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Ruus Kote
The transport settled onto the platform with a heavy metallic groan, its ramp extending in a slow hydraulic sweep. Security moved first, spreading into formation while the target remained beneath the awning for those critical few seconds Ace had timed so carefully…
Through the scope, Maverick watched the man shift his weight and adjust his coat, preparing to step into the open. The assassin's voice came through the earpiece.
"I'm moving in… Keep them off me."
He slowed his breathing before holding it, deathly still as he felt and heard the heavy beat of his own heart. The auburn-haired young man adjusted the reticle by the smallest fraction, settling it upon the metal railing running along the northern edge of the platform.
Ace stepped from cover where the sniper could see him, dressed in the charcoal officer's uniform.
Maverick watched Ace move in for the kill as the assassin drew a vibroblade instead of reaching for his sidearm. One of the target's bodyguards caught the motion and turned toward him, only to hesitate when he saw the knife at the target's throat.
The auburn-haired sniper squeezed the trigger in that moment of hesitation.
The shot cracked through the industrial haze and struck the northern railing, punching a bright divot into the metal. Sparks burst from the impact in a brilliant spray, close enough that two members of the security detail recoiled and turned toward the sudden shower of light.
The shot shattered the clean rhythm of the approach, yet the assassin did not break stride.
Ace used the confusion and panic to his advantage as he closed the last step between himself and the target, caught the man by the shoulder, and drove the vibroblade beneath his ribs. The motion was quick and unnervingly practiced, the sort of killing stroke meant to be lost amid the sudden panic breaking across the platform.
The next round struck the nearest bodyguard high in the shoulder, wrenching him halfway around and sending him toward one knee. The assassin seized the opening, caught the guard by the front of his armor, and drove him backward into the path of the oncoming train. The timing was perfect: the guard stumbled across the platform edge just as the train thundered past, swallowing him in a blur of durasteel and wind.
A few precise shots rang out in the moments that followed, striking another guard slightly off-center. One knocked the weapon from his hand as he reached for it; another came dangerously close to Ace, forcing him to duck as the guard's weapon clattered across the floor.
The assassin's compact sidearm snapped upward, and he delivered two controlled shots that struck the last guard, staggering him just long enough to close the remaining distance and finish him at close range. Ace drove his shoulder into the guard's chest, forcing him over the northern railing and sending him tumbling toward the streets below.
Alarms and klaxons rose across the platform as the crowd broke into panic, their worried cries swelling beneath the harsh, pulsing lights.
Shouts carried between the structures as emergency protocols engaged, scattering workers and security personnel into the growing confusion. Through the scope, the younger man tracked Ace for another few seconds before the assassin disappeared among bodies, machinery, and the drifting smoke of the city.
Then the assassin's voice returned calmly through the earpiece.
"Not your best work."
An unsettling silence followed, and Maverick felt panic begin to claw its way up his throat. His heart lurched against his ribs as the implications of what he had done—and what Ace might do next—closed around him. He forced himself to breathe slowly, counting each inhale and drawing out each exhale as he tried to keep his heart rate from rising. The effort gave him something to focus on, but dread still pooled coldly in his stomach, and he didn't know what to say in response.
"Extract. Secondary point. Now."
Nothing more came from the earpiece. Surprisingly… the assassin offered neither accusation nor anger. There wasn't even a question the sniper could answer. Whatever Ace intended to say about those shots, he apparently preferred to say it where Maverick couldn't disconnect.
⚬──────────✧──────────⚬
The secondary point was a narrow maintenance office beneath the station, its walls lined with old system schematics and a single failing status panel. The air smelled of dust and stale recycled oxygen. A large stainless steel table sat in the center of the room beneath a harsh overhead light. There were no windows in the room… only two chairs.
Ace was already waiting when Maverick slipped in through the entry door.
