Valiant

[Valiant #6: Fashionista]

Log Date: 9/9/12763

Data Sources: Feroce Acceso, Lucanthiline

Event Log: Feroce Acceso

M.V. Accatria: Forward Lounge

9:48am SGT

“Wow, it’s huge!”

From the moment the words leave Ridge’s mouth, I knew Sierra was going to have a problem controlling her knee-jerk response. The first thing I do is give her a sidelong look to find her biting her lip, her visible eye practically twitching as she struggles to not sling out the comeback.

I give her a single-word warning. “Don’t.”

“It’s too easy!” Her voice is up a couple octaves as a snort and a high-pitched giggle slips between her lips, before she snaps her mouth shut again, trying to hold it in.

“We have had this recruit for less than two weeks.” I hiss at her in a whisper. “You are not going to corrupt him with innuendo and off-the-cuff remarks!”

“He’s sixteen, he’s probably heard that joke before!” Sierra protests.

“I can hear both of you, you know.” Ridge says flatly, without looking around. “You’re a pervert, Nympho.”

Sierra lets a sharp, bright laugh, tossing her head back and letting it roll on her shoulders as if she’d been freed by the accusation. “Yes.” she purrs, leaning down to murmur in Ridge’s ear. “I am.”

Ridge leans away from her a little, turning his head to give her a concerned look.

“Alright, that’s enough.” I say, reaching out to plant a hand on the side of Sierra’s face and push her away from Ridge, and planting my other hand on top of Ridge’s head so I can tilt it back towards the lounge window. “Ridge, I’m guessing you’ve never seen a mobile fortress before?”

Through the window in front of us is a massive structure that the Accatria is approaching for docking. Shaped like a colossal, maroon, oblate disk, it’s surrounded on all sides by a continuous wall that tilts inward around the rim of the disk. Those walls provide a measure of protection from assault across a certain axis, while turrets line both the top and bottom of the walls, currently unpowered and sitting at rest. Ahead of us, segments of the wall on the top of the disk are splitting apart and recessing to either side as the Accatria slowly moves into its docking lane.

“I’ve never been off Valcorria before.” he says, his face pressed up against the glass of the lounge window. “This thing’s bigger than the capitol on Valcorria!”

“It’s actually a lot smaller than that, but more generally speaking, it is approximately the size of a small town, yes, and with roughly the same population.” I explain as the shadow of the fortress’s walls silently glides over us. “Mobile fortresses are a perennial favorite of mercforces over a certain size. They function as a mobile base of operations, and provide command, support, and repair functions to their assigned fleet. Fleet vessels that sustain damage can instead be repaired at the mobile fortress, instead of having to divert to the nearest orbital shipyard in a friendly system.”

“Dude, there’s so many guns!” he says as we slowly glide past the Bulwark’s outer walls.

“What did you expect? It’s an interstellar fortress for soldiers-for-hire.” Sierra says, lifting an arm and checking the sleeve of her jacket. Messages scroll over the fabric of the cuff, and she flicks them away one by one. “If the Bulwark deploys near a conflict zone, it needs to be able to protect itself and provide a repair haven for the fleet it’s supporting.”

“Is this where we’re going to live now?” Ridge asks.

“No, we’re just here for a pit stop.” Sierra says, turning around. “The Accatria’s going to restock on munitions, fuel, and supplies, and while it’s doing that, we’re going to touch base with the intelligence department, and get Songbird outfitted for his mission on Sybione.”

“Outfitted?” I say, glancing around at her. “Are you giving me new equipment?”

Sierra smirks over her shoulder. “No. Outfitted. You’re going to be going undercover for this next mission, and we need you to look the part.”

“I don’t like the sound of that.” I mutter to Ridge as Sierra strides out of the lounge. When he doesn’t respond, I look around to see he’s still staring out the window at the curved surface of the Bulwark’s main disk, blinking with hundreds of pilot lights and windows. Considering he’s never been offworld before, I imagine he’s going to be glued to that window for a while.

Since he’s distracted, I take a moment to pull the sleeve of my coat down until one of the tips of the runemarks around my wrist comes into view. It’s still as dark as night, seared into my skin; it hasn’t faded or gone away since that day in the museum. Though nothing’s come of it, and it’s been inert ever since then, I haven’t told anyone else about it. Whatever it was that Kiwi did to me, it wasn’t temporary.

Tangle with me.

A shiver runs down my back as I remember the words, the way she spoke them, and the way she offered that bloodstreaked hand out to me. The way she’d smiled when I’d reached up to take that offered hand, and how it’d felt, her fingers warm, soft, slick with blood.

“Hey Songbird, is that the control tower?”

I draw a sharp breath, yanking my sleeve back up. Turning around, I walk back to the window, standing beside Ridge and watching as the Bulwark’s central spire in the center of the disc comes into view.

This next mission might’ve been intended to retrieve the backup archive, but I had my own reasons for embarking on it.

