(mostly) whump

“Heavies are bigger than standards,” it says. “More expensive, too, so we’re only really found on agricultural planets and astral mining ships. And I’ll be fine, seedling.”

“Look—” he touches the floor with his bare hand, and it feels nothing. No thoughts, no magic, just the nothing of being in an empty room. The blank, empty sense of the Captain spreading to it. “If something happens, you’ll be okay.”

“I—” it doesn’t lick its muzzle. Nods. Keeps its shoulders straight. “The Weapon will defer to your judgement, Captain. Sir.”

“I get what you mean, Captain Astrum, that is definitely uncanny, sir.” It thacks its hoof on the floor. “Fuck, now you’ve got me doing it.”

It looks at the Captain. Steps up to him when he gestures for it to.

A hand lands on top of its head, and the calm silence settles in. “Kid, take a breath. What’s he feeling?”

Pulling away, stepping back onto the floor, it says, “Anger, frustration.”

“And who’s that pointed at?” Rowan asks. “Find the line between you and me, Shale. Tell me five things you can see.”

The Captain is wearing loose, white pants stained with blue and yellow and red and black. It can see purple stripes all the way down his arms and on his chest, not just the ones on his face.

Five things. Five things. Captain Edgar is one thing, but he’s important.

“Kid,” he says. “Five things is to get you remembering who you are, not a summarized report.”

Oh.

It looks at Rowan’s thoughts while he explains what it’s actually meant to do.

The tangled mess of thorns isn’t a wall, or a snare. It’s a tangle, closing in on the things underneath. What’s hiding?

The vines weave tighter—

Silence.

Silence.

The Captain takes his hand off the floor.

“Yep,” Rowan says stiffly, “that’s some concentrated mana. Now, can I show you how to ask for information, or do you want to try something else?”

“Ask?”

He taps at its shields, curious and open. Wanting to know if it’s watching what he’s doing.

All it is is reaching out, offering a thought, carefully watching the edges of someone’s… someoneness and wandering under the cover of the first trees. The first few landmarks of another’s mind.

But some are water, and some are metal, and some are echoed sound. How does it know how far to wander?

‘Who is Captain Astrum? Why did Rowan talk to Edgar the way The Weapon does?’

“Captain Astrum the Sixteenth,” Rowan says quietly, “was the man who owned this ship before him. Captain Astrum the Seventeenth is Ianuarius.”

Yan, he calls Edgar.

Names can be collected. Why does Captain Edgar have so many names?

He doesn’t have to manually scrape off the paint, but stripping red and black and gold off the purplish grey metal is more satisfying. Like the weeks he spent recycling almost all his grandfather’s sets of armour. Stripping swirling, starry patterns away.

Ianuarius sighs. Dips his brush into the right shade of blue.

They serve a better purpose now. The pain they bring is temporary: a gateway to freedom instead of a preview of what’s to come.

And he took a break.

His pirate phase was spraypainted armour and the freedom to kill slavers. Painted like a snake and pretending to be someone else for a change. The next time he sees Picea, he’s buying them a—

Oh. They have a bank account. Fae are legally sapient, now. There’s six? Eight? He keeps forgetting the number. It’s been five most his life.

They still don’t trust the law, but to be fair, they’re a freeborn pirate whose prey is slaver ships, and he doesn’t trust the law much either.

“Captain!” Shale squints at a cup, and it launches into the ceiling. Chattering its teeth at the thing, it tries again, and again, and again, until Rowan tells it to take a breath.

“Magic’s tricky, kid,” Ianuarius says. “Throwing it’s better than what I can do.”

“But I’m—” it looks down at the floor, staring through its paws. “But The Weapon is better than this, sir. It’s supposed to be competent, and—” its voice cracks— “failure is not competence.”

“Not knowing your own strength isn’t failure,” Rowan says gently. “That’s normal enough, and maybe the way I do things isn’t the way that works for you. That’s okay, seedling. We can figure it out. Do you want to try gardening? I heard you like the gardens.”

“Or we can paint,” he says, when it stares blankly. “You can paint with me.” It’s not like he’s doing much more than waiting for paint to dry, doodling blue flowers on the wall.

It paints in blue. The same blue, trying to copy him.

Rowan sits down next to Shale, and picks green. Not the pre-mixed green, but a carefully chosen shade that reminds him of the gardens. “What’s your favourite colour, Shale?”

It tips its head. “Why would a weapon need a favourite colour?”

“Same reason an asteroid miner does,” he sighs. “To remember the world has good things in it, too. To get to the next day.

“The first time I saw green,” he says softly, “real, living green, I was with the Captain.”

Ianuarius closes his eyes.

“I was almost sixty, then, around his age, when he was sick of—” trying to fix the centaur ration issue but the website was still broken and he just wanted to give up and cry but they needed him— “just dealing with the most frustrating thing,” he says softly. It’s such an understatement.

“So I marched right up to him and gave him a solution he didn’t want to hear.”

Shale takes in a sharp breath, claws scraping on the floor. He doesn’t open his eyes to look at it. He doesn’t want to see it scared of him.

He can’t see it scared of him.

“It was the only option—” it was a thing they’d been doing in secret for decades— “and he hated it. So he went to the gardens, and brought me with him.”

“And I agreed with you,” he whispers. “I lied down in the grass, staring up at a rowan tree, and I told you you were right.”

“He listened,” Rowan says. “I thought he’d kill me for it, but he listened. Lying in the green, kid, and there was so much green.”

“Purple,” it says.

“Hm?”

“Captain Edgar has purple stripes,” it says, tapping its nose to his cheek. The paint on his armour is dry enough to cover in white flowers, now.

“I like his purple. Because it’s his,” it says. Hesitates. “Do you like purple, sir?”

He shakes his head, mouth dry. His hands are steady while he paints, though, and that’s what matters.

“The blanket you gave me is purple, and the bracelet beads, and—” it keeps talking.

Purple is a genemod burned into his bloodline. Purple is a history he only learned about because his grandfather died, forcing him to end his studies and meet horrors he was only vaguely aware of.

It is the hair he dyes black and the stripes that still make the old crew flinch, if they’re tired. The main colour in Captain Astrum XVI’s armour, and the old enforcer uniforms.

But it’s good, to the kid. Purple is safety and comfort.

And purple is him.

“I like blue,” he mumbles. He’s crying.

Purple is him.

•••

Shale (Project Werewolf) Masterpost

“Status report.”

“I—The Wea—” it flicks its tail, irritated. “The weight of the harness reduces its—my speed, though not significantly. The arm slots have ample room, and the storage will likely make me more effective. I do not have any complaints about the material,” it reports.

Does not stare at Captain Edgar and listen to Quartermaster’s surface-thoughts to get a sense for how he’s feeling.

I do not have any complaints. The words, its words, imply it might complain about other things. Hint at the Weapon’s….

The words are tainted with insubordination and rebellion. It cannot revoke the words.

It cannot unspeak them.

“That’s good, Shale. If that changes, I’d like you to mention it.”

“Kid, stand down.” Edgar lunges for it— “Weapon, stand down.”

He grabs the handle on its harness with a mud-slick hand, dropping to hold Shale properly. Pries its mouth open with some effort.

