Second Dominion (Fourth Age)
Aurean Cycle no. 462 of the Macbeth Dynasty, reign of Aldric II
Third Quadrant, Commercial Station K-7
"I knew I shouldn't have let you anywhere near the cockpit," Amarel sighed, shaking his head.
"Oh please, you could've done better?" Law snapped back, annoyed and with his hands greasy up to the elbows.
"Law." Amarel said firmly. "Law. Don't you dare turn this on me. You were going on a straight line. A straight. Line. So yes, maybe I could've done it without wrecking the engine." The ocher-haired youth huffed and turned toward the viewport beyond the bay.
"Look at that. Welcome to K-7, the biggest orbiting junkyard in the Third Quadrant."
Beyond the viewport, the station appeared like a rusted ring, crammed with platforms welded onto each other without order. Merchant ships came and went in a chaotic flow, while neon signs flickered above warehouses and makeshift workshops. The smell of burnt fuel and greasy fry oil already seeped into the hangar.
"It's a place of opportunity," Law declared, gathering the tools.
"Sure, an opportunity to get robbed," Amarel shot back. "Let's find someone to fix this mess instead."
--
"…You're impossible."
As it turned out, their search led them straight to a tavern, where Law was enjoying a cold beer.
The place was carved out of an old habitation module, patched together with ship scrap. The walls were lined with broken neon signs, sparks occasionally spitting and falling onto the sticky floor. The air stank of fuel smoke and cheap liquor, while distorted electronic music croaked from rusted speakers, glitching every third beat.
Law and Amarel sat at a corner table, after their long and grueling search (half an hour, give or take). A porthole window looked out onto a slice of K-7's ring corridor: cargo drones drifted by, vapor trails hung in the air, and a kid sold bolts as if they were roasted seeds.
"…If there's really nothing else, we can just take the bus there," Law muttered, not lifting his eyes from the mug. A trickle of water slid down the back of his prosthetic hand and vanished into the seams.
"Oh, sure, why not? Show up to a Claw with public transport? Expect a glowing review on the wesite," Amarel quipped, leaning back until his chair creaked.
Law frowned. "Okay, first of all, reviews come after the service. We can rate them too, you know."
"For what, hospitality?" Amarel asked, bored.
"Well, yeah. Anyway, I'm not familiar with the Claws."
"Oh yeah? And who are you familiar with then?"
"The Meridiems, the Hikari, the N'Vely… some with the Von Edrycks."
Amarel raised an eyebrow. "Well, well. Quite the résumé, Mr. Freelance. And how exactly do you know them?"
"…Work."
"Ah, got it. One of those jobs where the scrap showed up?"
Law stared at his synthetic arm. The droplet was still sliding down on the pale fake skin. "…Yeah."
Amarel exhaled, then gave a half-smile, the kind he wore whenever he realized he'd grazed one of Law's old scars. He didn't press further. They both knew when to stop at the edge of each other's secrets.
"Anyway, I asked about the collector," he said, tapping his finger on the table in rhythm with the music.
"What? When?"
"Eh, you stepped out for ten minutes. What were you doing, anyway?"
"Pretty sure I had to take a piss."
"Mhm. Well, turns out there are two shops around here that won't steal your soul along with your ship. 'Not right away,' they told me." He glanced sidelong at Law. "Your soul, maybe they take it on installments."
"'Not right away' works for us." Law replied, setting down the mug. The foam left a perfect circle, like a seal. "How long will it take?"
"Depends how many pods we want to spend." Amarel gestured broadly to the room. "K-7: either you pay for the work, or you pay for the regret."
The bartender approached, a woman with a scar through her brow and a screw-shaped earring. She dropped two bowls of fried stuff that smelled like sea and stale oil.
"On the house," she said, without really smiling. "One of your old friends left a round. Severn."
Amarel brightened. "Ah, Old Severn! See, Law? Not everyone who hates us wants us dead."
"No," Law muttered. "Some just want to watch us fall apart first."
The bartender shrugged and walked off. On the monitor behind the counter, a muted news feed scrolled banner after banner: Hypernexa opening a "technical depot" on Gaia Prime; a picture of Elyrion, the Explorer of House Lysander, shaking hands in a white hall; the subtitles spoke of "interquadrant balance." Nobody in the tavern really watched, but eyes wandered there anyway, drawn like moths to a blade's glint.
"You still watch the news," Amarel said quietly.
"What am I supposed to watch?"
"The world pretending it's in order."
Law ran his natural hand over his neck, as if pushing back a thought that wanted to slip out. "We get paid for the details. Not for the headlines."
"And details like 'don't wreck the engine pulling into K-7,' right?" Amarel burst out laughing, then popped a piece of fried food into his mouth. "Can I tell you something? No offense."
"Offense usually comes anyway."
"Sometimes you seem like someone in a hurry to get somewhere, without knowing where. Someone who accelerates because stopping isn not an option. Like there's something behind you that… well, casts an impending shadow over you."
Law drank. Bit down on the edge of silence and held it in his mouth a while. The neon snapped, a spark fizzled by their table and went out with a tic.
"I don't like staying in the middle," he said at last.
"Of problems?"
"Of choices. Same thing, really."
Amarel tilted his head. "Yet you make choices."
"I make moves."
"Ah." Amarel leaned on his elbow, studying his profile. "And in the middle of all those moves, what is it you like?"
Law froze. Maybe he'd been caught off guard. He weighed the question like testing a breath of air before deciding if it was breathable. "I don't know. It's vague. I like when numbers add up, I guess. When something does what it's supposed to. When I push a button and the right thing happens."
"Which never happens."
"Which never happens."
They stared at each other for a moment, and the repetition made both of them grin, even if Law hid behind his mug.