The News

“…now, as we come to the end of our news hour, our last major item on the docket is a new ad campaign from the Maskling government. The series of short ads, being called the ‘I’m A Maskling’ series, has been airing on several channels and service providers across most systems with a free media. For more on the series, and its impact and purpose, we turn now to Dan Splainsworthy, our resident expert on government-backed ad campaigns. Dan?”

“Thank you, Clarence. Yes, this is an interesting new ad series from the Maskling government, but it’s not entirely without precedent. This media tactic is a classic pulled from the playbook of the Collective, back when the Collective was still making pushes for normalization in the galaxy.”

“So this is a propaganda tactic that’s also been used by other parasitic or aggressive host-symbiote races?”

“Well, I wouldn’t necessarily call it propaganda, though it is definitely state-sponsored. And the only reason I say that is because the primary aim of the series is not to advance any particular item on the Maskling government’s agenda, but to attempt to soften perceptions to make coexistence possible in places where Maskling communities face opposition and discrimination.”

“How does that differ from the Collective’s use of this tactic, however?”

“Well, Clarence, though many people tend the lump the Collective and Masklings together in the same category due to their ability to absorb members of other species, they really are quite distinct. It is possible for Masks to find willing hosts, and to exist in an ecosystem without displacing a native population. Not so for the Collective — the infectious nature of their existence makes it almost impossible for them to settle on a world without displacing the native population, or assimilating them altogether. I know that’s a bit of a tangent, but it provides necessary context for how we frame this discussion.

“Now, let’s turn back to the media tactic with this context in our back pocket. The entire purpose of the ad series is to normalize the subjects. In each of these ad segments, you have what appears to be a normal person — a cashier, a teacher, a mother, a soldier, a teenager, a corporate executive — all telling you what they do in their day to day lives and what’s most important to them. You get a brief glimpse into these people, but there’s no common thread until you reach the end of the ad.”

“I think I remember seeing a few of these, Dan - are these the ads where each one gives the ‘and I’m a Maskling’ line at the end?”

“That one exactly, Clarence. That’s the common thread, and the driving purpose of the ad series — to change people’s perceptions of who Masklings are. Instead of this nebulous, malevolent body-stealing population, they’re portrayed as members and pillars of the community, your next-door neighbors, your coworkers. It’s an effort to change the narrative pushed by groups such as SCORN: that Masklings are parasites that only steal from the communities that they settle in.”

“But again, Dan, what separates the Collective’s use of this tactic from the Maskling government’s use of this tactic?”

“Because in both cases, the end goal is to promote harmonious interspecies coexistence within the same community, Clarence. Which is — depending on who you ask — entirely possible with Mask populations. But it is objectively and scientifically speaking not possible with a Collective population. When the Collective used this media tactic, it was intended, without question, to lull the target audience into a false sense of security about sharing community space with members of the Collective. And for certain gullible and ill-informed segments of the galactic population — segments which have now been assimilated — it worked.”

“But that’s not the case for the Masklings?”

“I’m not saying it’s not the case for the Masklings, but I’m not saying it is, either. Mask communities can coexist with native populations without displacing them altogether, Clarence. That is not to say that they want to, or that they do — but in theory, they are capable of it.”

Event Log: Lucanthiline

The Bulwark: Lab 9

1:27pm SGT

“Have you told him?” I ask.

Sierra’s only answer is to grin, her single crimson eye gleaming as she leans back against the corridor’s wall while we wait for Songbird to get here.

I sigh, shaking my head. “You’re gonna traumatize him like this.”

“Yes.” Sierra agrees. “That’s the point.”

I roll my eyes. Me and the Boss are standing outside the repurposed lab that the fashionista claimed as his workspace a while back; through the windows, I can see that only select lights are on, leaving some parts of the lab in shadow. I can’t tell if he’s in there, lurking and waiting for his next victim, or if he’ll arrive after we’ve shoved Songbird in there.

“Is there a reason that Valkyrie has it out for Songbird?” I ask, looking to fill the silence while we wait. “I noticed she was giving him a Look when he first arrived on the Accatria.”

Sierra rolls her eye. “I’unno. She got a stick up her ass or something, and nobody’s told Jackrabbit to go pull it out. It’s probably something stupid anyway.”

“I mean, Songbird seemed to think it was because of the Songbird Incident.” I say, looking around the corner of the hallway to make sure Valkyrie’s not gonna pop up out of nowhere and overhear me. “Are other Challengers still salty about that? You and Jackrabbit don’t seem too bothered.”

“Jackrabbit likes to see the best in everyone, and I’m not the type to hold grudges.” Sierra says, reaching up and adjusting her eyepatch. “But that’s just us. Other Challengers feel differently about the program getting shuttered. And speaking of other Challengers, aren’t you supposed to be tracking down the known ones?”