Tracker’s tail is bleeding. The venomous barb wasn’t punctured, and the Weapon restrained it so she couldn’t sting it.

“Are you okay?”

“The Wea—The Weapon did not intend to— It—it—” it ducks its head, eyes clamped shut, taking choking, gasping breaths that consume its body.

Trembles, little scales fading in and out of existence, and he can barely pick out the words— “disobedient—will not happen again—it’s sorry—will make sure to comply—sorry—”

He leans on its side, breathing deeply and audibly. “Breathe. Breathe, kid. It’s just a bite. You’ll be okay. Tracker will be okay.

“Tracker will be okay, and we’ll learn why this happened so we can work on fixing it. Not yet, but once you’re calm.”

Eventually, eventually, its breathing settles. It still trembles, watching him, but he gives it a peanut butter bite, and it seems to understand he won’t punish it, even if the fear is still there.

“Do you want to lay down for a bit, or wash the mud off?”

“The bath, sir.”

It stiffens before leaning into his touch. Presses the top of its soapy head into his chest while he rubs shampoo into the fur on its neck. Buzzes, softly.

Dr Gabriel can’t touch its neck without it closing its eyes and tensing, but Shale lets out the tiniest whine when his hands move down to its shoulders.

By the time it’s ready to be rinsed and dried, it’s less on edge. Doesn’t flinch when he trips over the ramp and curses himself for putting it there.

Shale eyes the small metal cage in the Captain’s hands from its place on his bed. “What is it, sir?”

“A muzzle. You said running reminds you of chasing people down, right? That it’s hard to tell the difference?”

It does. It hasn’t run in weeks, and suggested a tether in case it sees someone else run.

“It’s soft, on the inside, and it’s got four little screws you can put in to suppress your magic, in case you get overwhelmed or triggered by people’s thoughts. They go in this pocket on your harness, but I’ll carry spares just in case.”

He puts it on.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Now take it off,” he says.

It reaches up, with shaking hands, and undoes the buckle. Hesitates. Does not get hit. Does not get shocked. Does not get whipped.

Hesitates, looking at Captain Edgar.

Slowly, carefully, it removes the muzzle. Gives it back to the Captain. Gets a reward.

Gets a reward.

“Sir, why is the muzzle removable?”

“I want you to think before biting,” he says, fluffing the fur on its chin. “I want you to use it as a tool to remember biting is not your first option, and I want you to be able to remove it if you rethink it and decide biting is the right choice.”

It places its head onto his lap. “The Weapon may not be able to—”

“We’ll work on it. Good job, kid.”

It does not buzz loudly at that. It is perfectly dignified and professional and the vents make weird noises sometimes.

He brings it to the cafeteria, and gives it a big bowl with peanut butter on top. And a turkey neck. And is something it has to work on, rather than choking down the whole thing at once.

Which is good, because it likes tasting things. Its fur is shinier, it’s gained some weight, and it’s….

It hasn’t jumped up to the Captain’s bed without permission, but it could. He wouldn’t hurt it, and there aren’t any thoughts in his head: he means what he says.

In the beginning, he said it could sleep on his bed.

They go out to the hall. He puts its muzzle on. “Go run five laps between here, the garden, and the gym.”

“The Weapon can run sixty-five, sir.” It would vomit on the final lap and collapse from exhaustion, but it could. It has run that much before.

“Ten,” he says firmly. “If you remove your muzzle, stop. If you get tired, stop. If you get thirsty, there’s a water bottle—”

“In my harness, sir. I am aware, you showed me. It even has a straw!”

“Yeah, kid. You can stick it through, if you want, but I’d prefer if you stop to drink.”

The muzzle is…. The ability to remove it makes it less effective, but it doesn’t tell him that. Just runs, snapping at people who seem to be running away, but the muzzle doesn’t let it do anything more.

By the fourth lap, it’s aware of the urge to bite, and by the fifth, manages to stop itself from snapping at two different people.

Shale crashes into its Captain, and presses its head into his leg. “No causalties.” it reports, shoving the straw in its mouth and taking a long sip. “Thirty-one attempts. The muzzle is functional, sir.”

“Good job, kid. I love you,” he says. It would do anything to hear that. Ten laps is nothing, fifty laps is nothing, seventy laps is nothing, compared to the way his voice goes soft and special and just for it.

“Thank you, Captain.”

They play tug-war to help it feel successful. Like it caught something, the Captain says, but it doesn’t really care about the reason.

It gets to play tug-war.

It gets to win tug-war, and get told it’s strong and crafty and good.

Play makes it buzz. Play makes it buzz loudly, bobbing its head in anticipation.

The Captain could ask it to do anything, to push itself past its limits until it’s sick and wheezing and pathetic, and it would do it for play and affirmations and gentle hands. It tells him.

“I know, kid. I’m sorry.”

It brushes against his leg. “I love you too, sir.”

•••

Shale sits across from Hex, the atlantean with yellow-orange skin and purple-black on the inside of xyr arms.

Yesterday, xe looked different, but xe’s still the same person.

‘Now, can you reach for my mind?’ The question is telepathed, and it tries to do the same.

It tries.

It reaches, squeezing xyr shields, feeling them resist, feeling the prickly feeling of mental defenses that inevitably crack and crumble under the weight of its power.

“—Stop.”

It doesn’t. It knows what to do, it knows not to listen to its targets, it—

Isn’t listening to its instructor.

It isn’t listening to its instructor.

It stops.

Seconds too late, minutes too late, it stops. Ducks its head. Senses xem leave.

Xe’ll come back. With tools.

Its collar is gone, but there are other ways to make it listen.

Maybe the collar will come back, worse than before.

It isn’t trembling.

It isn’t trembling.

It can’t tremble, it’s a weapon, the Weapon, and weapons don’t tremble. It cost too much to be discarded, and—

The trembly-feeling comes out in little pinecone spikes on its underside, and it lays flat to hide them.

There aren’t any minds around, but there will be, there will be, and it’ll hurt.

The Weapon curls up on the floor, and imagines the comforting touch of the Captain’s hand combing through its fur. Imagines a bracelet being slid onto its wrist. Imagines being picked up, body pressed against him while its tail drags limply along the floor.

Imagines being placed on something soft. Imagines gentle words. Imagines…….

When nothing happens for an hour, it lifts its head.

It’s on a Handler’s bed, the Captain’s bed, and its his hand combing through its fur. It’s whining. It stops whining.

“The Weapon did not intend to abandon its training, it—”

“I carried you, kid,” he says softly. “Hex called me. Mana burn can heal, and you can always try again.”

He holds out a snack in his hand, and it takes it.

Hums a quiet song to it, until it curls up around him and falls asleep.

Edgar sighs. Removes the magic suppressant from its wrist. He’ll have to supervise training from now on. The kid trusts him, which means he’ll have to delegate more until it learns to trust other people. Or ask Gabriel to watch it.

When it wakes up, he brings it to the kitchens, gets a small unpainted cup, and smears peanut butter on the sides. Fills it with whipped cream, tops with blueberries, and hands it to Shale.

A pup cup.

“Thank you, sir.”

