The bang was decisive and satisfying — like a stream of controlled, sharp wildfire, before the bullet embedded swiftly into the wall. As she shot, her shoulders were tense — too tense, really, and full of anticipation for the kick-back. Surprisingly, the kick wasn’t nearly as strong as she imagined. It was more of a fluid jerk. Her own reservations had halted her more than the gun. Lowering the weapon back to her side, she narrowed her eyes and scrutinized the wall.

And then, unable to help herself, she grinned.

“Okay,” she admitted, half-laughing. “I guess I can see why you like this.” She turned her wrist and examined the gun, surprised by it all over again. She had anticipated the weapon to feel too heavy in a single hand, or awkward to grasp in her slender fingers. She didn’t expect it to fit naturally like an appendage.

As she looked up at Corra, though, reality kicked in once more. “But I’m still not going to use it,” she said, her grin fading off her face.  “Cyrus told me you’re smugglers. He didn’t tell me why the hell Fiearius would need me on this job. Because I’m not shooting anyone. He knows that right?”

For all of Corra’s cheeriness and apparent pride at her pupil’s first shot, the moment the name Fiearius slipped into the room, all of that joy rushed away. The frown returned to her brow and the tiniest of pouts creased her lips as she looked away from Leta suddenly and grumbled, “Who knows? Probably. But since when does he give a shit about what other people want or don’t want? All he cares about is his damn self.” She let out a sigh and lifted her shoulder in a half shrug. “He probably just wants to cause a stir by taking you instead of, no offense, someone who’s picked up a gun before. To piss people off. Namely, me. As if I wasn’t already pissed enough as it is.” She sneered unpleasantly at the empty doorway.

Leta would have liked to sympathize, but at the moment she was too alarmed at the fact that Corra was angry all over again at Fiearius. Fiearius, whom Leta was supposed to go do some kind of job with? By herself?

“I’m not shooting anyone,” said Leta again, more conviction in her voice now, though her anger was not directed at Corra. She sighed. “And you know I’d gladly trade places with you. Why’d you want to go on this job so badly? What is it?”

Corra broke away from the doorway and met Leta’s eyes more than a little sadly. “It’s not the job,” she explained shortly before wandering over to the wall of guns and absent-mindedly picking a small pistol from its rack. “I don’t care about the job,” she said, her grip tightening as she turned it over in her hand. “It’s who the job’s with.”

“Godorra?” Leta wondered quietly.

A pair of cold eyes gazed at her, filled with pain, sadness and fury. “Yeah,” Corra muttered, her knuckles turning white as her grasp on the gun’s grip continued to tighten and she spat out as though the word disgust her, “Goddora.”

Leta was starting to feel foolish for how little she knew about the people that seemed to infuriate Corra. But her curiosity was powerful — especially if she was about to meet this person. “Who is he?”

“He’s a big time weapons dealer,” Corra said, her voice full of venom. “But weapons aren’t his only specialty.” She sighed, as though to relieve some of the vicious anger in her, though it didn’t seem to do any good. She was just as bitter as she growled, “He’s big in the slave trade too. Buys up all the arrested kroppies.” She said the word as though it tasted foul on her tongue.

“Kroppies,” Leta repeated, almost to herself. She thought she knew what that nasty word meant, but she wanted to be wrong. “Doesn’t that mean … “

“Yeah,” Corra confirmed before she could finish. “The poor, homeless, unwanted people who, what is it? Don’t belong. Aren’t welcome on nice, civilized planets. They dirty up the skylines so they round em up for doing nothin’ but tryin’ to live and sell em off to scum like Goddora. And then he puts em in his complex. Prunes em, sells em for ten times the price and buys some more.” She stared at Leta squarely for a moment, the corners of her eyes creased in distaste before she looked away suddenly.

“I used to be one of his,” she explained, her voice harshly quiet as she gently lifted her hair out of the way to reveal that the top portion of her left ear was missing, clipped off. “Til Captain Sonofabitch bought me,” she added with a growl, glancing up at the ceiling as though Fiearius were standing above her.

“But as much of an asshole as he is, I still got damn lucky,” she added more softly. “Most who get sold off don’t end up free and master of a hefty armory.” She gestured to the wall beside her. “I think it’s my duty as the lucky one to go back and give that bastard what he deserves, don’t you?” She raised the gun in her hand to admire it more closely and feigned aiming it at an unseen target kneeling before her. “A bullet right in the head.”