"Romantic," Amarel chuckled. "Me, I like when people do the unexpected. Like the bartender not spitting in our beer."
Law frowned. "You sure?"
"See? Surprise!"
They took a moment to eat. The fried food was salty enough to force another drink. Around them, the tavern breathed: sharp laughter, an argument teetering on the edge of a brawl then backing down, a die rolling under a table, a hand snatching it up to pocket unseen.
"When did you start doing this, seriously?" Amarel asked, tossing the question like dice onto the table.
"Smuggling?"
"No, Mr. Freelance. Gardening."
"A few years ago."
"And before that?"
Law swallowed.
Before.
How the fuck am I supposed to tell him about before?
"…I was on the street. Nothing special."
Amarel stared, as if to read behind the unsaid words. Then he just smiled, more bitter than amused. "The street, huh? Could've been worse. You could've ended up gardening."
Law shook his head and drank, letting him have the last word.
For a while, silence. A live silence, not awkward. Like the white noise of an engine running in the background, steady, even if the hull rattled.
Amarel drummed his fingers on the table. A melody without a tune, just rhythm. Every now and then he missed the beat and smiled to himself.
"You know what's funny?" he started again.
"What?"
"You don't talk much, but when you do, things like 'I don't like staying in the middle' come out. That's the kind of phrase you write on a wall, and someone builds a cult around it."
Law raised a brow. "Okay, first of all, I'm not that silent. You're making me sound like one of those weird kids in the suburbs. And second… a cult?"
"A cult, indeed." Amarel licked his greasy fingers, then leaned forward. "Do you know who I was rereading the other day? The Legionaries."
Law barely lifted his gaze. "Heard of them."
"Heard of them? They're the backbone of First Dominion history. The War was theirs. They weren't just soldiers: they were a cult. Every cult has a phrase, right? Theirs was simple. Two words."
Law tilted his head. "And?"
"Gold and Blood."
The neon flickered again, spitting sparks. Law stayed stone-faced, but a flash crossed his eyes, as if something in him recognized it.
"Not bad, right?" Amarel grinned, pleased. "They said they were fanatics. Worshipped their leader, Artorius, like a god. Well, to change the shape of the world, I guess that's what it takes."
Law raised his mug and drank. "Gold and Blood. Yeah." He let the words fall, heavy, as if they carried more than he wanted to hold.
"They said it before every assault. Some swear it was etched on their armor. Commanders shouted it at the end of speeches, and the troops went mad."
Law shook his head. "You need a weapon, not a phrase."
"Oh, they had weapons alright. But words are weapons as well. You should read more."
Law lowered his eyes to his prosthetic. The tavern lights shimmered across the blackened metal, as if a hidden blade was sleeping inside.
The tavern door opened, letting in a breath of metallic air and a spill of voices. Two mechanics hauled in a crate of spare parts, arguing loudly. A fuel sack burst, its acrid stench blotting out the fried food. No one looked up: scenes like that were K-7's heartbeat.
"You know what cracks me up about this place?" Amarel asked, watching the flow. "It looks rotten, but it runs better than some courts."
"Oh, trust me. Courts pretend."
"See? Another cult phrase!" Amarel laughed, slamming his fist on the table. "I swear, one day I'll write a booklet: Sayings and Aphorisms of Lorne Freelance."
Law sighed, but didn't stop him.
A drunk stumbled into their table, spilling a finger of beer onto Amarel's jacket."Friend," Amarel said in a voice too friendly to be friendly, "if you wanted to buy me a drink, you could've just asked."The man froze, trying to decide if he wanted a fight. Law barely looked at him, cold. That was enough: the drunk backed off, muttering, and vanished into the crowd.
"See?" Amarel said, dabbing at the stain with a napkin. "Surprises."
Law only shook his head.
Amarel watched the tavern like it was a play put on just for him."That's what I like," he said suddenly. "People. They make noise, they screw up, they surprise you. That's where the stories come from. You've got the numbers. I've got them."
Law grunted. "Come on, it was a metaphor, you're making me sound like an accountant."
"You know when I realized I trusted you?" Amarel added, more serious now. "Back on Derra. When you split the last pack of rice without a fuss. And you were starving."
Law lowered his gaze. "You more."
"Yeah." Amarel chuckled. "But not many know that. You're not as good at hiding things as you think."
Law shot him a glare, but said nothing.
And that was when he noticed her.
She didn't come inside. She stood in the shadow of the corridor, beyond the porthole. A girl with dark blond hair tied back, a worn work suit, and a black scarf dotted with white spots. She was arguing with a tall man. The sound didn't carry, but the gestures were clear: hands on hips, a finger stabbing at the crate the man was trying to pawn off on her.
Amarel spotted her a moment later. "Oh. What did I tell you? People."
Law only watched. The girl didn't budge, not even when the man loomed over her. Instead, she shot him a glare so sharp it wiped the smug grin off his face. After a pause, he backed off, hands up, muttering curses. She grabbed a sack of parts, zipped up her suit like armor, and turned away.
"One who doesn't run," Amarel commented. "I like her."
"What, you wanna ask her out?"
He chuckled. "Not my type."
Law went back to his mug, but the image stuck in his mind. That refusal to yield, that stubbornness. A bitter kind of familiarity.
The girl was already gone, swallowed by the corridor's noise and flickering lights, the sack clutched to her chest. A fleeting apparition, devoured by the neon's failing glow.
Amarel raised his glass. "To people, to numbers, to phrases."
"What the hell? Weren't you the scholar? That's the best you've got?" Law clinked his glass against his anyway, teasing or not. For a moment, the chime drowned out the tavern's crackling music.