It licks the metal surface clean, sticking its nose all the way in to get the last bits out.

The cup is still attached to its snout when it looks up, and it awkwardly pulls it off. Licks its muzzle to clean it.

A long, nervous pause. “The Weapon was informed it could ask for food outside of mealtimes. May the Weapon…?”

“Do you want me to add blueberry jam this time?”

“Yes, sir.”

•••

“Here,” they say, pulling the blanket free. Two of their—he’s one of the tentacle ones—two of his arms have lines on them, and are longer than the others.

‘They’re stretchmarks,’ he telepaths. ‘From healing spells, so they’d grow back faster.’

“My name is Mango.”

“The Weapon has been given the name Shale,” it says, picking up the pillow with its secondary arms and hopping back up. Is it permitted to share its name?

It isn’t sure, but this is Captain Edgar’s ship, and everyone on it belongs to him.

If he allows it to have a name, no one can revoke it.

“Ships are required to have a specific set of lights, so they’re easier to spot. Even if the radio doesn’t work, or if the ship’s crew is all humans, you should be able to spot it.”

“Human, sir?”

“Like the Captain, or Doctor Gabriel. They don’t have a drop of mana, so they can’t scan for life or be seen on life scans. They’re immune to it.”

It will never be strong enough to crack open Captain Edgar’s mind, but he will never be able to read its. Ever.

It looks back at the stars. Edg—Captain Edgar brought it a fluffy blanket, cleared a spot no one was using, and let it watch the stars instead of making it stand at his side while he works.

Why? It isn’t training, it’s the opposite of a punishment, and it isn’t like it’s a test. He doesn’t—

“Kid?”

It looks up.

“Did you have fun stargazing?”

“The Wea—I learned about ship light regulations, sir.”

Edgar looks at the kid. Looks at Mango. Looks back at the kid. “That’s nice. Now, do you want to visit the garden or the gym?”

Visible hesitation. He forgot the garden during the tour, but Shale might like the plants. And the little critters that are necessary to maintain the environment. It’s more like a giant terrarium or a little wildlife area than a garden, really.

“What is a garden, sir?”

“It’s a place full of plants. On this ship, it’s like a little forest. Might be a nice way to get you used to being on-planet.”

Opening the door, he watches it sniff at the air. It tips its head, buzzing like a beehive.

Plants. The kid has never seen plants before. Has never seen moss. Has never heard birdsong.

It digs its claws into the dirt, stretches, stops at every plant just to look at it, and stares at a moss covered rock for a long moment.

It runs. He doesn’t try to keep up, just watches it race past him, running in loops until it crawls back, panting heavily, and sinks its body into the mud at his feet.

“I’m going to read, kid. You aren’t on a time limit, and you can visit this place whenever you want.” Mel fixed the issue with its profile (the one where he and Dr Gabriel both made one) so its tag is functional, and its keycard is low priority.

It curls up on his lap while he reads.

His lap ends up covered in mud.

It gets a nice, warm bath to get all the mud out. Leans into the touch, just slightly, while he works the soap into its fur.

Accepts the peanut butter bites he offers it before lunch.

•••

That might be good for it, he thinks, gathering some pillows and setting them in a vague semicircle next to the window. He folds one of his big, soft winter quilts in half, then quarters, and puts it on top.

It’s a bed, or close enough.

“There.” It looks up at him. Steps carefully, hesitantly, towards the new bed, almost touching it with its nose while it inspects his work.

“That is your blanket, sir.”

“I can get you a different one, if you don’t like it.” The quilt he used is covered in constellations. It doesn’t say a word.

Maybe it likes the bed. Maybe it doesn’t want to be accused of talking back.

“Let’s get you breakfast,” he says.

Deliberately leaving out the heel command, he walks with it to the cafeteria. It doesn’t notice. With some work, he can quit using commands, wean it off them, but he has to start slowly.

Gabriel walks up to them, and offers to show it the options. Walking bipedally, it follows almost at her side.

“You’re omnivorous, so you should be able to eat most things here. Anything with this symbol is human-only, anything with that symbol is atlantean-only, and foods everyone can handle are marked with a star.

“What would you like to try first?”

It stares blankly, nose twitching at the smell of food. Doesn’t speak.

“How about this? I’ll fix you a plate, and you tell me if you like the food, okay?”

“Understood si—” the tip of its tail flicks, nearly tripping Hex. “Understood, Doctor.”

Hex stares at him. Lifts one of the arms wrapped around xyr body to point at Shale, and curls another like a question. Edgar nods at xem, and takes his breakfast to a table while it watches Dr. Gabriel prepare its meal.

“What do you look like today?” he asks once xe’s sat across from him, xyr frontmost arms draped over not-shoulders he doesn’t remember the name of.

Xyr other arms aren’t visible. Likely in a bun: tucked into a jar attached to xyr shoulder pads. Not-shoulder pads. Language is a horrible curse.

“Female coloration,” xe says, “light purple and gold.” Unzipping the window in xyr shirt reveals xyr mouth, with its rows and rows of sharp teeth.

“I thought about inverting it, though. Making gold my primary colour would be nice: a hint of masculine flamboyancy in a feminine palette.”

To him, xe’s bright pink with orange on the underside of xyr six arms. Xyr pattern, a pattern he can only describe as “drunk rings with drunker outlines,” is pale blue tracing dark purple.

“Sounds pretty,” he says. “Could you teach the kid how to telepath? It was taught to break shields during interrogations, and it needs to learn how to… not do that.”

Hex pries open one of the brightly-coloured shells on xyr plate. “I’m up for the challenge. It’ll probably have to learn a couple more things, actually—”

They discuss teaching strategies, and Hex tells him shapeshifting isn’t possible. He sends xem its training files and medical record, and absentmindedly gives Shale the eat command when it appears at the table with a slow feed bowl.

The blueberries he was planning on having with his oatmeal quickly disappear into Shale’s pointy mouth. He doesn’t comment on it.

Silently typing ‘blueberries’ into a new document titled ‘list of treats for Shale’ doesn’t count as commenting on it. Not when it’s too busy eating lightning-quail eggs to notice he’s watching it.

It works on licking the bowl clean. Gabriel gets up, bringing it some more food. “I noticed you like the eggs,” she says.

“I—The Weapon—” it ducks its head. “They’re crunchy,” it mumbles.

Edgar pats its head. “Good. They’re good for you.”

It only eats when he gives it the command again.

If he changes the command to an action, he might be able to get it to eat on its own.

Maybe tapping at the dish could be its new command? That might work, since it shouldn’t eat things off the floor, and the floor isn’t a dish. Unless it thinks plates count as….

It’s sapient and can understand speech. He can just tell it not to eat off the floor.

Hands might give it issue. Hmm…. Maybe he should start teaching the alternate command by hand feeding it, then expand it to other things.

He can’t keep blueberries in his pocket, but peanut butter bites and jerky-treats should work.

It finishes its second helping of breakfast, and he shows it where to bring the dirty dishes. Picks up some snack-treats for it.

“If you get hungry outside of mealtimes, tell me. You’re malnourished and underweight.”

“The Weapon does not eat when it fails.”

He stops.

It flinches.