For a moment, Leta was too stunned to speak. And she wasn’t sure what to say, anyway, as she tried to understand: Corra had been in a slave complex. She’d been enslaved.

Logically, reasonably, Leta knew slave trading was still active in some far reaches of the span. But it was barbaric, ancient; it was supposed to be a dead industry. It wasn’t supposed to actually exist. Staring at Corra now did not make it any more fathomable. “Fiearius — bought you?” she asked quietly, feeling a bit sick.

Almost as though surprised to hear Leta’s voice, Corra dropped her arm and looked over at her, eyes slightly widened. “Yeah,” she answered, tentatively. “Almost three years ago.” She let out a short, sick laugh. “I’m technically a Soliveré too, if only by paperwork.” She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Lucky me indeed.” She paused momentarily before shrugging. “Although not anymore, I don’t think. I’m not sure what happens when you burn the deed.”

“Well … I’m glad it’s been burned,” Leta muttered, but she wasn’t sure if she was relieved just yet. Her mind was still struggling with what she’d said. Fiearius, at one point, had owned her. And before then, Corra had belonged to Goddorra. She could imagine what happened to enslaved women and she could hardly stomach the thought.

Leta picked her eyes up, suddenly, as it all clicked. “And now Fiearius wants to do business with Goddorra? The man who owned you?”

“Aw, chika, he’s been doing business with Goddora long before and long after he dragged me away from there, kickin’ and screamin’,” she told her a little grimly. Utilizing perhaps the most foolish, wish-washy voice she could conjure, she mocked with a distorted expression, “He’s a good contact, we need his support for the business, he’s the only one who’ll trade for this.” She snorted in distaste and dropped the act. “Same excuses every time. Frankly, I’m getting tired of hearing them.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Leta snapped, her voice cracking like a whip through the room. Suddenly, she felt enough roiling anger to pace the room, though she settled for a snarl of disgust. “I’m not helping him. And I’m definitely not helping him do business with Goddorra.”

“Don’t blame ya. Let him stew in his own muck. He wants to deal with that prick, he can deal with him alone,” Corra remarked bitterly as she finally placed the gun in her hand safely back on its rack. She let out one more long sigh, this time more successfully shaking off her tension as she ran a hand through her bangs and actually smirked at Leta, if a tad mischievously. “Tell ya what, though. I know you say you don’t wanna shoot anybody, but if Cy-cy can’t get you outta this, do me a favor and put a good one right here.” She placed two fingers right between her eyes and chuckled lightly. “Seriously. Do it and I’ll give you this whole damn armory.”

“Honestly? I’m tempted,” Leta said, mustering a small, bitter smile.

“Well then,” Corra said proudly, putting her hands on her hips while sizing up Leta. Finally she smiled and gestured towards the bullet-riddled wall again. “Best get practicing.”

–  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –  –

Spending the rest of the morning in the armory with Corra  — target-practice and talking — was almost enough to make Leta forget her worry and her anger. Almost. It was a few hours of welcome distraction, at least, when they took a break from sending bullets into the wall (Leta thought she was starting to get rather good at aiming — or better, at least), and finally slumped onto the couch.

“It really is a beautiful place,” Leta was saying as she sank back comfortably in her seat. She was trying to explain Vescent; Corra had been curious about where she’d grown up and she was trying to indulge her curiosity as best as she could. These days, it was hard to discuss Vescent without sounding bitter, but she purposely avoided politics. “The planet’s almost completely ocean. And the main city is rather small — but really beautiful. Stone architecture and beaches … ”

“It looked beautiful,” Corra admitted, leaned back on her arms and smiling up at the ceiling wistfully. “From the brief moment I saw it anyway.” She let out a disgruntled sigh and muttered, “If only I were on a ship not run by wanted criminals…”

Leta smiled weakly. “I doubt I’ll be make it back there anytime soon.”

“Well. That makes two of us,” Corra pointed out with a cheerful grin and an invisible toast in Leta’s direction.

Just then, Corra looked past her and noticed a figure that seemed to have been standing in the hallway for the past few moments. Corra frowned, concerned, until she realized who it was and simply smiled. “Cy-cy,” she greeted happily as the engineer awkwardly hovered just outside the threshold to the armory.