“I was gonna do that. Just wanna see this go down first.” I say defensively, the sound of voices down the hall drawing my attention. Looking around the corner, I can see the signature splash of tropical blue hair that denotes Songbird, and Ridge keeping pace beside him as they make their way towards the lab. “Here they come.”

“No spoiling the surprise now.” Sierra warns, touching a finger to the corner of my lips and drawing it across like she was zipping them shut. “Don’t tell him what’s waiting for him. I wanna see the look on his face when he realizes what he’s gotten himself into.”

“You’re a special sort of evil.” I mutter. Her only response is a smirk, and both of us fall silent as we listen to Songbird and Ridge’s voices echo down the hall before they arrive.

“I thought you were going to train me!”

“I am training you.”

“All you did was send me a bunch of biology textbooks on like, six bajillion different species!”

“It was not six bajillion, they were not textbooks, and did you notice a pattern in the text files I sent you?”

“How was I supposed to, it was like six hundred pages! You think I had time to read all of those last night?”

“Did it occur to you to skim the titles of the text files I sent you?”

“No.”

“Alright then, there’s your first lesson. When presented with more information than you can absorb on short notice, skim it instead and try to gather the key points.” Songbird says, nodding to us as he reaches the intersection where the hall splits around the lab. “Lieutenant, Luci. I’m in the right place, right?”

“Yeah.” Sierra says, pushing off the wall and looking at Ridge. “How’s training going, recruit?”

“Great.” Ridge says sarcastically. “So far he’s trying to bore me to death with reading assignments, and it’s working.”

“Had you taken the time to skim the headers of the files I sent you, you would’ve noticed that each one was a species profile for the major sentient races in the galaxy.” Songbird says, taking his hands out of his coat pockets. “Being a Challenger didn’t just mean punching faces and taking names. You needed to know as much as you could about other races, so you knew what you were up against when you came across a criminal example of said race. If you don’t know, for example, that Shanarae can tear the life out of you with just the barest skin-to-skin contact, then your career as an elite operative will conclude very quickly if you ever encounter a criminal Shanarae and either don’t recognize them for what they are, or don’t know what they’re capable of.”

“I hate to admit it, but he’s got a point.” adds a familiar voice, and we look to see Jackrabbit coming down the hall to join our group. Reaching out, she ruffles Ridge’s hair. “I know it’s boring, kiddo, but this kind of stuff can save your life out there. If Songbird gives you something to read, it’s because it’s knowledge you need to survive. Trust me on that.”

Ridge sighs, deflating a little. “Fine. I guess I’ll read it, then. But it’s a lot. Like seriously, you should’ve seen all the files he sent me.”

“Well maybe you can handle it one file at a time. Nobody’s expecting you to memorize all the races of the galaxy overnight.” Jackrabbit says, taking another bite out of her granola bar as she looks around at all of us. “There somethin’ happenin’? I didn’t expect to see all of you gathered here in one place.”

“Feroce is getting outfitted for his mission on Sybione.” Sierra says quickly, moving over to Songbird to put a hand on his back and prod him towards the lab’s main door. “We just wanted to make sure he got to the right place and didn’t get lost.”

“Oh, are we watching him get tailored?” Jackrabbit says, a slow grin spreading across her face. “Y’know, I think I’ll stay and watch this.”

“What do you mean, get lost?” Songbird says as he’s pushed to the door. “I’m not blind, I would’ve found my way here eventually.” Then he notices Jackrabbit’s grin. “What’s that look for?”

“Oh, you don’t know?” she asks.

“Jack, shut your gabber and let him find out the fun way!” Sierra hisses as the door slides back, and she shoves him in.

“Wait, find out what?” Songbird demands, just before the door of the lab slides shut again, cutting him off from us. I start moving to where I can stand in front of one of the lab’s windows, hoping for a good view.

“He doesn’t know, does he.” Jackrabbit says, drifting in the same direction I am.

“Nope.” Sierra says, following after her. “The look on his face is gonna be priceless.”

“What doesn’t he know? What’s going on?” Ridge asks as we all settle in front of one of the lab’s long windows, watching while Songbird wanders through the half-darkened lab, looking around as he goes.

“Just watch, kiddo. You’re about to get a show.” Jackrabbit grins, folding her arms.

Songbird stops his wandering as he reaches the middle of the room, and looks to the windows, holding up his hands as if asking Sierra what she stuffed him in there for. At that moment one of the shuttered lights snaps on, flooding one spot in the lab with a bright column of light. Standing in the center, contoured harshly by the glare, is a single posing figure in green-blue polkadot galoshes, a pinstriped, tailed waistcoat, and an egg yellow-scarf.

Songbird twists around, taking a step back from the figure, and we can hear his voice, albeit muffled, through the walls of the lab. “Good lord, you almost gave me a heart attack. I didn’t know someone else was…” You can hear his words start to slow down as he realizes what the man is wearing. “…in… here…”

“Oh? You stumbled into my lair on accident?” the man says, reaching up and whipping off a pair of brand-name shades to reveal another set of reading glasses behind them, his piercing blue eyes locking onto Songbird. “There are no accidents here, my friend. Only epiphanies and revelations. You must be… the one, the only, the Songbird.”

