between them. Her breath came faster than normal, her eyes bright with frustration, and?—
She keeps looking at your mouth. Draanth, she’s pretty when she’s furious.
He stepped back first. He didn’t want to. Instead, every instinct was screaming at him to close the distance and finish what they’d started in that corridor. But Fred was right. They didn’t have time for this.
“Compromise,” he said, his voice rougher than he’d intended. “Your route. My timing.”
She blinked, the anger fading into something more calculating. “Meaning?”
“We’ll use your plan for getting in. The quiet approach, the shift-change window, and the ventilation shaft entry. But my plan for getting out if it goes sideways. Fast exfil, no hesitation, we move the second something feels wrong.”
She considered it, arms folded over her chest. The flush was still there, pink across her cheekbones.
“Fine,” she said finally. “But I call the abort. If I say we’re done, then we’re done. No heroics.”
“Deal.”
She turned back to the console, pulling up the floor plans again. Her movements were slightly jerky, less fluid than before.
Good. You’re not the only one affected.
He watched her work for a long minute.
“If this works and your name is cleared,” she said, not looking up, “what happens then?”
He leaned his forearms on the top of the co-pilot’s chair, considering the question.
“My contracts weren’t terminated,” he said. “They were suspended. League rules… they can’t void a player’s contract based on a diagnosis that’s under appeal. And mine was under appeal the moment I filed the paperwork.”
She turned to look at him. “So if the diagnosis is overturned…”
“Automatic reinstatement. The contracts come back online the day the medical flag gets cleared. Then, back pay for every game I was forced to miss. Compensation for…” He paused, searching for the right words. “Emotional damage. Damage to reputation. The League takes that seriously. They have to… players are their product. And that’s before sponsorships.”
“How much?”
He told her.
She went very still, her hand paused over the console. She didn’t look at him, but she wasn’t looking at the screen either. She was looking at the middle distance, doing the maths.
“Say that number again.”
He said it again.
“That’s…” She swallowed. “And that’s the number before sponsorships?”