“The Wea—I—the Weapon can skip eating tomorrow. Next meal. It—”

“I think,” he says slowly, “we should have a talk about rules. Follow me.”

The little art studio on the ship has a peeling sign that reads ‘enrichment centre’ covering the original sign. And a field of flowers on the wall that’ll get painted over when the mural battle continues.

He fishes the tag out of his pocket, holding it up. “This will let you access most areas on the ship until I can get you a key card. But it’ll still come in handy after you get the key card—you don’t have to remember which pocket it’s in, for one.

“Now, do you want to pick out beads or write down your rules first?”

“Weapons can’t read or write, sir.”

Edgar gets out a jar of beads and some string. “Can you pick some nice colours?”

Black and dark blue. It picks black and dark blue. The beads are different shapes and textures, and he rolls them between his fingers before putting enough for a bracelet on the string.

A bracelet that does not have a tag. He still puts it on its wrist. Gathering a couple star beads to fill out the tag bracelet, he picks a soft orange and deep purple that aren’t quite the same shades as the blankets Shale chose.

“Here,” he murmurs, sliding the bracelet to it. “You can wear it however you want, but please tell me if it goes missing so I can find it.”

Hastily cut-off buzzing. He gets a notebook, blaming the sound on the ventilation system needing maintenence, and hears he sound return slightly softer than before.

“Now, can you tell me what rules you had before?” There’s a better way to say it. He can’t think of a better way to say it.

It ducks its head. “Yes, sir.”

He can’t back out now.

He picks up a pen.

“The Weapon must obey orders from its Handlers without hesitation. It may only speak when spoken to, and must give the correct answer to every question even if it doesn’t have an answer.

“The Weapon must accept corrections without complaint or attempting to defend itself. It—” Edgar can barely keep up with writing them down, doesn’t get a minute to feel anything about the words it’s saying, just writes.

Writes, and listens, and does not think about how its voice is turning into a whine.

Does not look up.

Does not speak.

Does not stop writing until every last word is on paper.

Until the Weapon—until Shale closes its eyes.

Until it clamps one hand around its snout, trying and failing to shut itself up.

Edgar stands. It scrambles to sit, pressing all its limbs to the floor, bowing its head, and curling its tail around itself. A beetle-shiny carapace replaces its fur, making it look like a strange armadillo. Or a pangolin.

Whichever of the two looks like a pinecone. That’s what Shale looks like. A pinecone-dog that’s trying its best to stay still.

Resting his hand on its head, he takes a slow, even breath. The hard, armoured surface doesn’t react when he pets it. “Hey—”

It tenses. The scaly carapace turns back into soft fur and skin under his hand. “I—the Weapon apologises, sir. It meant no disrespect, it—meant no disrespect, it was an—it was—”

“Hey, look at me,” he murmurs, crouching down to its level. “Look at me. Breathe with me.”

“I—” it chokes. Closes its eyes. Tenses, opening them— “Sorry, sir, the Wea—the Weapon is mal—malfun—malfunctioning. It. It is better—better than this. It. This—”

“Turn back into a pinecone,” he says, forcing it to sound like an order. “If you can breathe in that form, turn back.”

It does.

Pulling it forward, into a hug, he runs his hand firmly down the scales on its back, hoping it can feel the pressure. Follows the first hand with a second, letting his short nails clack-click-clack-clack over the overlapping scales.

Scales that rattle under its gasping breaths and trembling body. With choking breaths, it promises to be better, to do better, and all he can do is hold it. All he can do is hold it, and—

And not count breaths. Counting makes it worse. Counting makes it worse, so he breathes slowly and deliberately and tries not to feel like the worst person of all of time for making it worse.

He breathes slowly, murmuring reassurances until it curls up in his lap. Until its breathing is stable.

Until its fur returns.

Until it looks up at him and asks why he isn’t punishing it. It’s required to speak clearly, and it used its defenses without permission.

Taking a peanut butter bite out of his pocket, he offers it to it. “Thank you for telling me your rules, Shale. Now, we have different rules here.…”

It asks questions. Hestitantly, like he’ll hit it for asking the wrong one, but it asks.

It asks questions, and looks startled every time he offers it a reward for it.

It asks questions.

And, running a hand through its fur, he answers every last one.

•••

Its new handler (Empty-handler) doesn’t seem to care, just orders it to eat and gives it a new command. “Heel?” it asks, because it sounds like what heel is. They accept it.

They get it cleaned up—its fur is soft, now, didn’t know its fur could be that soft—and tested by Gabriel, who is not a sir but a Dr.

Named by Gabriel, who doesn’t ask Empty-handler for permission, but is granted it anyway. She barely tests it, but it can’t say that to a tester. Maybe it’s a behaviour test. Maybe it has something to do with the ‘blood sample’ she takes. But, either way, it gets to know it passed with a sticker on its new sticker-chart.

There’s probably a file too, but it isn’t allowed to read those.

“Heel,” they say. “Now, we don’t have a free room for you, and I’m not keeping you in the brig, so you’re staying in my room. The Captain’s quarters. It’s too big for me—big enough to fit Atlanteans for accessibility reasons, but we’ll need to see the quartermaster for supplies.”

The ‘quartermaster’ is a familiar alien. One of the tentacle ones. Large and purple-black, with one eye in the centre of her face, and the tentacles dangling from her head have gold undersides. Like Empty-handler’s fur, only… not.

“Captain Edgar.” She telepaths surprised-pleased. And— ‘Stay out of my mind, little dog. It’s rude to pry.’

No shock?

No shock. It presses a hand to its neck when no one is looking, hoping there isn’t a camera. No collar, Captain Edgar still has it in his pocket, so hopefully he’ll forget about it.

The weapon is shown a room with stuff. Pillows and blankets and clothes that are too big for it, but it doesn’t matter.

Weapons don’t need clothes. The scaly ones that walk like it don’t need clothes either.

It puts on multiple clothes that don’t have enough arm-holes and are too big. The Quartermaster promises to ‘tailor’ the clothes to fit it.

“Pick what you need, and put it in here,” Captain Edgar says, pointing at a cart. “Then, we’ll bring it to the room and get you settled.”

It picks a basic cushion and blanket. He sighs, putting two extra blankets—one heavy, and one fluffy—and a couple extra pillows in the cart.

“Sir, with all due respect, the weapon doesn’t need—”

He ignores it, adding eight things it doesn’t recognise and a piece of rope to the cart.

“Anything you don’t claim is getting sold, Shale. And it’s good to have extras.”

Slowly, reluctantly, it adds an interesting blanket to the cart when he isn’t looking. Puts a similar, less interesting (but softer) blanket in too. If he takes one away, it’ll still have good blankets.

They go up to his room.

The bed is a large pillow. There’s even a smaller pillow on the floor. “Dandelion, my dog, used to sleep there, or curled up at the foot of my bed.

“You’re welcome to sleep in either spot, and we can set up a nest if that’s more comfortable.”

Either spot. Either spot, and one of those spots is on a handler’s bed. It’s never even seen a handler’s bed. It looks….