“Uh yes. That’s me.” Songbird says, taking another uneasy step backwards. “And you are?”

The man strikes another pose. “Taylor McTailor, Fashionista Extraordinaire.” He whips his head back towards Songbird without moving the rest of his body, puffing a single lock of ebony hair out of his eyes. “And you are my next project.”

Songbird just stares. Then he looks over his shoulder at the rest of us, eyes wide in an expression that perfectly captures the alarm and concern that most people have the first time they meet the Fashionista.

Sierra’s only response is to grin back at Songbird.

Songbird twists and bolts for the door the moment he sees her grin, but a hulking Cyber steps out of one of the shadowed portions of the lab, catching Songbird around the waist and lifting him up. Songbird kicks and thrashes, but the Cyber just tosses him over her shoulder and walks him back to the center of the room, where Taylor is waiting.

“I don’t get it.” Ridge says, sounding confused. “Who’s the dude in the rain boots? What are they doing to Songbird?”

“That’s our resident tailor.” Sierra says, examining her nails. “He’s the one that outfits all of our special operatives for missions that require a civilian approach or a dash of elegance. He can’t dress himself to save his life, but he can work miracles on other people.”

“Okay, uh, but…” Ridge say, scratching the back of his head as the Cyber drops Songbird on a dais in the middle of the lab, keeping a hand on the back of his neck to keep him from running off. “Why’s the Taylor dude standing all weird like that?”

“He’s a performer.” I explain as Taylor starts circling around the dias. “Designing clothes and dressing people up isn’t just a job for him; it’s his passion.”

“So. At long last we meet, Songbird.” Taylor says as he walks around Songbird, while the Cyber crouches down to strap Songbird’s feet to the dais. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

Songbird rolls his eyes, shoulders slumping as he sighs. “Oh boy, here we go. Yes, I’m the guy that killed everyone’s favorite Challenger and ruined the program fifteen years ago. Happy now? Are we done here?”

“What? No.” Taylor scoffs, waving off Songbird’s exasperation. “I don’t trouble myself with such political trifles. No, I’ve heard other things about you, Songbird. I heard that back in the day, you wore turtlenecks on the regular. That you know how to tie a double Windsor. That until recently, you wore a birthday-pink hoodie with that atrociously blue hair of yours.”

“I may or may not be guilty of all of those things.” Songbird admits, studying where his feet have been strapped to the floor. “I won’t apologize for the hoodie, though. The only reason I’m not wearing it right now is because I got stabbed through the chest while I was wearing it, so that ruined it. I ordered a replacement, though. Two, actually.”

Taylor stares at Songbird like he just kicked a puppy. “I haven’t been this disgusted since I found mushrooms growing on the underside of the toilet in the men’s bathroom. Helga, how long ago was that?”

The Cyber, standing to the side with her arms folded behind her back, answers as numbers flash over the visor where eyes would normally be on a humanoid. “Four hours and thirteen minutes ago, sir.”

“Thank you.” Taylor says, turning back to Songbird. “I haven’t been this disgusted since this morning. A pink hoodie? With hair like that? You’re a sick bastard, Songbird. A diabolical fiend. Only a true anarchist, who wants to see the galaxy burn, would commit such a crime of fashion.”

Songbird raises an eyebrow. “Have you looked in a mirror recently?”

Taylor tosses his head, holding a hand up. “My dear, I never look in a mirror. It’s bad luck. Narcissus did it once and it killed him. Besides, we are not here to discuss me. We are here to discuss you.” Looking over his shoulder, he speaks towards the window and the rest of us. “Lieutenant, I’m going to need to pull out the stops on this one. I’m not even sure he can be saved, but I promise you, I will try. But I’m afraid what we’ve got here is…” He takes a dramatic pause to cast his head down to the side in an affectation of sorrow. “…a stage four makeover. His dignity and sense of identity may not survive the procedure, but it’s our only hope at this point. Permission to proceed?”

Sierra rolls her eyes. “I signed off on this two days ago, Taylor.”

“Thank you. I know it wasn’t an easy decision to make.” Taylor says, taking a deep breath and pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “Helga, get out the plasma cutter.”

“Whoa! Hey! Hold up!” Songbird shouts as Helga holds up a plasma cutter, the ionized tip sparking bright and green. “I thought this was a makeover, not a surgery!”

“It gives me no pleasure to do this.” Taylor says, shaking his head as he pulls on a set of gloves. “But we need to get those hobo rags off you somehow. If you hold still, it’ll be over quickly — Helga’s got a steady hand.”

“Wh— hobo rags?! Excuse you!” Songbird says indignantly, yanking at where his feet are strapped to the dais. “Get over here you pompous little twig, I’ll show you what hobo rags look like!”