“Sorry,” Cyrus muttered. “I didn’t want to interrupt.” Leta wondered how long he had been standing there, waiting for his chance to make his presence known. He did not look all that pleased to be there. His eyes refused to meet theirs for more than a second and his fingers were anxiously drumming the doorframe. Corra apparently noticed as well.

“How’d it go?” she asked, although the tone of her voice gave way that she already knew what he was going to say.

“Not…so well…” Cyrus responded quietly, definitively looking elsewhere now.

“He’s still being a dick?” Corra assumed bluntly, casting him an annoyed glare.

“Something like that,” the young man replied with a stiff shrug. “He says…that he needs a doctor. That it’s non-negotiable. And that the only doctor aboard is…well.” He looked to Leta finally. “You.” Cyrus frowned at her before looking away again. “He wouldn’t explain why. I tried. It must be for his arm though? Don’t you think? It still looks pretty gross. And I can’t think what else it would be.” Half-heartedly, he gave her an apologetic smile. “But at least you’re not meant to be a gunhand?”

“I wasn’t going to be his gunhand regardless,” Leta growled. Now she felt more anger than worry: the captain seemed to think she owed him something, which could not have been further from the truth. “Because I won’t be shooting anybody,” she added forcibly. “And why the hell does he think I’ll just go and help him and that slave-trader — ”

Abruptly, Leta broke off, and fell into an urgent silence. She could feel a pair of curious looks upon her, but she ignored them as her mind started to work. Now, she wasn’t thinking about Fiearius and his ridiculous request. She wasn’t thinking about Goddorra, either, even though she already hated him.

She was thinking about Ren. About getting him back.

When she looked up at Cyrus, her expression was considerably lighter.

“So if I do help Fiearius,” she ventured cautiously, “what’re the chances he’ll help me too?”

Cyrus’ mouth was already open, as though with a response ready, but the question Leta asked didn’t match the answer on his lips. His jaw snapped shut and he regarded her uneasily.

“If there’s one thing my brother is, it’s serious about his debts…” he said knowingly, glancing toward Corra, who only cocked her head quizzically. Cyrus looked back to her and added, “Favors don’t go unnoticed. You want his help, giving yours is your best shot.”

What choice did she have then? Leta could hardly believe her own ears when she glanced toward her gun, now shelved back on the wall, and she muttered in defeat, “Then I guess I’m going with.”

“Sorry, I didn’t–” she muttered awkwardly. “I mean, that wasn’t about you. It was just–” Her frown returned suddenly, directed passionately at the floor before she forced it out, tilted her head to each side and took a deep breath. “Sorry. Look, ya want a lesson, I can give ya a lesson. Specially if he’s serious.” One of her brows raised curiously. “Nice alpha planet doctor like you musta never even laid hands on one of these.” She jabbed her thumb over her shoulder at the armory door. “Wouldn’t want you gettin’ hurt out there on account of that asshole. I’ll teach ya everything I know.”

As Corra forced a kinder smile, Cyrus added helpfully, “She won’t need it. I’m gonna talk to him. I’ll get her out of it.” He grinned in a manner he probably thought was encouraging. The result was a bit creepy. And before anyone could speak, he turned and rushed away.

Corra’s eyes had gone slightly wide at his proclamation. For a long moment, she stared at Cyrus’ retreating back. “Yeah,” she decided at last, looking back to Leta as she turned around, “you’re definitely gonna need lessons. Come on in.”

The armory was a long, rectangular room with burnt brown walls. It was shadowy and dim like the rest of the Dionysian,except one wall, which glinted invitingly even in the low light. As Leta stepped inside, she saw why: it was lined, floor to ceiling, with weaponry of all sizes.

As Leta stepped toward it, the knot of worry in her chest loosened ever so slightly. In spite of it all, in spite of everything, some of her burning questions and unending nervousness was replaced with something else: interest.

Beside her, Corra took a deep breath and placed her hands squarely on her hips. “Alright,” she proclaimed, gesturing to the racks above their heads. They seemed to hold everything from the tiny, concealable sort that could be stuffed within clothing, to monstrous rifles that Leta could hardly imagine being able to carry. “First lesson, I suggest you pick one you can hold.”

Well, there was no reason not to accept the lesson, was there? She wasn’t going to help Fiearius, but equipping herself on a criminal ship didn’t seem like a bad idea. Nodding slightly, Leta stepped closer to the wall, her eyes traveling high and low along the racks.

