The first thing Morrigan noticed after the bay doors sealed was the silence.
Not the real kind—there was always the Union's hum, fans cycling, hydraulics settling, the faint metallic tick of cooling armor. But the battle silence. The kind that hit after you stopped firing and your hands didn't know what to do with themselves.
Her Marauder stood half in shadow, exactly where she'd parked it. The bay lights caught the edges of its armor like a knife's gleam, leaving the rest in darkness. She liked it that way. Darkness was honest. It didn't pretend.
Overhead, the captured Atlas hung in chains and clamps like the ship had decided to decorate itself with a god.
Morrigan stared up at it for a long time, jaw tight, arms folded across her chest so hard it almost hurt.
She didn't like trophies.
Trophies invited challengers.
And she'd spent enough of her life surrounded by men who loved trophies.
The Atlas's cockpit seam was a thin line of shadow. Somewhere behind that line, Lark was awake—listening, breathing, smiling that smooth little smile that made Morrigan want to put a PPC bolt through the glass just to wipe it off her face.
Morrigan didn't.
Not because she couldn't.
Because Dack had said no.
And Dack's rules were the difference between a crew and a mob.
Morrigan hated how much she respected that.
---
She could still feel the kill under her foot.
Not in the Marauder—she'd been in the cockpit, strapped in, watching through external cameras. But the memory hit the same part of her brain anyway. The weight. The slow inevitability. The wet, ugly finality when her Marauder's boot came down on Venn.
Not dramatic. Not cinematic.
Just a man learning the universe didn't care about his paperwork.
Morrigan had told herself she did it because he was loud.
That was true.
But it wasn't the whole truth.
The whole truth was that Venn had looked at them like they were disposable.
And Morrigan had grown up disposable.
She hadn't liked the reminder.
So she'd erased it.
She didn't feel guilty.
She felt… quiet.
That was rarer.
Across the bay, Jinx was still moving like adrenaline had turned her bones into springs. She was leaning into people's space, talking too loud, laughing too sharp, acting like the universe couldn't touch her.
Taila hovered close to Dack's Dire Wolf like she always did now—flank discipline translated into human posture. She tried to look calm and ended up looking intense, which was honestly an improvement over the old Taila, who used to look like she was bracing for a slap every time someone said her name.
Lyra moved like a pilot, not a princess. Efficient, purposeful, the kind of woman who didn't waste motion or attention. She checked clamps, glanced at ship status, spoke in short bursts that made it clear she wasn't there to impress anyone—she was there to make sure the ship didn't die.
And Dack…
Dack was up in the Dire Wolf again, where he always went when the world got loud.
Morrigan watched him climb the ladder and disappear into the cockpit like he was stepping into a coffin he found comforting.
She understood it.
She didn't like that she understood it.
Because the more she understood Dack, the harder it got to keep her distance.
And Morrigan's entire life had been built on distance.
Distance meant you couldn't be grabbed.
Distance meant you couldn't be owned.
Distance meant you couldn't be hurt.
The crew around him didn't do distance.
Not anymore.
They orbited him like he was gravity.
And it made something ugly twist in Morrigan's chest.
Not jealousy.
Not exactly.
Something closer to fear—the fear of wanting to be part of something you don't know how to hold without breaking it.
---
Quill stood off to the side, too rigid, too clean in the way people got when they were trying not to show they were shaking inside. No cockpit, no Zeus, just a pressure suit and a helmet tucked under one arm like she'd forgotten what to do with her hands once steel wasn't around them.
Morrigan watched Quill watch the chained Atlas.
That look wasn't lust. It wasn't admiration.
It was loyalty that had been gutted and was still twitching.
Morrigan knew that look.
She'd worn it once.
A long time ago.
Before she learned better.
Jinx drifted past Morrigan's shadow, grinning like a predator. "Hey, goth queen."
Morrigan didn't look at her. "Don't call me that."
Jinx leaned closer anyway, breath warm, voice bright. "I will call you whatever I want until you admit you like us."
Morrigan's eyes narrowed. "I don't."