Its new bed isn’t a vaguely fluff-stuffed sack with a thin blanket on top. It’s a real pillow, rectangular, with a nice soft border around it. With its new blankets…. The weapon suppresses a buzz, keeping itself as still and calm as possible.

Letting its new handler know it likes the bed will make him use it as leverage.

Across from the beds, there’s a fabric hanging over the wall. Covering it completely. It doesn’t know why.

“Your dog, sir?”

He shows it a picture. “Non-sapient companion from my ancestral planet, Earth. Er… non-thinking. Less intelligent.”

“Like me.”

“Your file says otherwise,” Captain Edgar says. It must, since it’s been corrected for thinking too much. “You can crack mental shielding?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll get you set up with lessons from Hex about telepathing appropriately. Cracking shields is, according to what I’ve heard, painful, so you shouldn’t do it unless….”

According to what he’s heard, it thinks, with no small amount of horror. Not experienced, heard. It hasn’t experienced it either, but it’s strong. It can’t even see his mind-walls.

How much stronger than it is he?

How much stronger than it is he?

“Now, would you rather go to bed now, or after a proper tour of the ship?”

If the tour—can he hear it think? It can hear simple thoughts, even if they aren’t telepathed, but it’s strong. If it can’t hear that, he—

Is still waiting for an answer. “The ship.”

Wrong answer. If the tour takes too long, it might not get enough time to sleep.

But it’s too late to say no, so it just follows him. It likes the cafeteria the most, which has nothing to do with the non-ration food Captain Edgar gives it. The bone looks like one of the things it didn’t recognise before.

The gym is nice too. All the stars in the window……….

How long has it been since it’s seen the sky? It can’t remember if it’s ever seen it, struggled with the words until Captain Edgar….

“—Shale?”

It jumps. “Sorry, sir, I—”

“Hey, easy,” he murmurs, scratching its head. Running his hand through its fur. “Do you want to keep stargazing, or do you want to play for a bit now that the tour is over?”

“Play.” It’s the safe choice, even if it doesn’t know what it is. Choosing a punishment makes it hurt less. It—

Pulling at the rope with its teeth, it thrashes its head to get Captain Edgar to let go. Draws a touch-sight illusion of his hands dropping the rope—

He twists it out of its mouth while it’s distracted. While it’s expecting him to be confused.

And they do it again. And again. And again. And again, until it learns he isn’t distracted by illusions and starts winning the rope.

“I don’t think I can tire you out before the day-cycle,” he pants.

Its legs are sore. Its jaw hurts. But if its new handler isn’t done with training, it’ll work until it collapses. It says nothing.

“You win, Shale. Playtime’s over, we’re going to sleep.”

It manages to get halfway to the Captain’s quarters before tripping over itself. Before Captain Edgar picks it up and carries it, clearly fed up with its struggles.

Gently, he sets it down on the half-sized bed at the foot of his bed. Pushes aside the fabric to reveal a window filled with stars. “There you go,” he murmurs. “Today was a lot, wasn’t it? Now you should to sleep, and I’m going to check your file to see if there’s anything I missed about getting you to sleep—”

“The weapon has no sleep command,” it says. “Would you like to—”

“No. Not happening. There is nothing I want less than to have to give you permission to sleep every night, kid.” He drapes a soft blanket over it. “You like stars, don’t you?”

“I do, sir,” it says. It feels wrong to say, but he already knows, so it isn’t revealing anything this handler couldn’t already use against it.

The soft blanket, the one draped over it, is covered in stars.

Shale waits for Captain Edgar to fall asleep, and waits another couple minutes just to be sure. His mind is as silent asleep as it is awake.

Curling up, tucking its snout into its fur so its speech is muffled, pulling its mind-wall up as high as it goes, it chokes a tiny, quiet, “Thank you.”

•••

Every member of his crew reacts by refusing to surrender their captain.

Refusing to surrender him.

Perigrine lunges for them, metal talons prying at their armour. “Fuck you,” xe snarls, swatting a Pandoran orck with an armoured wing. “Some random fucking pirate latches onto our ship and you—”

There’s something wrong with the atlantean.

“I’m only here for your commanding officers,” they say. “The rest of you are free to make your own choices.”

Ianuarius sets his shoulders. Right.

Fine.

Fine.

Gritting his teeth, accidentally cracking open the too-sweet poison capsule, he sighs. Hits his chestplate with a sharp clang. His crew stands down. Perigrine still lashes xyr tail at the pirates. “I’m King-Captain Astrum.”

The pirate Captain stiffens, and one of their arms reacts first. It’s always the same one.

Their armour is wrong. There’s no chest seam or port. Atlanteans get overlapping chestpieces, to put food and water through, and if they don’t, they have a feeding tube, but there isn’t a port for it. The only way for them to eat would be to remove the chestplate.

No atlantean would wear armour like that.

“You’re not an atlantean,” he realizes. “You aren’t a legal sapient, and you boarded my ship to kill me.” They don’t answer. “Am I wrong?”

Someone in the boarding crew curses loudly.

The Redemption warps into comm range, and the Pandoran orck curses louder.

“Let my crew go.” The Captain’s voice is hard, growling. “I’ll stay behind. But let them go, or I’ll detonate the bombs we planted on your ship.”

“Mom—”

“I’ll go with ‘em,” Hawthorn says. “Might as well give them a better bargaining chip.”

“Fine.” Ianuarius waits for—the orck—their kid to deactivate Hawthorn’s chip. “You stay, they leave, we struggle to disarm the bombs for a couple hours in case you’re lying.”

He waits with the other captain until their ship disappears into the void.

They don’t speak, staring blankly into space.

Without their armour, they’re a faerie in very good condition. Better than he’s ever seen. Their exoskeleton is pearlescent white, and the unarmoured skin is a deep, shiny red. The ‘arm’ that always reacted first was their trunk, wrapped around in such a way as to stick out the right way.

Their antennae aren’t cropped, their main arms were hidden inside the armour, their smaller mid-arms are intact, and their wings are perfectly healthy. Useless, compared to a male’s, but they’re several times larger than one.

He touches their left wing, lightly, and it twitches. “Sorry,” he says. “You’re healthy: maybe a little underweight, but that could be a supply issue.”

King-Captain Astrum removes his helmet, peels off his gloves, and examines them. Muttering quietly while their upper armour just sits there.

Yes, their trunk is longer than it should be. It was magically extended to suit their disguise. They don’t want to hear about how weird it is to still have their smaller set of arms.

His fingertips brush over their wing. Wings aren’t intimate, for fae, but touching them without setting proper terms is…. They’re still delicate. Still sensitive.

It’s rude.

“Sorry.” He unlocks their restraints. “You’re healthy: maybe a little underweight, but that could be a supply issue.”

Their wings buzz. Getting rid of that lingering feeling.

“You’re freeborn,” he says, “aren’t you?”

They nod. “Yessir.” It’s a habit they broke so many out of.

They forgot to put a clause in there, where the King-Captain would never go after their people. They forgot.

Their name is gone, though. They made a deal with Theo, that if they got captured, their name would stay with her. For safekeeping.

They liked that name, whatever it was.

“Atlanteans have different armour,” he says, letting them put it back on. “It fits you well enough, but it’s not the best metal, and I’d rather you have something you can properly move in than something that hides your species. But we’ll try both.”