Pressing her lips together in thought, she regarded a line of long, thin guns she thought must have been assault rifles. Her height may have afforded her the opportunity to hold the larger weapons, but she could not envision herself doing anything but fumbling with something of that size. Then, she quirked a brow at the set of bulky machine guns in the corner. At that, a wry smirked touched her eyes, before her gaze finally lowered to another shelf.

Tilting her head, she stepped closer, filling her eyes with the sight of a row of shining handguns. With careful surgeon hands, she reached to pull it from the rack, closing her fingers around the grip. She turned around again with the gun in hand, examining it. The grated metal weapon relaxed into her grasp — a small but steady fit.

“Like this one?” she said, looking up at Corra.

Despite her foul mood, Leta saw a small, almost indistinguishable smile run across Corra’s lips. “One of my favorites,” she commended as she moved over to another wall herself and began sorting through what appeared to be boxes of ammunition. “When you’re in the range, dare I even call it that, only use the FMJs,” she advised her a little absently as she held up a clip proudly. “Hollow-points have a tendency to split on impact which…well it does interesting things to human bodies, but if you’re firing into a bullet-proof wall? Ricochet. Bad stuff.”

Swiftly, Corra rejoined her in the center of the room and began fussing about with the gun in her hand. “So this is your clip,” she told her diligently as she reached to unapologetically grab for the weapon in Leta’s hand. “Release is here. Pop it out, pop another back in.” The gun clicked as Corra shoved the clip in her hand into it. “Hold it tight, but not too tight, like this, with what ever hand you feel better with.” She meticulously rearranged Leta’s fingers on the grip. “This is your safety,” she pointed out. “On. Off. Only take it off if you know you’re gonna need it off. Never put your finger on the trigger unless you actually aiming to shoot something. When you’re not.” She moved her index finger as well. “Rest it here.”

Satisfied, Corra stepped back and looked her up and down, her brow furrowed. “Shoulders back, feet apart,” she instructed, and Leta did as she was told, feeling somewhat bemused by the instructions, but not enough to interrupt.

“Know where your center of gravity is and keep your balance,” Corra went on. “Even little ones like that have recoil and if you’re not expecting it, you can get yourself hurt. Arm out straight. Don’t try any fancy shooting, not ‘til you’ve had more practice. The key for beginners is staying steady and keeping aim.” She nodded firmly and added, with a frown, “Also, don’t close your eyes. Either of them. People do that. I don’t know why, it’s the stupidest thing,” she muttered, but then she smiled up at Leta encouragingly and stepped out of the way.

“Go on,” she insisted, gesturing the the thick, black wall at the far end of the room, already riddled with caught bullets in its surface. “Give it a try.”

Hesitating slightly, Leta lifted her gun arm aloft as Corra had indicated. For a moment she did not recognize her own hand out in the air, her fingers grasped around the grip of a gun. A gun. She was holding a gun? She was an M.D. for crying out loud. But, before she could think more on it, she squeezed the trigger.

“Why do you deal with him?” Corra demanded angrily as she hurried up to his side. “He’s scum and you know it. There are other dealers. Better dealers. We could go elsewhere, just turn the ship around and take the goods somewhere else. To someone else. There’s no reason that we have to go to Goddora. Are you just doing this to spite me?”

At her last question, the air in the hall seemed to freeze. It was as though everyone in the room took in a breath simultaneously as Fiearius immediately stopped in his tracks and looked down at her with a tilt to his brow that seemed to say, ‘really?”

Even Corra, it seemed, couldn’t argue with that look. “Fine,” she mumbled agreeably, “but this is bull, Fiear.”

Once more, Fiearius rolled his eyes and walked away from her. Once more, the dining hall let out a collective sigh of relief and went back to — or pretended to go back —  to eating and talking.

But Leta did not. In fact, she twisted around in her chair to get a better look at the two of them. Now she was unbearably curious what they were talking about — business, it seemed like. Criminal business? She watched Fiearius as he picked a nearby table at random, sat himself down heavily next to a terrified-looking young man who backed his seat away immediately. He gestured to the chair across from him. “Corra, sit,” he said sharply.

Leta watched in surprise as Corra did as she was told: she ungracefully dropped into the chair, but looked ready to spring up again at any moment.

“I appreciate your interest in the business,” Fiearius went on calmly, entwining his fingers thoughtfully on the table before him.  He did not seem to notice Leta was completely ignoring the coffee mug before her and instead watching his every move from across the cafeteria.