The elder assassin had removed the transit officer's coat and draped it over the back of a chair. The vibroblade lay on a clean cloth beside a black flask, its edge still faintly stained. The man sat polishing away the remnants of evidence after passing the blade through flame. He didn't look up immediately as the sniper entered, though he raised one hand, palm up, and held it out expectantly.
The sniper hesitated only a moment, staring at the gesture before placing the rifle into the waiting hand.
Ace took the weapon without comment and began to break it down in an unhurried, methodical manner. The scar-faced assassin checked the barrel, the optic alignment, the power cell, and the readout of the remaining rounds. He turned over each component under the light as though searching for a fault that was not there. The silence stretched uncomfortably between them. The only sounds were the soft clicks of the disassembly and the distant, muted thrum of the station above them.
When the scar-faced assassin finally spoke, it was without looking up at the younger man.
"An interesting night for your hands to start shaking."
The scar-faced man set the partially disassembled rifle down and finally lifted his turquoise eyes to Maverick's own. He studied the younger mirror image of himself with quiet scrutiny, his gaze lingering across the sniper's exhausted features.
The assassin then reached for the flask.
"Sit down."
He stood and fetched two shot glasses from one of the cabinets hanging above a sink and counter against the far wall. He set them down and poured the same amount of amber-colored liquid into each.
The younger man watched with uncertainty as he took a seat, doing as he was instructed.
Ace returned to his own seat and leaned back slightly in the chair, studying him over the rim of the glass he'd picked up. The monitor behind him still glowed at the edge of the table, holding Hunter's image frozen mid-step from earlier in the day.
"Walk me through the first shot."
The older man studied him for a moment before asking…
"You hit the rail exactly when I committed… Why?"
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then Ace reached across the table, took the sniper's left wrist, and deactivated the restraint with a soft electronic click. He placed the narrow band on the table between them, within easy reach of either man.
Only after that did he add some stronger liquor from a flat metal flask to each glass. He pushed one across the table, leaving it to rest before the sniper.
"I asked you a question… and I expect an answer…"
Maverick's gaze dropped briefly to the restraint lying between them… For three days, he had felt the device against his wrist, a constant reminder of just how little room the assassin had left him. Now that it was gone, its absence felt almost… strange.
The young man slowly drew his hand back and rubbed his thumb across the faint impression the band had left in its wake. His eyes shifted toward the untouched glass, though he made no move to pick it up.
There were a dozen answers he could have given, all racing through his mind. But he knew that Ace had taught him better than all of them… The sniper swallowed before finally meeting his gaze.
"Three days without sleep is… a lot to… handle. I misjudged the shot… I corrected it."
. . .
"You got better," the assassin said in simple reply, though the tone lacked any hint of praise or warmth.
He lifted his own glass but did not drink yet, pausing as he regarded the younger man with cold scrutiny, as though weighing something he did not voice.
"Next time you decide to try and kill me," Ace said,
"do it yourself."
The sniper swallowed hard…
"I… didn't mean to…" he murmured, the words trailing off as uncertainty caught him. He wasn't even sure what he was trying to deny anymore: the misplaced shots, the danger he had put Ace in, or even the intent behind them.
His gaze dropped toward the glass, blank and dulled by exhaustion.
"I… I wasn't trying to kill you."
But the assassin didn't let up. He pressed on…
"Three days awake… Bad visibility… Moving platform…" The older man rolled the liquor once around his glass.
"Plenty of reasons to miss."
His turquoise eyes settled back upon the younger man.
"Funny thing is… you didn't miss by much. Drink your glass." Ace's tone was firm.
"I… I'm sorry…" he offered, looking away toward the floor, unable to keep meeting that gaze directly. He shakily reached for the glass and lifted it from the table, taking a small sip as instructed.
This was a much more familiar sight to Ace… the lad who could never quite look him in the eye when he thought he'd done something wrong or believed he hadn't performed to Ace's expectations. The scar-faced man had seen that same lowered gaze countless times before, back when Maverick had still been young enough to stand before him and wait for his judgment.
Some things, it seemed, had not changed nearly as much as the man himself had.