Jinx's grin sharpened. "Liar."
Morrigan didn't bother answering.
Taila's voice cut in, soft but warning. "Jinx."
Jinx pulled back with exaggerated innocence. "What? I'm bonding."
Morrigan muttered, "You're harassing."
"Same thing," Jinx said, and sauntered away like she owned the deck plating.
Morrigan watched her go.
Jinx looked… off.
Not in the way you could accuse her of. Not the kind of "off" you called out in front of people. Just a slight paleness, a tiny stiffness in her posture that didn't match her mouth's confidence.
Morrigan filed it away.
She always filed things away.
Pirate blood or not, she'd survived this long because she noticed what other people missed.
She didn't know what it meant yet.
But she noticed.
---
Morrigan's childhood smelled like coolant and cheap incense.
Her father—pirate lord, raider king, whatever title he used that week—had liked theatrics. He'd liked banners. Painted hulls. Names that sounded like threats. He'd liked being feared.
He'd liked being obeyed more.
Morrigan remembered being small enough that the men around him treated her like furniture—something that belonged to him, not a person with thoughts. She'd sit on the edge of command meetings in a too-big coat, listening to kill plans the way other girls listened to lullabies.
She'd learned the rhythm of violence before she learned how to braid her own hair.
When she was ten, she watched her father execute a lieutenant for skimming profit.
The lieutenant had begged. Cried. Promised loyalty.
Her father had smiled, kissed her forehead like he was blessing her, and then shot the man in the face.
Afterward, he'd said to Morrigan, "That's what happens when you think being family means you can steal."
Morrigan had stared at the blood on the deck and whispered, "Okay."
Her father had nodded like he'd taught her something valuable.
And maybe he had.
He taught her that love was conditional.
He taught her that loyalty was a tool.
He taught her that if you wanted to stay alive, you had to become too sharp to hold.
So Morrigan got sharp.
She learned weapons. Learned docking procedures. Learned how to read people in half a glance—who was scared, who was hungry, who was lying, who wanted to own her like a prize.
She started wearing black early—not because it looked scary, but because it made her feel hidden. A gothic dress on a pirate ship was a joke to men who thought they were tough.
Morrigan liked that.
She liked being underestimated.
She liked the moment their laughter died when she proved she wasn't a toy.
By the time she was fourteen, men started looking at her differently.
Not like furniture.
Like prey.
She broke a few noses.
She cut one man's hand when he reached too far.
Her father laughed when he heard. "Good. Make them afraid to touch you."
She asked once, very quietly, "Did you ever love my mother?"
Her father's smile didn't change, but something behind it went cold. "Your mother was beautiful."
That wasn't an answer.
Morrigan never asked again.
She decided she would never belong to anyone.
Not a man.
Not a crew.
Not even her father.
She would belong to herself.
Then Dack Jarn put her on her knees in the dirt with a Dire Wolf's shadow over her, and offered her something she didn't know how to process:
Rules that weren't a leash.
A pack that didn't demand she smile.
A place where competence mattered more than bloodline.
She'd snarled at him. Glared. Tried to bite.
And he'd just looked at her with those flat, calm eyes and said, Live or don't. Your choice.
That kind of choice was dangerous.
It was the kind that made you want to live.
---
Morrigan's comm chimed.
Ship-wide internal.
Lyra's voice, controlled. "Dack. Passive scan patterns are tightening. Still no hard lock."
Dack's reply came low and blunt. "Keep us dark. Prep the jump."
Morrigan felt the ship's hum change slightly as systems shifted, power routing, the Union leaning into stealth like it had muscles.
Quill's head lifted at the change. She knew the feel of a ship preparing to run. Anyone with real flight hours did.
Jinx made a pleased noise like escaping was entertainment.
Taila's shoulders eased a fraction.
Morrigan didn't relax.
Running meant you'd admitted someone was hunting you.
And hunts didn't end just because you jumped.
They ended when someone bled.
Morrigan glanced up at the Atlas again.
Lark was still quiet.
