Second Dominion (Fourth Age)
Aurean Cycle no. 462 of the Macbeth dynasty, reign of Aldric II
Third Quadrant, K-7 Trade Station
"I knew I shouldn't have let you near the cockpit," Amarel huffed, shaking his head."Oh please, like you could've done better?" Law shot back, annoyed, hands greasy up to the elbow."Law," Amarel said firmly. "Law, don't turn this on me. It was a straight line. So yes, maybe I'd have done it without cracking the engine." The ocher-haired youth snorted and turned toward the viewport beyond the bay."Look there. Welcome to K-7, the biggest orbital junkyard in the Third Quadrant."
Beyond the glass, the station looked like a rusted ring, crammed with platforms welded onto each other at random. Merchant ships streamed in and out in chaotic currents, while neon signs flickered over depots and makeshift workshops. The smell of spent fuel and oily fry grease was already wafting into the hangar.
"It's a place of opportunity," Law declared, gathering up the tools."Opportunity to get robbed," Amarel retorted. "Let's go find someone who can fix this heap, instead."
--
"…You're impossible."
Apparently, their search led them straight to a tavern, where Law was enjoying an ice-cold beer.
The place was carved out of an old habitation module, patched as best it could be with panels from scrapped ships. The walls were covered in faulty neon signs, and every so often a spark sputtered off and fell onto the sticky floor. The air smelled of fuel smoke and cheap alcohol, and a rasping electronic track played that glitched every three beats, as if the playlist itself were full of rust.
Law and Amarel sat at a corner table after their hard, long search (half an hour, give or take). A porthole window gave onto a slice of K-7's annular corridor: stray forklifts, vapor trails, and a kid selling bolts like roasted seeds.
"…If there's really nothing else to do, we can take the bus there," Law muttered, eyes never leaving the mug. A trail of water ran down the back of his artificial hand and vanished into the seams of the prosthesis: Law had finally installed a synthetic arm."Oh, you want to show up to a House Claw member on public transit?" Amarel replied, leaning back in his chair until a leg creaked. "Expect a lovely review on the site."Law knit his brows. "Okay, first of all, the review comes after the service. We can leave a rating too, you know.""For what, the hospitality?" Amarel asked, bored."Well, yes. And anyway, I'm not familiar with them.""Oh yeah? And who are you familiar with, then?""Meridiems, Hikaris, N'Vely… a bit with the Von Edryck."
Amarel raised an eyebrow. "Heavens, you've got experience, Mr. Freelance. And how do you know them?""…Work.""Ah, I see—one of the jobs where the sheet metal happened?"
Law stared at his synthetic arm. The neon light slid over it in bluish patches. "...Yeah."
Amarel snorted, then gave a half-smile—the one he wore when he realized he'd hit a raw nerve. He didn't press. They knew each other well enough to stop at the edge of the other's secrets.
"Listen, I asked about the collector in the meantime," he said, tapping a finger on the table to the beat of the music."What? When did you do that?""Eh, you were gone ten minutes. What were you doing, anyway?""Think I had to piss.""Mh. Anyway, there are two workshops around here that won't steal your soul along with the ship. 'Not right away,' they told me." He glanced sidelong at Law. "The soul, maybe, they take in installments."" 'Not right away' works for us," Law said, setting down his mug. The foam left a clean circle, like a stamp. "How long will it take?""Depends how many pods we want to spend." Amarel gestured broadly around the room. "K-7: you pay for the job or you pay for the regret."
The bartender came over—a woman with a scar through her eyebrow and a screw-stud earring. She set down two bowls of fried stuff that smelled like the sea and tired oil."On the house," she said, not really smiling. "One of your old friends left a round. Severn."Amarel lit up. "Old Severn! See, Law? Not everyone who hates us wants us dead.""No," Law said. "Some just want us ruined first."
The bartender shrugged and left. On the monitor behind the counter, a silent news feed scrolled banner over banner: Hypernexa opening a "technical depot" on Gaia Prime; a photo of Elyrion, House Lysander's Explorer, shaking hands with someone in a white hall; the headline overlay spoke of "interquadrant balances." No one in the tavern was really watching, but eyes drifted there now and then, drawn like to a knife's glint.
"You still watch the news," Amarel said quietly."What am I supposed to watch?""The world pretending to be in order."
Law ran his natural hand over his nape, as if pushing back a thought trying to get out. "They pay us for the details, too. Not for the newscasts.""And among the details there's 'don't wreck the engine when you dock at K-7,' right?" Amarel burst out laughing, then took a bite from the bowl. "Can I tell you something? No offense.""The offense usually lands anyway.""Sometimes you seem like someone in a hurry to get somewhere without quite knowing where. Someone who accelerates because he can't afford to brake. Like there's something behind you that…" He made a gesture with his hand, a lengthening shadow. "…You know."
Law drank. He bit down on the rim of silence and held it in his mouth for a few seconds. The neon snapped; a spark fell near their table and died with a tic."I don't like staying in the middle," he said at last."Between problems?""Between choices. Well, it's similar."
Amarel tilted his head. "And yet you make plenty of choices.""I make movements.""Ah." Amarel set his elbow down and studied his profile. "And in the middle of the movements, what is it you like?"
Law fell silent. Maybe he'd been caught with his guard down. He weighed the question the way one weighs a sample of air before deciding if it's breathable. "I don't know, that's broad. I like when the numbers add up, that's it. When a thing does what it's supposed to do, you know. When I press a button and the right thing happens.""Which never happens.""Which never happens."
They looked at each other a moment, and the repetition made them both smile, even if Law hid behind his mug.