The older man watched him for several more moments before finally relenting.
"You were still functional. We completed the job… barely."
He rolled the remaining liquor around the bottom of his glass, his gaze dropping briefly toward it.
"Three days… was too much."
There was no apology attached to the admission, though the words carried an acknowledgment of fault. The assassin lifted his eyes back to the younger man before downing the rest of his glass in one go and setting it firmly on the table.
"…I pushed you past where I should have."
The admission suggested that he had miscalculated Maverick's limits and mishandled his best asset.
After a painfully long silence, the scar-faced man spoke again. A heavy sigh slipped from him, easing some of the tension held across his shoulders.
"Come on."
Maverick stared at him, uncertain where they were going… Perhaps they were leaving for another safehouse? Maybe even another transport?
"…Where?"
Ace pulled the charcoal coat over his shoulders and adjusted the collar as though the answer hardly warranted explanation. He gathered his belongings onto a tarp, wrapped them, and stuffed the bundle into a dark duffel bag. After shouldering it, he plucked the small manacle from the table and slipped it into his coat pocket, then put on the dark aviator shades.
"You haven't eaten in some time…" It wasn't a real answer, but it was all the assassin said before ushering the smaller man along.
Maverick didn't press him further. He slipped into a heavy overcoat, tied it shut, and followed without a word, watching Ace remove a data stick from the terminal displaying Hunter's image.
⚬──────────✧──────────⚬
The little shop they arrived at was still open despite the hour, tucked beneath a row of glowing advertisements along the lower concourse. Its bright menu board cast pale light across the pavement, painfully ordinary against everything that had transpired earlier that evening.
Maverick stopped outside, watching in bewilderment as the assassin opened the door and held it, gesturing him inside.
His tired eyes moved from Ace to the sign and back again…
"…An ice cream parlor?"
The older man glanced at him over the rim of his shades…
"Problem?"
"No… just wasn't expecting this."
"That's becoming a habit tonight…"
Maverick stepped into the brightly lit establishment, squinting as his eyes adjusted to the harsh white lights reflecting off the pale laminate flooring. The place smelled of sugar, cold dairy, and artificial sweetness… ordinary in a way that felt surreal after the last three days. The assassin gestured toward one of the smaller booths near the window. The younger man obeyed without a word, sliding into the seat he'd been directed to.
He wasn't sure what this was. It was unlike Ace, and that alone left him uneasy. Part of him kept waiting for another contact to appear, or for the mundane setting to reveal itself as another kind of trap.
The scar-faced man stood at the counter, studying the menu screens overhead.
"What do you want?"
Maverick stared at him for a moment, the question landing strangely after everything that had transpired earlier that evening…
"I don't know," he said at last, his voice flat with uncertainty.
The older man looked at him with a slight tilt of his head.
"You don't know what flavor you like?"
The sniper shook his head, unwilling to invite further scrutiny.
"Never really thought about it."
Ace turned back to the menu. For a moment, he was quiet, as though something distant had surfaced. Then he placed the order without asking again.
A short time later, he returned to the booth and set a small bowl in front of the younger man before taking the seat across from him. In his own hand, he held a simple chocolate-dipped cone. The bowl held almond ice cream packed with walnuts and pralines, dark chocolate chunks, a drizzle of chocolate, and fresh-cut strawberries.
Maverick blinked down at it.
The sight pulled something old and half-buried to the surface of his thoughts… a memory from
years ago, when the group had been offered small rewards for performance and he had been singled out. Ace had watched him try different things that day, noting which one he returned to and which one he finished. That same combination had been set in front of him then, a quiet marker that he had become the favorite, at least for a while.
He hadn't thought about that in a
long time.
The scar-faced man took a slow bite of his cone, watching him over it with the same assessing gaze… There was no explanation offered, just the ordinary gesture placed between them as though it belonged there, as though the last three days and the blood on the platform had not happened at all.
Maverick's fingers rested against the edge of the cold bowl.