Listening.
Morrigan imagined that woman inside the cockpit, hands calm on controls even while chained. The kind of woman who could order "sanitize" like it was a cleaning instruction.
Morrigan hated her.
But hate wasn't useful.
Useful was leverage.
Dack was keeping her alive for leverage.
Morrigan understood leverage better than she understood affection.
So she swallowed the urge to kill and accepted the rule.
For now.
---
Dack climbed down from the Dire Wolf again not long after, helmet under one arm, pilot suit clinging to him. He moved like a man who'd spent too long inside a cockpit—still dangerous, still sharp, but carrying a certain quiet exhaustion around the edges.
Morrigan watched him walk the bay without rushing, gaze flicking over mechs, clamps, people, angles.
He didn't look like a leader.
Not like the men Morrigan had grown up under.
He didn't swagger. Didn't yell. Didn't fill silence with threats.
He just existed—solid, unbending, calm in a way that made other people's panic look childish.
Dack stopped beneath the hanging Atlas.
"You awake?" he asked.
A soft laugh drifted down from inside the cockpit. "I never sleep when I'm caged."
Morrigan's fingers flexed, itching for violence.
Dack didn't rise to it. "You're staying caged."
"And if I don't cooperate?" Lark asked, voice smooth.
Dack's answer was flat. "Then I cut you out."
Jinx made an approving sound behind him, like she'd just heard a love confession.
Morrigan rolled her eyes.
Taila's hand brushed Dack's sleeve—quick, unconscious. She pulled it back like she'd touched fire.
Morrigan saw Dack register it anyway, in the tiny shift of his shoulders.
He didn't call her out.
He didn't embarrass her.
He just kept standing there, an anchor everyone kept tying themselves to without realizing it.
Morrigan hated anchors.
Anchors got pulled under.
Dack turned slightly, eyes sweeping the bay. They landed on Morrigan in the shadows.
For a heartbeat, her instinct was to harden—to glare, to make it clear she didn't need anyone looking at her like she mattered.
Dack didn't stare.
He just spoke, blunt and quiet.
"You good?"
Morrigan felt the question hit something inside her that hadn't been touched in years.
Not Are you okay? Not pity.
A check-in.
A commander making sure his asset wasn't about to fail.
That was manageable.
Morrigan's voice came out cold. "I didn't die."
Dack nodded once, like that was the only answer he needed. "Good."
Then he walked away.
Morrigan stood there for a second, pulse louder than it should've been.
Because Dack hadn't threatened her.
He hadn't flirted.
He hadn't demanded loyalty.
He'd just… counted her as part of the pack.
And that was the part that scared her.
---
She left the bay after that.
Not because she was done.
Because she needed air that didn't smell like heat and blood.
The corridor outside was dim, quieter. The ship's hum felt more personal here, like you could hear individual systems breathing. Morrigan walked toward her cabin—small, dark, with her gothic things tucked into corners like prayers she didn't say out loud.
Halfway there, she paused.
She could hear voices behind a door.
Jinx, bright and wicked. Taila, softer. Lyra, calm.
Low tones. Private.
Morrigan didn't press her ear to the door like some petty child.
But she listened anyway—because listening kept you alive.
She didn't catch words clearly, just cadence.
Jinx sounded… different.
Less teasing.
More tight.
Taila sounded protective.
Lyra sounded firm, the way she sounded when she was trying to keep someone from doing something stupid without making them feel controlled.
Morrigan's stomach tightened.
Secrets.
The ship was full of them. Always had been.
Morrigan hated secrets that weren't hers.
She kept walking.
Because even if she wanted to know, she didn't want to be the kind of person who stole intimacy.
Not anymore.
That was the problem with this crew.
They were changing her.
Slowly.
In ways she hadn't agreed to.
---
Back in her cabin, Morrigan peeled off her outer layer—a dark jacket streaked with dust and bay grime—and stared at her reflection in the small mirror bolted to the wall.
She looked like what she was: pale skin under harsh light, dark eyes too sharp, hair pulled back messily from combat and sweat. There was a faint smear of grime across her cheekbone like war paint.