“What?”

“Right. I’m going to be honest with you, Captain. I need a pirate to do what I can’t, and I’d rather ally with someone willing to sacrifice themself to save their crew than someone looking to make a quick buck.”

They take a transport with him. C-class ships are far larger than their B-class one, and even they have public transit. The Judgement is large enough to be self-sufficient if adequately supplied, but any sort of blight is enough to compromise that.

There’s a reason they’re classed as semi-independent.

“So you want me to do your dirtywork,” they say. Being a King’s pet pirate might work in the short term, but it’d be so easy for him to betray them.

“I want you to hunt down slavers, and I want to suggest ones you might be able to kill. I want to get you better armour, better weapons, and transfer you members of my crew who don’t want to stay with me.”

“Do what you can’t,” they say, thinking it over.

King-Captain Astrum runs a hand through his hair. “Yes. I have to be polite to slavers at the markets. You have to hunt them on their ships.”

“But I can’t go to the markets, and you can’t kill them without risking your crew.”

The forge is a massive industrial operation, through the window, but they end up in a simple room.

“I can’t make a binding deal, with you, so I won’t ask you to bind yourself to that agreement through someone else. But… think about it.”

Ianuarius measures the faerie Captain, inspects the armour, and ask where they got the metal from.

“A scrapped ship. My…. My daughter’s armour is better quality. I— She’s more hot tempered, and I wanted to protect her.” He drops a metal ingot into their hands. “That’s….”

“Astral gold,” he says. An alloy of gold and thaumir, but only Astrums and Aurums can make thaumir alloys properly. It’s part of how he makes enough money to run the ship.

High quality thaumir alloys are expensive, and his family has a monopoly.

The mining operations were scaled down, but the simple, consistent form of income is good for them. Well, that, and some of the crew wanted to return to mining when given better conditions.

He sketches out two options. One adapted to suit the Captain’s species, the other based on atlanteans.

They workshop it—the mismatched limbs are difficult to balance, and they’re insistent on the disguise. It needs to be able to fool Ianuarius, so they’ll look convincing enough even if they can’t pull up an illusion.

They’re good in a forge. Of course they are. They worked poor-quality materials into decent armour.

Of course, since their arrangement is highly illegal, they’re working with thaumir-sodium, and coating the inside in astral gold. Cheaper. More believable, and will stop their magic cutting out if they touch a null in a fight.

“King-Captain—”

“Edgar.” Not his business name. “I’d like you to promise to use my middle name or something else. Connecting our agreement to me, is….”

They nibble on their antennae with their trunk, and it takes a while for him to get that they’re grooming their face. It takes him a bit longer to understand that it’s a nervous behaviour.

“Picea,” they breathe. “That’s…. Fuck, I need to comm my daughter and tell her I’m okay.”

“Alright. If you have a forge at home, you can continue working on it. I’ll get you some more metal.”

He can hear their daughter’s furious shouting on the comm while he works on filling a crate. Captain-elect Prometheus, apparently. They sigh. “She melted her comm again. Could you…?”

Astral iron deflects magic, like water off a beetle’s waxy shell. He adds it in.

•••

Captain & Crew Masterpost

“I’m already selling Rose at a discount, and he is in good health for a retired racehorse,” Octaviana says.

Strictly speaking, she isn’t wrong. Racing centaurs aren’t cheap, and even one with a broken leg can be expensive depending on its popularity.

“Right,” he sighs. Sets a hand on his hip. “It is. It just looks worse than the photo.”

Octaviana Pearlver. Astrums are old money, like Pearlvers, but inherently being in positions of command means they can sell handmade art even when technically employed. Horizons, even he used to sell artistic clothing repairs for high prices: the information’s hard to find, and no one bothers to learn the skill.

But pearldivers got their wealth extracting rare gems from organics. Getting their hands wet. This much of a discount means the thing’s more trouble than it’s worth.

Just low enough to legally avoid being called a scam, but still high enough to be annoying.

“Can it read and write—numbers, at least?”

It can.

Of course it can. Racing centaurs often have elaborate signatures, and have to know at least some numbers to do their jobs.

Grumbling, he makes the purchase. It isn’t drugged, for the pain it’s in, and the iron shackles stop it from using magic to keep the weight off its leg. Its mangled leg.

“Nines, carry.” Willow can lift more weight than Rowan, and they can’t remove the iron in public.

The walk back to the shuttle is long. Almost silent, until they’re inside and Rowan gives it a strong painkiller. Until he steps out (to give them space) to do the pre-flight checks. To make sure nothing’s been pried off or tampered with.

In the shade of his shuttle, he finds a child.

A skeletal centling, abandoned in the desert.

Leaning against the therma-shield metal, it pants heavily, trying to keep cool.

Blood stains its bone white coat, but the injuries look like they’ve been healed for a while, and its fingers and ossicones are burnt black. Probably mana burnout. It’s a young thing, so it wouldn’t take much.

He takes a cloth from his pocket, and unclips the water bottle from his belt—

“I…. ‘Msorry, ma’am,” it rasps. “Won’t… again. ‘Msorry.”

Setting the newly-damp cloth on its back, he sighs. “I know, kid. I know.”

Rowan stares at the dying centling Ianuarius brings in. It drinks a liquid ration, and doesn’t resist his magic—not that it could, if it wanted to.

Mumbling hoarse apologies, it lets him comb its tangled hair, and tips its head up when he turns on the shower. “Yeah,” he says gently. “You’re okay, seedling.”

He touches its hand, and its eyes turn a hollow black that has him reaching for the bracelet with the iron clasp. “No,” he says, snapping it shut around its ankle. “That stays on for at least two weeks: until I know you won’t burn yourself.

“I won’t touch your hands, seedling.”

And he doesn’t.

Wrapping it up in a towel, he gets it a cup of water and a little bottle of juice so it stops trying to drink the water from its hair. “You’re not a cactus, seedling, you don’t need to drink water off yourself.”

“Cactus?”

“Those prickly things outside? Those are cacti. They collect all the water they can, and keep it inside them in case they need it.”

It stares, pale eyes round as moons. “Are they food?”

“Centaurs can eat cacti, and safely drink the water inside.” Humans are poison resistant in a completely different direction, and can’t just eat cacti—not without checking the species and preparing it well.

He scoops it up, carrying it to their room. Lies down next to it.

“Can I have a name?”

The floor-bedding is actually soft, now, not just rubber meant to cushion a fall. He uses a mini-mattress for his minor body, because he prefers to sleep on his stomach. Lets the centling rest its head on his major back. “Of course you can, Cactus.”

Willow’s in a standing brace, tonight. She doesn’t need to be, but it helps reassure the others, and she doesn’t want to burn mana to support her minor body. It’s handmade, since the Captain studied multiple Archaic Arts before getting stuck with them.

Which is how he learned about woodworking. And trees, and gardening, and all that mess of things.

Gave Willow its name, even if it rarely uses it.

It’s too anxious to sleep lying down half the time, especially off-ship, so it’s not like she doesn’t like it.

Hopefully, Tracker will be back soon. With her rescue, and the imps; League and something.