The treat was exactly as he remembered it…
He… he had remembered it?
The young man stared down at it for a moment before slowly lifting his eyes toward Ace, confusion knitting faintly across his exhausted features. His gaze dropped back to the treat sitting before him, and then the realization finally settled in.
He knew what this was.
The understanding came with a sickening sweetness that turned bitter almost as soon as he recognized it.
When Maverick had been younger, he had idolized Ace. He had wanted desperately to be his favorite, to be the one chosen above the others, the one deemed good enough to earn his attention. More than once, he had wished for something painfully simple: time alone with the assassin, away from the others, without another lesson waiting at the end of it.
Something
just like this.
And now…
Now the auburn-haired man wanted nothing to do with the assassin sitting across from him.
His throat tightened unexpectedly, and he lowered his gaze with a frown before Ace could notice too much. Of all the things that could have wounded him tonight, he hadn't expected
this to be one of them.
He had never thought Ace noticed these sorts of things… never imagined the man remembered what he liked or understood what some small reward might have once meant to him.
Yet here they were, sitting across from one another as though this were ordinary… as though Ace were simply a father taking his son out after a job well done.
Years ago, Maverick would have given almost anything for this… Now, it only made him want to cry.
"Your ship's been cleared."
The assassin announced it without ceremony.
The sniper looked up, glassy-eyed, his expression caught somewhere between confusion and sheer exhaustion.
"…What?"
"You heard me."
He blinked in disbelief. Just like that? Was it really that simple? Was it truly over? Had his debt finally been paid in full? A thousand questions raced through his mind…
"Finish that. I'll take you back."
With an unsteady hand, Maverick reached for the spoon and picked it up. He was tired and starving; he'd barely had anything to eat over the past few days, and not much more than enough water to keep him going.
As much as he didn't want to enjoy the stupidly simple treat sitting in front of him… he found that he
did.
It was sweet, almost painfully so…
The younger man took his time with it, picking at the frozen treat with the spoon and taking small bites as he tried to make sense of everything that had happened.
He didn't dare let the tears gathering in his eyes fall in front of Ace.
He blinked rapidly, dispersing the crystalline droplets before they could fully form, then lowered his gaze back toward the bowl as though nothing had happened.
⚬──────────✧──────────⚬
Ruus Kote
The mechanic behind the counter stared at the hologram for several seconds before recognition finally settled across his face. His gaze shifted from Alex's image to the contract Ruus displayed, then briefly toward the open repair bays beyond them as if recalling some event…
"Yeah… him."
He jerked his chin toward one of the deeper bays.
"Came in a few days ago with a courier that wasn't going much farther under its own power. Drive was giving him trouble. Left it with us and said he'd be back once we had it sorted."
The mechanic paused, his expression tightening slightly as he thought about that job.
"Funny thing, though… once we cracked the housing open, it didn't look like normal wear and tear. One of the couplers had been loosened by hand, and a control lead had been cut just enough to start failing under load. Whoever did it knew what they were doing. Made it look like the drive was simply giving out until you actually got inside it."
He glanced back toward Alex's courier.
"That ship didn't break down on its own. Somebody wanted him stranded…"
The mechanic leaned an elbow against the counter, glancing again at Alex's likeness.
"Thing is, we finished the work. Invoice got cleared, too. Ship's been sitting right where we left it ever since."
That, apparently, bothered him more now that two armed Mandalorians were standing in front of his counter asking questions.
"Kid never came back for it."
He scratched absently at the side of his jaw before adding,
"But… he wasn't alone when he left, either. Older human. Red hair. Face looked like it'd lost an argument with a furnace." His hand passed vaguely across one side of his own face to indicate the scarring.
"Didn't catch a name. Figured they knew each other. Looked enough alike that I thought maybe they were family."
The mechanic's mouth pulled faintly to one side.
"Didn't see a fight. Didn't hear one, either. They walked out, and that was the last I saw of your man… They'd stayed upstairs for a few hours before leaving…"
He glanced toward Alex's waiting ship again.