Morrigan touched it and left it there.
She didn't want to look soft.
She didn't want to look like a girl.
She wanted to look like a threat.
Then her mind betrayed her with an image:
Dack, in the bay, saying "You good?" like it mattered.
She scowled at herself.
"Stupid," she muttered.
Her comm pinged.
Jinx. Ship-internal.
Morrigan hesitated, then answered.
"What?" she said.
Jinx's voice was bright and smug. "We're doing a big bed again tonight. You're invited."
Morrigan's throat tightened. "No."
"Why not?" Jinx sang. "Afraid you'll like it?"
Morrigan's teeth ground. "I don't sleep in piles."
"You sleep in piles when you're dead," Jinx said cheerfully. "Come cuddle, goth queen."
Morrigan's voice went colder. "Call me that again and I'll bite you."
Jinx laughed. "See? That's basically flirting."
Morrigan cut the channel.
She stood in silence for a long moment, staring at the dark wall like it had answers.
She didn't want to sleep alone.
That was the truth.
Not because she needed warmth.
Because sleeping alone meant thinking.
And thinking meant remembering her father's ship, her father's men, the way love always came with strings.
Morrigan didn't know how to accept closeness without searching for the leash.
Dack didn't leash people.
Jinx did, sometimes—but her leash was made of laughter and attention, not control.
Taila's leash was made of shy devotion.
Lyra's was made of quiet steadiness.
They weren't trying to own Morrigan.
They were trying to include her.
Morrigan didn't know what to do with that.
It made her angry.
It made her ache.
She hated both feelings.
---
When the Union's jump sequence began, the ship's hum deepened. A subtle change in vibration that ran through the deck plating like a warning.
Morrigan stepped back into the corridor, drawn by the instinct to be near the bay when things happened. If something went wrong, she wanted her Marauder close. She wanted steel between her and the universe.
She reached the mech bay threshold as the lights dimmed slightly—power reallocation for jump.
Through the open door, she saw the pack again.
Dack near the Dire Wolf. Taila close. Jinx too bright. Lyra at a terminal, monitoring ship status. Quill standing stiff near the shadow line, eyes flicking up to the Atlas like she couldn't stop looking.
And overhead, the Atlas hanging like a promise.
Morrigan stopped in the doorway and watched.
She didn't move closer.
Not yet.
But she stayed.
Because part of her—some small, stupid part—wanted to be seen there, in the same room, as if proximity alone could rewrite what she was.
Dack's voice came over internal comms, blunt and steady. "Everybody strap in. We jump when Lyra says."
Morrigan's lips curled faintly.
Leader.
Not Lyra.
Dack.
Good.
Lyra's voice followed, calm. "Jump in thirty."
Jinx made a delighted sound. Taila exhaled. Quill swallowed hard.
Morrigan glanced up at the Atlas again.
"If you try anything," Morrigan murmured under her breath, not bothering to key comms, "I will crack you open like a casket."
No answer came from the cockpit seam.
But Morrigan could feel the listening.
The jump hit.
Space folded.
The ship's bones thrummed.
Morrigan grabbed the nearest handhold and rode the violence like she'd ridden everything else in her life: teeth clenched, eyes open, refusing to flinch.
When it was over, the Union settled into a new silence.
A new patch of dark space.
A new set of threats waiting out there.
Morrigan looked at the crew again—this strange pack with their strange rules and their dangerous closeness.
And she realized something she didn't like admitting even to herself:
She was starting to want them to survive.
Not just because survival was practical.
Because she wanted to see what they became if they lived long enough to stop running.
Morrigan didn't know how to hope.
But she knew how to fight for something.
So she stayed in the doorway, arms folded, face cold, heart uncooperative.
And when Jinx glanced over and flashed her that wicked grin, Morrigan rolled her eyes and muttered just loud enough to be heard:
"Don't get used to me being here."
Jinx's grin widened. "Too late."
Morrigan scowled.
But she didn't leave.