“Lieutenant!” The barked command draws everyone’s attention down the hall, where Commander Dussel is striding towards us, vape pen hanging out of the corner of his mouth. “There a reason for this little pow-wow here? You and I have a comms call coming up with the Guild in five minutes. Jackrabbit, I thought you were supposed to be putting together a list of potential CURSE sites to hit for your deployment with the Voliburn.”

“Yeah yeah, I’ll be there once I’m done with this.” Sierra says, waving him off as she looks back to the lab.

“Mhmm, me too.” Jackrabbit says, her nose pressed to the glass.

“What are you all lollygagging at?” he demands, his heavy footfalls slowing as he reaches our group. A single glance through the window is all it takes for his disgruntled expression to morph into bewilderment as he slowly reaches up to take his vape pen out of his mouth. “What in tarnation…”

Inside the lab, Helga’s gotten halfway through cutting Songbird’s jeans off with the plasma cutter. They hang off him as he crawls across the floor, his feet still strapped to the dais, which has been ripped off the floor by the force of Songbird’s struggling. Taylor has one foot on Songbird’s lower back, with a fistful of fabric in both hands as he tries to yank Songbird’s hooded longcoat off, and Helga is clinging to Songbird’s legs, still trying to cut off his jeans with the plasma cutter, as he crawls across the floor. Very little is audible beyond the tumult of indignant screeching and shouting coming from both Songbird and Taylor, while Helga tries to carry out her orders in stoic silence.

“Is this how it usually goes?” Ridge asks, none of us able to tear our eyes away from the scene.

“It’s usually not this violent.” I say, scratching at my jaw. “But then again, nobody’s resisted Taylor’s makeovers this vehemently.”

All of us lean back from the window a little as Songbird slams up against it, livid and half-undressed. “You’re dead when I get out of this room, you hear me, Sierra? You’re dea—” At which point he’s cut off by Taylor yanking on his hooded longcoat, pulling him backwards again.

“Y’know, on second thought, we don’t want to be late for that meeting with the Guild.” Sierra says, tapping her chin. “I’ll let you supervise this, Jackrabbit. C’mon, Commander, let’s go play dumb for the Guild.”

Jackrabbit grins as Sierra turns to leave. “What, you dun wanna be here when he gets out of Taylor’s lab?”

“I think he’d prefer your smiling face.” Sierra says, snagging the Commander’s sleeve and tugging him down the hall even as he keeps staring slackjawed at the undignified dressing-down taking place in the lab. “Let’s go, bigwig. You can stare at Songbird’s fox-print briefs later. Luci, make sure to take pictures!”

“On it, Boss.” I say, pulling out my phone and switching over to the camera. “What do you think, Jackrabbit? Should I take pictures or a video?”

Jackrabbit’s about to answer when Taylor gets Songbird in a leglock around his neck, pinning down the shirtless Challenger as he shouts to Helga. “The briefs, Helga! They’ve got to come off as well! We’re going for a complete makeover here! Nothing left of the old Songbird; nothing but the glorious future of fashion!”

Songbird’s wordless, indignant screeching peaks as Helga gets a handful of Songbird’s underwear. Jackrabbit’s eyes go wide, reaching a hand up to cover Ridge’s eyes as Helga gives a hearty yank. After a moment, I raise a hand to cover Jackrabbit’s eyes and lift my phone to get a good shot.

“Pictures it is, then.”

The News

“…sales of miniaturized, all-purpose cleaning spider drones have seen a modest bump after the release of Spiderdrone 4: Taking Out The Trash. The holo, which is the latest entry in a horror franchise about tiny cleaning drones gone rogue, received poor reviews from critics, who cited recycled ideas and and little in the way of narrative. Faithful audiences turned out for the holo, though; over the weekend, ticket sales brought the holo up to the number one spot in a strong showing that made up the production budget, and all but guarantees Spiderdrone 5 in another year or so. Back to you, Clarence.”

“Thank you, Shina. We turn to now to the crime beat, where our segment today will cover another installment of our series on strange criminals. Ever since the Challenger program was shuttered fifteen years ago, criminal statisticians have logged a years-long uptick in unusual crime and criminals, despite CURSE’s insistence that they provide the security that the Challenger program once did. On this week’s installment, we’ll be covering the Mad Tailor of Talingrad, who was originally caught and institutionalized for three years, and just recently escaped his rehabilitation facility six months ago.

“Raised in what was otherwise a normal family, Taylor McTailor, or Fashionista, as he was better known to the public, graduated from the Talingrad School of Design. His entry into the fashion world was, even by industry standards, ostentatious and shocking; after a short period spent interning, Fashionista joined onto a reality TV makeover series where contestants were often tied up and dressed down in a humiliating manner before receiving their makeovers. Fashionista quickly became the series’ most aggressive star, producing undeniable results but often treating his contestants in a manner that many described as bordering on harassment or assault. It is not clear how much of this treatment was staged, and how much of it was spontaneous; critics of the show said it did not matter, claiming Fashionista’s conduct, whether staged or real, reflected badly on other fashion designers.