"If he's supposed to be working for you, I'd say he didn't plan on being gone this long."
The mechanic seemed to consider the two Mandalorians for another moment before jerking his chin toward the deeper end of the establishment.
"Wouldn't go running off just yet, though. His ship's paid for, fueled, and ready to leave. Sooner or later, either your boy comes back for it, or somebody who knows where he went does."
His mouth pulled into an easy grin as he wiped his hands against the front of his coveralls.
"Might as well get comfortable. We've got food, drinks, and enough company around here to keep you from staring at the door all night. Girls'll be happy enough to keep a couple of armored heroes entertained while you wait."
Whether Ruus found the suggestion particularly appealing or not, the logic behind it was difficult to argue with. Alex's courier was still sitting in the repair bay like a tether waiting to be pulled taut. If he was coming back to Nickel One at all, Gear Grinders remained the most likely place for him to surface.
⚬──────────✧──────────⚬
Fifteen hours had passed since Ruus and his companion had first questioned the staff at Gear Grinders.
In that time, the place had returned to its usual rhythm as though nothing of consequence had happened at all. Mechanics drifted between open bays with stained gloves tucked into belts. Couriers came and went to argue over repair estimates, independent haulers stopped long enough to refuel and complain about docking fees, and the occasional mercenary or spacer lingered near the counter while waiting on a part that had supposedly been
"ten minutes out" for the better part of an hour.
Engines coughed to life beneath the awnings whilst welding torches hissed against exposed plating. Somewhere deeper inside the shop, someone swore loudly enough to be heard over the machinery before the clang of a dropped hydrospanner answered them.
Gear Grinders endured it all with the same greasy familiarity it always had.
Then… a Skipray blastboat descended toward the yard.
Its heavier silhouette cut across the lights of the surrounding refinery works as it eased down between the neighboring structures, maneuvering thrusters kicking grit and loose scraps of packing material across the duracrete below. The craft settled with a low mechanical whine, landing struts taking its weight before the engines wound down into a deep, fading hum.
A few of the mechanics glanced up. One paused with a rag still in hand, watching the unfamiliar vessel for several seconds before deciding it was none of his business and returning to the engine compartment in front of him.
Inside the blastboat, the assassin remained seated for a moment after touchdown.
Beside him, Maverick had not stirred…
Somewhere during the return trip, exhaustion had finally claimed him. He had fallen asleep hard enough that the change in engine pitch, the descent through local traffic, and even the jolt of the landing gear meeting the ground had failed to wake him. His head had tipped awkwardly toward one shoulder, auburn hair fallen loose across part of his face, his features slack with the kind of sleep that came only after the body had been denied it for far too long.
The scar-faced man looked over at him and simply watched the younger man sleep…
Then he reached across the narrow space between them and set a hand against the sniper's shoulder, giving him a firm shake.
"Wake up."
Maverick shifted with a faint, disoriented sound but did not immediately open his eyes.
The older man shook him again, harder this time.
"We're here."
Maverick's eyes opened slowly. He blinked against the dim cabin lights, staring ahead without recognition for several long seconds before awareness began to return. His gaze moved toward Ace, then toward the forward viewport beyond him.
Gear Grinders sat outside beneath the dirty glow of its yard lights… and his ship was still there.
Groggily, the auburn-haired man pushed himself upright. His legs felt unsteady beneath him as he got to his feet, and he caught himself against the edge of the seat when the cabin seemed to tilt beneath him.
The assassin ushered him toward the open ramp without much ceremony, and the younger man followed, still trying to drag himself fully awake.
He stumbled once as they stepped down onto the duracrete landing pad, catching his balance before continuing.
At the bottom of the gangway, Maverick stopped…
For a moment, he stood there beneath the yard lights, then slowly looked back over his shoulder. His tired eyes settled on Ace, searching his face as though he still expected some final condition to be attached to all of this.
Alexandros