"Well, romantic," Amarel sneered. "Me, honestly, I prefer when people do things you don't expect. Like the bartender not spitting in our beer."Law frowned. "You sure?""See? Surprise!"
They took a moment to eat. The fry was salted just enough to make you order more drinks. Around them, the tavern breathed: dry laughs, an argument that threatened to turn into a brawl and then didn't, a die rolling under a table, a hand snatching it up and pocketing it.
"When did you start doing this, seriously?" Amarel asked, like he'd tossed the question onto the table to see which way it would roll."Smuggling?""No, Mr. Freelance. Gardening.""A few years ago.""And before?"
Law swallowed.Before.And how the fuck do I tell him what I did before?"…I was on the street. Nothing much."
Amarel stared, as if to read behind the unsaid words. Then he simply smiled—a smile more bitter than ironic. "Street, huh? Well, could've been worse. You could've ended up gardening."
Law shook his head and drank, letting him have the last word.
For a few moments, they stayed quiet. It was a living silence, not awkward: like the white noise of an engine that keeps humming in the background, steady, even if the bodywork vibrates.
Amarel drummed his fingers on the table. A nonexistent melody, just rhythm. Now and then he missed the beat and smiled to himself.
"You know what's funny?" he started again."No.""That you talk little, but when you open your mouth out come lines like 'I don't like staying in the middle.' A sentence you could write on a wall and someone would build a cult out of it."Law raised an eyebrow. "It's not true I talk little, for one. You make me sound like one of those weird kids in the suburbs. And then… a cult?""Well, yeah." Amarel licked fry-grease from his fingers, then leaned forward. "You know who I reread the other day? The Legionaries."Law barely looked up. "Heard of them.""Heard of? They're the bedrock of First Dominion history. The War was their work. They weren't just soldiers: they were a cult." Amarel drummed on the table as if to mark a marching step. "Every cult has its phrase, right? Theirs was simple. Two words."Law tilted his head. "Which are?""Gold and blood."
The neon snapped again, spitting a spark. Law remained impassive, but a brief flash crossed his gaze, as if he recognized something.
"Not bad, right?" Amarel smiled, pleased. "They say they were fanatics. They worshiped the leader, Artorius, like a god. Well, to change the structure of the world, it takes that."Law lifted his mug and drank. "Gold and blood. Yeah." He let the words fall like they had a weight he didn't want to hold too long."They said it before every assault. Some swear they even wrote it on the armor." Amarel grew animated, gesturing. "Commanders shouted it at the end of their speeches, and the troops went wild.""You need a weapon, not a phrase," Law said, shaking his head."Oh, they had those. And anyway, words are weapons. You should read more."
Law lowered his eyes to his prosthesis without replying. The tavern lights reflected in the blackened metal, as if a hidden blade had stayed asleep inside.
The tavern door opened, letting in a breath of metallic air and a trail of voices. Two mechanics dragged in a crate of spare parts, haggling loudly. A bag of fuel spilled, and a sharp stench smothered the scent of fry grease. No one looked up: scenes like that were K-7's beating heart.
"You know what makes me laugh about this place?" Amarel asked, watching the coming and going. "It all looks rotten, but it runs better than some courts.""Oh, trust me. Courts pretend.""See? Another cult line!" Amarel laughed, knocking his fist on the table. "I swear, one day I'll write a booklet for you. Thoughts and Aphorisms of Lorne Freelance."
Law sighed, but didn't stop him.
A drunk stumbled against their table, spilling a finger of beer on Amarel's jacket."Friend," Amarel said in a cordial voice—too cordial—"if you wanted to buy me a drink, you could've just said so."The man paused, trying to decide whether to start a brawl. Law barely looked at him, cold. That was enough: the guy backed off, grumbling, and vanished into the crowd."See?" Amarel resumed, dabbing himself with a napkin. "Surprises."Law just shook his head.
Amarel watched them all as if the whole scene were staged for him alone."That's what I like," he said suddenly. "People. Making a mess, making mistakes, surprising you. That's where plots come from. You've got numbers. I've got them.""Oh come on, that makes me sound like an accountant," Law grumbled."You know when I realized I trusted you?" Amarel added, more serious. "When I saw you split the last bag of rice on Derra without a fuss. And you were starving."Law lowered his gaze. "You were more.""Yeah." Amarel laughed. "But not many know that. You're not as good at hiding things as you think."Law shot him a glare, but didn't reply.
That's when he noticed her.
She didn't enter the tavern. She stayed in the shadow of the corridor beyond the porthole. A girl with blonde hair tied in a ponytail, a worn but practical work suit, and a black scarf with white polka dots. She was arguing with a tall man; the glass muffled the voice, but the gestures were crystal clear: hands planted on hips, a finger leveled at the crate he was trying to foist on her.
Amarel saw her a moment later. "Uh. What'd I tell you? People."Law simply watched. The girl didn't give an inch, not even when the man leaned in to loom over her. On the contrary, she returned a cold stare that snuffed out the merchant's smug smile. After a moment he let go, raised his hands, and walked off grumbling. She picked up a bag of components and zipped up her jacket, as if it was armor."One who doesn't run," Amarel commented. "I like her.""She's got nothing to do with us.""Not yet."
Law went back to his mug, but the image stuck in his eyes. There was something in that refusal to yield, in that stubborn obstinacy. A bitter familiarity.
The girl had already vanished around the corridor's corner, the bag clutched to her chest. A fleeting apparition, swallowed by noise and faulty neon.
Amarel raised his glass. "To people, to numbers, to phrases.""Oh, and you're the man of letters? That's the best you've got?" Law clinked his against his, despite the ribbing. For a moment, the sound drowned out the music's rasp.