“But you should know,” he went on, “You do know. That this is the way things are. This is the way things will always be.” He looked to Corra with a sort of burning intensity. “Deal with it or go elsewhere. It’s not up for negotiation.”

In response, Corra sat in silence, looking stunned, her elbows slackening where they had stood posed to throw herself forward in anger and the fire in her doused with a bucket of water. It was down. But it wasn’t quite gone. And she seemed unwilling to let this go. “There are other dealers on planets closer to where we are,” she said coldly, almost under her breath.

“Yes, but few have the resources to clean that many marked guns. And those that do don’t pay well enough,” he said frankly, leaning back in his chair and tapping his fingers on the edge of the table as though simply waiting for her to stop.

“So that’s it?” Corra asked, indignant once again. “We’ll do anything just for the money? Whatever happened to ‘know the man behind the hand’, huh? Thought you had some pride. Some dignity.” That fire returning, she finally used her poise to push herself to her feet so that she could leer down at him and allow her voice to fill the entire hall.

“But apparently,” she dared loudly,  “you’ll be the bitch of even dirty scum like Goddora for the right price, eh?”

Abruptly, a loud silence fell in the room. The audience hushed. Leta did not know if the captain was going to yell or jump out of his seat, but she watched, in perfect alarmed clarity, as his hand gave an unpleasant, unnatural twitch on the surface of the table.

But, just as the tension had arrived, it began to dissolve. Fiearius’ cold glare faded toward indifference. He shrugged and muttered carelessly, “I don’t have to justify myself to you.”

Apparently, Corra’s commitment to her statement had lasted only as long as it had taken to spill from her lips. A sigh — a sigh of relief, Leta was sure — passed through her. Quietly, she pressed, “Take me with you.”

“No,” Fiearius replied immediately.

“Why not?” Corra asked, looking incredulous again. “I’m the best gun-hand on this damn ship.”

“You are,” Fiearius admitted, leaning back in his chair casually. “Which is why I want you to teach what’s-her-face over there how not to kill herself with one because I’m taking her instead.”

It was only seconds after he’d spoken so gruffly that Leta realized he was, in fact, gesturing to her. She sat there, stunned to be addressed when she’d been merely an observer. And now she was pulled into — into what? She was going along. On this — business trip?

Corra looked exactly how Leta felt: completely shocked. Corra’s jaw dropped and she did not seem to be capable of putting words together. Finally, her expression fell into despair, she turned from the table and fled from the kitchen in a rush.

In the awkward silence that followed, Fiearius simply watched her back retreating as though it were merely mildly interesting. Then he looked back to Leta and raised his brows expectantly.

“Well?” he asked impatiently. “You heard me. Go on.” He raised his hand and gestured after Corra with it . Then he caught the eye of his unfortunate neighbor and smiled grimly. He reached over, seized the bowl of oatmeal that had been sitting in front of him and said “Thanks,” as he got up from his chair and stalked from the room with it.

He fell into an uncomfortable silence for a long few seconds as he frowned at the coffee mug in his hands. Finally, he perked up and added much more lightly, “Also, Corra would want me to tell you to stay away from Maya because she is, quote unquote, an awful bitch.” He smiled innocently and shrugged. “They don’t get along. She’s the one over by the kitchen door with the curly black hair,” he added, gesturing toward the woman who was in deep conversation with a younger boy beside her.

“Oh and the one she’s talking to?” he went on. “The blonde kid? That’s Nikkolai. You’ll meet him. I can guarantee you will meet him.” Not so subtly, Cyrus rolled his eyes. “He’s alright though. And the other one? Javier, I think. I don’t really know him. But they’re the more long-term of the deckhands. They’ve been here long enough to kind of know what they’re doing so if you need anything, any one of them’s a good bet to ask.”

“The one over by the door,” he continued, a little more flippantly as he gestured toward a short, stocky man, cheerfully drinking from a murky bottle of whiskey, “That’s Rhys. Another one of Fiear’s guns. Nice guy, but medically, you might want to watch for liver problems. The older couple at the table to his right, Palia and Alastair Dmitri. Paying passengers. Across from them, Arlo Harvey. Another passenger. Then over to the left that’s Bartley and Feydran and Tihla and, you know what? You’ll probably meet them all eventually and I don’t expect you to remember all this so never mind.” He turned back to her suddenly and smiled. “Most of this lot are pretty friendly. Unless they’re handing you an orange drink,” he reminded again, the smile dropping off his face rather warningly.