“Fashionista’s star burned hot and fast, with the young designer falling from grace faster than he had risen. It is suspected that Fashionista became delusional as he became more popular, and he racked up a series of breaking and entering charges as it was found that he had made a habit of sneaking into people’s homes by night and replacing their wardrobes with new ones. At his court hearing, the judge elicited to have him committed to a psychiatric institution due to the nonviolent nature of his crimes, where it was suspected he would remain for several years. Fashionista’s name quickly faded from the galactic stage, until six months ago, when his room in the institution was found empty…”

Event Log: Lucanthiline

The Bulwark: Intelligence Center

4:22pm SGT

“So, how’d the meeting with the Guild go?” I ask Sierra, the doors to the intelligence room sliding open as she swipes her badge against the pad.

“Eh. Could’ve gone better.” Sierra says, reaching up to take a lollipop out of her mouth so she can answer. “From the looks of it, CURSE went straight to the Guild with the transcripts of the comms call between the Accatria and the CURSE interdictor, because the Guild was reading us that little spat word-for-word and asking pointed questions about it.”

“Yikes.” I say, wincing. “So I’m guessing playing dumb wasn’t an option at that point?”

“Yeah, not really.” Sierra says as she winds around the consoles in the room, the analysts only looking up briefly from their work screens before continuing on. “On those calls we pretty much admitted that we had Songbird in our custody and refused to give him to CURSE. The Guild wanted very badly to know who our paying client was, since it’s a contract that was drawn up outside of the Guild’s market and they don’t like outside contracts, since it means neither party is answerable to the Guild. The Commander didn’t cave, though.”

“A merc’s only as good as their loyalty to the client, right?”

“Yup.” Sierra says, grabbing an empty grav-chair near the middle of the room and kneeling into it, slowly spinning in place. “Call ended with warnings and implied threats. I’m pretty sure they’re going to revoke our merc license.”

“You don’t seem too worried about it.” I say, leaning back against one of the consoles, at least until the analyst working at it smacks my butt and gives me a glare.

“We weren’t winning any popularity contests anyway.” Sierra says, bringing up a screen on the arm of the grav-chair. “It’s not like we need access to the Guild’s market, anyhow. Our current client has pockets deep enough to fund our operating costs, and what we’re doing is more important than profit margins. We’re looking to change the galaxy; we can piss off a few people here and there.”

“Are you sure?” I ask doubtfully. “Making enemies doesn’t seem like a good start to changing the galaxy.”

“Can’t make an omelette without breaking a few eggs.” Sierra says, starting to sort through folders on the screen that she’s brought up. “How did Feroce’s makeover go, by the way? Did he finally submit to Taylor’s expertise?”

“Wellllllll…” I say, drawing out the word as I glance away. “I really shouldn’t say anything. You’ll see him soon enough and you can judge for yourself.”

“That bad, eh?” she says without taking her eyes off the screen. “Feroce was an insecure little bitch for the longest time. He mostly grew out of it, but you can still see hints of it crop up in his psyche from time to time.”

“I mean, it’s not like the end result was bad.” I hedge. “It’s just that the road getting there was a little… violent.”

“I know. I’m kinda sad I missed it.” Sierra sighs, properly sitting in the chair as the doors to the intelligence center open, Fashionista striding in. “Oh, speak of the devil…”

“It is done!” Fashionista says with a breathless, dramatic, flourishing step to the side. Stepping into the room behind him is Songbird, who looks thoroughly disgruntled. But boy, he's dressed sharper than a monofilament razor, and classy as hell.

“Daaaaaayum.” Sierra says, standing up to look Songbird over. His blue hair’s gotten a trim, taking off a decent amount around the sides and back, and leaving enough along the top to style it up a little. They’ve suited him up a whitecollar shirt, dark grey slacks and a fitted grey vest, with a bright, seafoam-blue tie knotted neatly at his neck; little pinpricks of golden light shimmer from the cufflinks at his wrist. Sierra circles around him, biting her lip as Jackrabbit and Ridge sneak in behind Helga. “I know I told you to give him the works, Taylor, but I don’t remember telling you to turn him into a high-class heartthrob.”

“Think nothing of it, Lieutenant. I don’t charge for charity cases and this was most definitely one of those.” Fashionista replies, waving off the compliment with false modesty. “It was hard, trust me, but we got through it somehow. A mighty struggle, but worth it in the end.”

“If I find you’ve thrown away my work coat, I’m going to struggle that inflated head of yours straight into a trashcan.” Songbird growls at Fashionista. “The jeans and the tshirt I can replace, but the longcoat cost me a pretty penny and had a combat crysteel weave underneath the surface layer.”