“GAH—SHIT— YOU DEFECTIVE SONOFAFUCK—”

Six-two-five jolts awake. Captain Astrum being furious is always a bad omen, what did he see, does he know—

Willow is panicking too.

Willow was brought in by Ianuarius Astrum, not Regulus Astrum.

No one was ever punished for the sabotage.

If he told Ianuarius who was in on it, nothing would happen.

“Are you alive,” Rowan asks, “or should I crack open that champagne bottle you’ve been saving?”

Captain Ianuarius laughs. Curses again, and there’s a loud clatter before he opens the door.

“Every rose has its murderous fucking thorns,” he grumbles. His helmet is on the other side of the room, lying next to the slates it knocked off the desk. His nose is bleeding, he’s got a black eye, and he’s using his chestplate as an improvised shield.

“Your fault for not locking the door.”

Three-sev—they hate the name Rose—jabs at the Captain with the shockstaff—

“Six-two-five, for the love of—” he grits his teeth, visibly considering hitting Three-sev’s injured leg with his backup shockstaff— “Rowan—”

He grabs the shockstaff. “HAWTHORN! Breathe.

“Breathe, take a breath, and look at me.”

They let go, rearing up. It’s too late to change course—he, barely yanked out of the way in time, flinches at the way their leg bends, and the skin breaks, leaving it horribly mangled at the forearm. Shudders at their splintered scream.

“I’m already dead,” they say. Their eyes flicker, but their mana has atrophied to the point where all they manage to do is push the little knife off the table.

“…The seam ripper,” Captain Ianuarius whispers. “Why didn’t I notice my seam ripper?”

Med. Petri barely has to examine Hawthorn’s leg—doesn’t even comment on the patch job—before she knows the result. Still, she gets them an m-ray. Projects the results.

Medical technology is highly advanced, but magic lets results be seen instantly.

“It needs amputating,” she says. “Either we take a genetic sample and clone you a new leg—which will be a perfect match, but won’t look the same—or we get you a permanent prosthetic.”

She explains what would happen if they tried to mend it.

The Captain’s hands are stained in blood. Petri’s hands are stained past the elbows, when she’s unlucky. Neither of them hesitate.

It’s her first centaur amputation.

It’s her first centaur amputation, but she’s worked on drakes before.

Her hands are steady.

•••

Captain & Crew Masterpost

Shockstaffs fucking hurt. The thing is a spear-length electric mace, sturdy as all the other tools he inherited, and he used it without hesitation. Six-two-five’s back and shoulder are bleeding, and he knows there’s bruises under that fur.

Captain Ianuarius knows it’s a good thing. Nothing goes unrecorded, and he can’t afford to look soft. No one would take his money if he went soft.

But the way the new thing flinches at the sound of his voice breaks his heart.

He turns the shockstaff’s power off, to save battery. Doesn’t hesitate to jab the little troll when it slows down to look at something.

Not hard. He’s memorized his excuse for that one, and it’s already injured.

Of course it is. He’s memorized his excuse for buying defectives, too.

He does not drop the sharp, commanding posture back at the shuttle. Taking an even breath, he removes his helmet, and finds a bottle of painkillers to put where Six-two-five will see it.

He sits in the pilot’s seat, and fiddles with increasingly stupid visual settings on his dataslate.

He counts all the little screws in the floor.

He breathes.

He breathes.

On the Redemption, sitting in a chair in medbay, the Captain still doesn’t drop the mask.

Six-two-five lets the little troll bury its face in his shoulder, murmuring reassurances while the doctor checks his work and puts its broken tail in a proper splint. Doesn’t make a sound even though his face warps with pain.

The troll lays down, curling up around itself, and Six-two-five drapes a blanket over it. Takes a pained breath—

“Get that fixed, RA-11625,” he snaps.

Sighing, Edgar scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m sorry, Rowan. That was too far, today.”

“I know what I’m doing, and I’ve worked through worse.” He sighs. “A lot worse.”

He stands, and very, very carefully touches his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, he makes a half-muffled, pained sound— “Fine. I think you broke it. But it looked real, and that’s what matters.”

He puts a numbing spray on it, so he can touch it without hurting him. It is broken, though, so he has to call Penlin over it.

Xe scrunches xyr nose, tapping at the floor with a hoof. “You’re too rough with him. It isn’t permanent—” unlike with him doesn’t even have to be said— “but it’s still better to avoid these injuries. He still needs to be functional.”

“‘Mplenty functional,” he grumbles.

Still, he waits for xem to mend his bones and close the cuts before doing something as close to running as he can manage without xem scolding him for it

They go to the Captain’s quarters. In the beginning, they didn’t: Rowan went to his room and tried not to have more nightmares than usual, and Ianuarius….

Well, Midnight caught Captain Ianuarius skipping meals, and found Rowan hyperventilating in a broom closet.

Penicillin kidnapped a hollow-looking Ianuarius to medbay before chewing them both out in a lecture neither of them ever wants to hear again, partially because xe’s scary, and partially because xe made them come up with codes to end the mission. Which they had, so xe made them talk about feelings.

For hours.

And then xe gave Rowan a book on human reproduction a week later. The thing started a damn betting pool over the nature of their relationship.

“Does anything hurt too much?” he asks.

Rowan lies on the bed, on his stomach, claiming his favourite pillow. “It’s fucking exhausting,” he mumbles. “An’ I’m taking your heated blanket. If you’d get it for me.”

“Isn’t it better to ice bruises on the first day?” It still gets draped over his back, his whole back, so he doesn’t say anything.

Warmth does make bruises look worse, he’s sure, but space is cold and it helps with mana flow. Ianuarius doesn’t know that. He’s null, which is something the older ex-dents—formerly indentured, according to Midnight and only Midnight—don’t forget as often as the rest of the crew.

Mostly because Captain Astrum—Regulus Astrum—liked to break healing spells by hand. Liked how easy it was.

Under him, he’d be worried about ignoring him.

But he isn’t.

So he’s not.

He does twist so his upper body is sideways, though, so he can mess with Ianuarius’ hair. It’s soft. It’s something to do with his hands that reminds him he’s safe.

Helps him calm down.

“You’re going grey,” he mumbles.

“No, I’m modded to prevent that.”

He shrugs. “Well, maybe it’s been dyed black so long you don’t know what it looks like. I think it suits you, Ianus.”

Grumbling something under his breath, he shifts. “Don’t do that. I can’t go grey, and I’m… fine with looking like him. I am.”

“Sure,” Rowan says.

He waits.

Waits….

Ianuarius curls up, tucking his hands to his chest to avoid touching the mess of pain that is his back. Chokes out a tiny, little sound— “I’m sorry. I forgot touching you would—”

“It wasn’t intentional. You noticed, and gave me pain relief. He would’ve made it worse. Putting on that act doesn’t make you him.” Yes, he’s in pain and the Captain is responsible for it. But he volunteered for this.

For this, and half the practice sessions they had to do before even attempting their first mission.

“Did you mean to hit me that hard?”

“No,” he mumbles. “I just forgot the whip.”

Compared to the first practice session—where he threw up on the floor—that’s an improvement. Shockstaffs were his preferred method, and not for the electric shocks.