Personally, Leta wasn’t sure whether to laugh or not, though the impulse was there. They were a motley crew, this bunch. Before she could ask more about them, however, they were interrupted.

“Cyrus?” demanded a sudden, too-eager female voice. “Who — who is this?”

The scratchy voice belonged to an older woman, seventy years old at least, who arrived to the table with a mixing bowl in hand and serving spoon in another. She must have been the ship’s cook, Leta thought, judging by the burns and stains in her clothing.

In this moment, she did not seem interested in serving the rest of the oatmeal in her bowl. She was frozen, her widened, round eyes set much too expectantly on Leta. “You’re the doctor then?” she asked, and then her smile faded toward a look of, all things, disappointment. “Just — just the doctor?” Her eyes darted between Leta and Cyrus, as if measuring the amount of sitting distance between them and finding it quite unsatisfactory. And that was when Leta understood.

“I’m afraid so,” she admitted, actually laughing outloud — for the first time in days. “Just the doctor.” Not Cyrus’ girlfriend, she added silently in her head. At her side, Cyrus released a small groan and put his clasped index finger and thumb to his forehead.

“And this,” he muttered, “is Amora. Our professional chef and hobbyist busybody.” He glanced at her, both unamused and affectionate.

“Well, it’s wonderful to have you, dear,” gushed Amora, apparently pleased once more. “With how much trouble this crew gets into —  I can’t imagine how they even — bloody messes all the time — well, I’m sure you’ll have your hands full. Coffee?”

As Leta reached to accept the steaming mug of coffee from the woman (who now seemed to be sizing her up, Leta noticed), she became distracted. Near the door was, suddenly, shouting. An angry voice. And it was growing closer. It was a woman’s voice, and not just any woman — this was someone she knew. It was Corra, she realized, looking toward the door curiously, and she wasn’t alone.

Corra, in all of her fury, was marching into the room and saying, “Don’t you walk away from me when I’m talking to you,” to the back of the captain who seemed to be doing just that.

Fiearius seemed completely oblivious to the small furious girl tailing behind him as he strode confidently into the room and scanned for something, or someone, in particular. Leta watched with interest as the man suddenly smirked widely and, only narrowly escaping Corra’s grasp as she tried to seize his arm, came straight towards the table at which Leta was seated.

But Leta was not who he was aiming for. His attention was on Amora, who ignored him. But the look in his eyes suggested he simply could not help himself.

“Good morning, my sweet,” he murmured flirtatiously as he reached them and immediately slipped an arm around the woman’s large waist. Leta watched, silently amazed, as Amora scoffed a disgusted breath and elbowed him off.

But Fiearius wasn’t done. He swiped the serving spoon from her hand, dug it into oatmeal from the bowl and brought it to his mouth. His eyes squinted thoughtfully. “Needs salt,” he expressed finally with a grimace and then leaned in to plant a quick kiss on her forehead. “Next time,” he suggested as he released her from his grip and spun around to presumably stalk off somewhere else.

By then, his pursuer had caught up with him. Corra halted in front of the captain, arms crossed over her chest as she blocked his path. Leta could not imagine what was unfolding with this scene: Corra, furious; Fiearius, calm and darkly bemused as they eyed each other.

“Corra, we talked about this,” Fiearius said to her with a sigh. His shoulders dropped the defensive stance and he sighed again. “We had a deal.”

“The deal was that I can’t stop you,” Corra snapped back instantly, nullifying his effect of speaking quietly with her own impassioned gusto. “The deal was not that I can’t give you shit about it.”

By now, Leta wasn’t the only person paying attention to this scene. The din of conversation was fading as crew members threw awkward, too-casual glances toward the captain. Sensing the mounting tension, Leta looked over to Cyrus for immediate explanation. “Cy, wh–”

Cyrus, however, took one look at his brother and then quickly turned his attention downward. He seemed to be watching the surface of his coffee instead.

Meanwhile, Fiearius rolled his eyes and grumbled, “Maybe we should change the terms then,” before he turned from her, reverting back to his previous tactic of simply walking away as he headed for the kitchen. It hadn’t worked the first time, though. And it didn’t work the second time, either.