“It’s okay, Songbird, I’ve got your coat.” Jackrabbit says, holding up a thick, folded square that’s likely Songbird’s hooded longcoat.

“Mmmph.” Sierra says, circling around Songbird and draping her arms over his shoulders, running her fingers along his chest and the immaculately pressed vest. “Now this. This is what I call a cover story. We’ll have you charming the ladies left and right. Hit them with the smolder and watch them melt like ice cream in the summer.”

“Let’s not leave the lads out.” Fashionista says with a sidelong glance at Ridge, who colors and looks away. “I caught this one stealing looks.”

“I’m not hitting anyone with the smolder.” Songbird say sharply, reaching up to remove Sierra’s draping arms from his shoulders. “Now if you all are done drooling, can we get on with this? I have my cover look; let’s move on.”

“Such impatience.” Fashionista says loftily. “Well, I still have to report to the Lieutenant, so I’ll conclude with that. My lady most licentious, I’ve included a few colorswaps for the outfit generally: a midnight-black, white, and bright blue variation, and then a black and white tuxedo and bowtie variant for high-formality occasions such as government events and diplomatic dinners. Helga will put the variants together and have them delivered shortly.”

“You’re a gem, Taylor.” Sierra says, proffering a hand. “You’ve earned your pay this month. I’m sure we’ll have more work for you soon.”

Taylor takes her hand, bowing elegantly as he kisses the back of it. “It’s a pleasure to work with you as always, Lieutenant. I’ll excuse myself now — I must plan my next masterpiece. Helga! Quickly, we depart!”

With that, Fashionista strikes a pose and holds it while Helga picks him up, and slowly moonwalks backwards out of the intelligence center, the doors hissing closed once they pass beyond the threshold.

In the ensuing silence, the only thing that’s heard is one of the analysts muttering “What the hell just happened?” to the analyst at the next desk over.

“Lookin’ sharp.” I say to Songbird, giving him a sly grin. “You’ll be dressed to impress for your third date.”

“It’s not a date.” he grumbles, looking around. “Do we have the mission breakdown for our visit to Sybione yet?”

“They’re putting that together.” Sierra says, making her way back over the grav-chair and the screen hovering over its arm. “But we can worry about that later. I wanted to show you something else.” The lights dim as Sierra pulls up a single folder on the screen. “You’ve been with us less than a month, but we’ve been working on finding former Challengers for almost a year. I want you to see what we’ve found so far.”

With a single flicking motion, the folder opens up, and the holoarrays around the room shimmer to life, throwing an orbit of screens around us. Some hold video recordings, others have photos, and others still have redacted documents and local news reports. It’s a wealth of information, but all of it revolves around a single thing: sightings of retired and rogue Challengers.

“Are these all…” Songbird says, turning in place to study the screens as the lingering irritation evaporates from his face.

“Intel on Challengers.” Jackrabbit says, puffing a single lock of brown hair out of her eyes. “It took us months to assemble all this, and it cost us lives in some places.”

“Most of these Challengers are ones that either chose not to go into the resettlement program, or continue to operate under the radar or out in dark space.” Sierra says, sitting properly in the chair and lacing her fingers in her lap. “These are the Challengers that we’ve managed to get a lead on without the help of the backup archive. These are the ones we’d planned on tracking down, and asking to take up the cause again.”

“This is unbelievable.” Songbird says, moving from one screen to the next. “All this time… this is where everyone’s been? Trickshot’s a deputy on some frontier world? And Echo, he’s doing philanthropy work now? Wait, is that— is that Captain Cralix? Is she on the job board at the Guild? No way! I never thought she’d turn to mercenary work, she’s too, too…”

“Too dignified for that?” Sierra guesses. “Well, if it makes you feel better, she runs an elite fleetguard. The mercforce she captains is as much known for their presentation as they are for their combat prowess. Dignitaries and high-visibility corporations like to utilize classy mercs, and Cralix is at the top of that list.”

“I didn’t know everyone was still out there…” Songbird says, running his hands through his hair as if he was struggling to take it all in. “Do they know what we’re doing? Have we contacted them?”

“Not yet.” Jackrabbit says, leaning back against the desk that I’d leaned back against earlier. When the analyst sitting there doesn’t swat her away, I shoot a glare in their direction. “We want to measure their interest in fighting the good fight before we make them an offer. Plus, fifteen years is a long time. They might not be the same people today that they were back then.”

“Also, that’s Luci’s job.” Sierra says, rolling her lollipop between her neatly manicured fingers. “It’s his job to make contact with our lost legends, but it’s our job to prove to those legends that there’s still a fight worth fighting out there.”

“All these years…” Songbird says softly, unable to tear his eyes away from the screens as they slowly orbit around us. “If I’d known that others were still resisting…”

“The ones you see here aren’t doing much fighting. And when they do it, it’s usually in dark space, instead of metropolitan systems.” Jackrabbit says. “After the program got shut down, a lot of Challengers continued to operate anyway. One by one, CURSE ran most of them down and either arrested or killed them. Other Challengers either folded and started complying with the Challenger Activities Ban, or fled to the fringes or dark space. Me and Valkyrie spent a lot of time in dark space over the last fifteen years because CURSE kept hunting Challengers even after most of them had thrown in the towel.”