He sighs. “You did well. Maybe less broken bones next time, though.”

“Were you lying? About the grey hair?”

“Was I— Why would I lie about that? You’re brushing my fur in the morning, for that.”

•••

Captain & Crew Masterpost

The young, bleeding thing taking wheezing breaths in their sleep is an orc.

Their primary right eye is a bloody socket.

Their secondary arms are broken, their blue skin is covered in lash marks, and the collection of horrific tools hangs from the wall.

Captain Ianuarius Astrum curses his grandfather. Curses his own bloodline all the way back to the unmodded people who never even left earth, and curses himself for being so fucking naïve.

He’ll dye his hair black. Tattoo over his stripes. Change his name. Remove every damn trace of his ancestry from his life, because being nobody is better than being related to someone who’d do this.

They don’t wake up. It’s night, their species is nocturnal, but they don’t wake up.

With numb, trembling hands, he takes his new keys and unlocks the shackles. Stays with Gabriel while she treats their wounds. They wake up.

Of course they wake up, making soft sounds and curling up and mumbling something that sounds like “Please.”

If his grandfather wasn’t dead and buried, he’d murder him with his bare hands. The man who taught him old family recipes bought sapients.

The man who showed him how to sail the stars tortured this kid until all they could feel was pain.

The centaur quarters aren’t as bad. Iron chains, but no major injuries.

“Where…?” A dusty pink centaur asks, voice hoarse. He doesn’t want to think about why it’s hoarse.

“Dead,” he says softly. “A countergrav malfunction that killed most of command.”

Sabotage, he thinks, but doesn’t say.

Astral ore refining ships, especially ones like C Class Designation 1187 E635 4872, The Stars Endeavor, don’t need many in command. Just enough to keep the unofficials in line.

“You’re nuller than iron,” a midnight-purple centaur says. Stiffens, when he tips his head.

There are fourty-five keys. Fourty-five keys, three of which are used here. He fumbles with them and curses and hands them to the first centaur to deal with before following the map to a different room. Finding more people. Repeating the same damn process with different keys.

One of the centaurs follows him. Midnight.

“Keys,” they say, at the fourth person in the sixth room, when his hands tremble too badly to use them.

He sits on the floor. Rips off his helmet.

His hair, undyed, is wretchedly purple. The same heritable purple gene his great-something grandmother bought, the wonky one no one bothered to get fixed, that affects all the keratin down to his nails.

Astarum purple. From the Astral Ores Mining Company, which created the surnames Astrum and Aurum and Stara.

The exact same purple as his grandfather, who tattoed himself with blue-pink stripes and got a heritable mod for the gene.

Ianuarius Edgar Astrum—Captain Astrum, his newly-inherited title a bucket of sand under his skin—sets his forehead onto his armoured knees, and lets out heaving, choking sobs.

“Astrum—”

“Edgar.” He stands up. “And I have to keep—”

He doesn’t. The keys are physical. Anyone can use them, but only legal sapients can make purchases. He lets Midnight free the rest and buys mass-produced blankets and supplies for his crew.

He calls Mel. They’re nearby, and can help modify the ship.

The orc flinches when they see him. Edgar breathes. He breathes. Humans are null, and orcs have bad eyesight.

“Easy, easy, breathe.”

“M’sorry, Captain. Sir,” they mumble. “I should’ve listened—”

An awful, painful sound claws its way out of his throat. “It won’t happen again. I don’t care what you do, if anyone hurts you, they answer to me. I’ll deal with them, kid.

“Just rest. Please.

“Please.”

•••

Captain & Crew Masterpost

"Thanks. You don't have to get up if you don't want to," she said. "But I wanted to see how you're feeling and if you're ready to eat something. You're probably due for more meds, too."

Nathan shifted and put a hand down to the bandages wrapped around his thigh, taking stock of how his body felt. The answer was that it felt bad. His leg, set only days ago, was throbbing and still felt swollen, the bandages tight and uncomfortable. The doctor had told him that this was nothing to worry about.

"Yeah, meds would be great."

"I figured." Angie fished in the pockets of her robe and pulled out a water bottle and a packet of pills. She handed them to Nathan and he took them, then finished the water.

"Now I just have to wait for them to kick in."

"Sorry. You want to stay in bed for now, I assume?"

"I really do, yeah."

"Do you want company?"

"Sure. I mean, I'm not that exciting, so you don't have to, though."

"It's fine."

They sat quietly for several minutes, during which Nathan decided that he was impressed with Angie's ability to wait in silence. He was wracking his brain for something to talk about, just because it felt so weird to sit there. She, on the other hand, seemed perfectly calm and not at all bothered, and sat in the chair next to his bed, looking out the window into a bright, sunny day.

"So..." Nathan said when he couldn't stand it anymore. Then he wasn't sure what came next.

Angie grinned at him and he thought she might be just a little amused by the awkward look on his face. "You want some help getting ready for the day? I can do it, or I can ask Tim to come up if you'd rather."

"Not quite yet. It'd be nice if the meds kicked in first. My leg- uh- doesn't feel great."

"Yeah, I'm not surprised. My brother Greg broke his leg in high school and he was a mess. That was playing football, though, so... more straightforward."

"Probably not more fun, though."

"I don't think so."

There was another moment of quiet and then Nathan said, "Hey, I haven't been in the bathroom a lot to look around- okay, that sounds kind of weird, but you know what I mean- do we have any razors in the house?"

"Razors?"

"I would really like to shave. I haven't looked at myself in a mirror the last couple days, but I can tell I'm getting scruffy."

"Oh, yeah, we must, huh? Let me ask Tim." Angie had made a point to break the habit of going to the top of the stairs and shouting. It was a very normal thing to do in a house with several siblings, but she had found that it startled the rescuees, who were uncomfortable with loud voices.

The text came back without much delay. Yup- under the sink in the bathroom. There's shave gel and washcloths down there, too. For Nathan?

Angie tapped at the phone in reply and then slid it into her pocket. "You want to shave? We can make that happen. Here, if you want."

Nathan pondered the question for a moment. "I guess. I'm not sure I'm up to, like, balancing in front of the mirror."

"Okay, give me, like, two minutes and I'll be back with everything you need."

It was slightly more than two minutes when Angie returned carrying a laptop. Nathan looked at it in confusion, but before he had a chance to ask what that was all about, she left again. When she returned, she was carrying a dinner tray with a dish of water, a washcloth, shaving gel, and a razor. She flipped the legs of it down and set it over his lap.

"Tim says that should be everything," she said. "I'm taking his word for it."

"And the laptop?"

"Oh! That's genius- it was Tim's idea. We don't have any small mirrors, so he said to set it up and turn on the camera so you can see what you're doing."

Nathan laughed. "Okay, that's pretty good."

The camera was a pretty good solution to the problem and Nathan was proud that he didn't get much water on the blankets- and almost no shaving gel. It felt good to clean up, especially since showers were going to be a challenge for a while.

Master List

Notes: Asking questions is a great way to get new writing! I'll answer this question for all three rescuees. I decided to do this as three shorter stories, rather than one very long one, so that it'll get published faster.

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