“So we’re going to find these Challengers and ask them to join up?” Ridge asks, the excitement in his voice audible.

“These ones and more.” Sierra answers. “Once we have the backup archive, we’ll have access to the resettlement files. I’m sure that some Challengers will be comfortably settled into their new lives and won’t want to leave them, and others may truly be retired, but for those that miss what we used to do… we’ll give them a chance to make a difference in the galaxy again.”

“So we get the backup archive.” Songbird says slowly. “We get the access codes to one of the Bastions, reclaim it, then start bringing back as many Challengers as we can. And this time, we won’t lose sight of who we are and what we stand for.” He finally tears his eyes away from the screens, turning to face the rest of us. “How long before the Accatria’s ready to embark again?”

Sierra smirks. “Fourteen hours before refueling is complete. Munitions and supplies should be fully restocked by then.”

“Tell that psychotic fashion maniac that he’s got twelve hours to get the rest of those wardrobe variants to me. And tell him that we need him to throw together a Sunday set for the teenager.” Songbird says, swatting holoscreens out of the way as he turns and heads for the doors of the intelligence center.

“Wait, what?” Ridge says, looking confused. “Why do I need Sunday clothes?”

Songbird pauses at the door and looks over his shoulder. “You’re coming with me on the mission to Sybione, right? You’ve got to look the part.”

Ridge’s eyes widen, and he looks to Sierra, who smiles. “You wanted to train to become one of us. Tagging along on a mission is one of the best ways to train.” she says, lacing her fingers together. “Luci, can you see to it that Taylor gets him outfitted?”

“I’ll handle that, actually.” Jackrabbit intervenes. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t go overboard. Songbird can take care of himself, but Ridge needs to be handled a little gentler.”

Sierra rolls her eyes. “Why you gotta coddle the kid, Jack? He’ll never grow thick skin if we baby him through his basic training. Let him learn what it’s like to get manhandled and stuffed into a suit. Suffering builds character and all that good shit.”

“Language.” Songbird warns from the doorway.

“That’s what ruined the last generation of Challengers. We all remember what it did to Alice.” Jackrabbit says to Sierra, motioning for Ridge to follow her. “C’mon, Ridge. Let’s go see if we can ask Taylor to put together something for you.”

Ridge is quick to follow, and Songbird follows along with both of them, leaving just myself and Sierra in the intelligence center. I look back to the screens floating around us, filled with images of rogue Challengers operating on the fringes of the galaxy and in pockets of dark space. “You think we can really build something out of the leftovers? I mean, that’s basically what all these Challengers are. Leftovers. Most of the famous ones are dead.”

“We gotta take what we can get.” Sierra says, tapping her lollipop against her lips as she studies the screens as well. “Besides, this is how the Challenger program originally started a century ago. It wasn’t a well-funded organization with all the cool toys and the best people. It was a bunch of clever backworld rednecks that had a bone to pick with the Collective and then started picking fights with other galactic bullies.” She smiles, standing up. “That’s how it started, at least. A ragtag band of idiots picking fights that they shouldn’t pick. I figure it would be good to go back to our roots.”

After few more moments spent staring at the exiled legends on the screens, I tuck my hands in my pockets and start to idle my way to the door. “Well, I’ll stay on for the ride. Either you all pull it off, or you crash and burn. Should be entertaining either way.”

Sierra blows a raspberry, and a moment later her arm falls around my shoulders as she catches up to me on the way out of the intelligence room. “Don’t give me that standoffish feline bullshit, where you act like you’re too cool for the rest of us. Admit it. You’re excited to see where this goes.”

“Well, I guess it’s kindagmmmnfgh!” I’m halfway into my answer when she takes her lollipop out of her mouth and sticks it into mine while I’m talking.

“Exactly. I knew you were excited, you just didn’t want to admit it.” she says, taking her arm off my shoulder while she kicks up the pace, heading down the hall. “I need to take care of some things before the Accatria starts final prep for disembarking. But you, me, my room, eighteen hours from now? Yes?”

I pull the lollipop out of my mouth, scratching my chin thoughtfully. “I’ll have to think about it. I’m pretty sure I was supposed to be tracking down and making contact with some of those Challengers we were just talking about.”

“Don’t play the work card with me, you cute little shit. You’re a Schrödinger; you can be wherever you want at a moment’s notice.” she says, turning on her heel. “Soft yes, then. Eighteen hours from now. Don’t be late.”

I grin as she makes her way down the hall at a stride. With the pressure of watching eyes off me, I stick the lollipop back in my mouth, and let my own quantum uncertainty flicker me out of existence.

After all, I have places to be and things to do.