No Entry in the Ledger

[Axar]

The den was three levels below the main concourse, past a service corridor and through a door that didn't advertise itself. No name. Low ceiling. Changeling-run, like everything on this station that mattered. The half-gravity made the air feel thin and the drinks pour wrong, but it kept the locals light on their feet, and Axar had learned to use that a long time ago.

He sat with his back to the far wall. One hand flat on the table. Drink in front of him, barely touched. He hadn't come here to drink.

The room sorted itself out fast enough. Two exits — the corridor he'd come through and a freight access behind the bar that the staff thought was subtle. A Konatsian blade dealer three tables over, conducting a sale he clearly believed was discreet. It wasn't. Two low-rank Saiyans burning credits on a rigged dice game, too loud and too drunk to notice. A Kanassan in the far corner, doing what Kanassans did. Selling futures. Probably overcharging.

Axar knew the types. He'd dragged most of them across a ship's deck at one point or another.

He'd been running the room for the better part of an hour when his attention caught on the east alcove.

A figure, standing where the foot traffic thinned out. Not hiding. Placed. She'd chosen a position with clear sightlines to the bar, the main entrance, and the Kanassan's corner — the three points in the room that generated the most movement. That was deliberate. That was someone who'd mapped a space before settling into it.

He couldn't place her species.

Not Konatsian. Not Human, despite something in the build that suggested it at a glance. Nothing from the bounty boards. Nothing from the Cold Clan's imperial census, which the Scorch networks had copied and picked apart years ago. Axar had committed most of it to memory. She wasn't in it.

His tail shifted once beneath the table. He caught the motion. Stilled it.

She was watching the room the same way he'd been watching it. Not browsing. Sorting. Filing bodies into categories. He recognized the behavior because it was his.

Unknown species. Unknown capability. Alone, in a place that didn't welcome strangers, carrying herself like she understood exactly where she was.

Axar stood. Crossed the room without rushing, threading the gaps in the crowd the way the half-gravity let him — smooth, no wasted force. He stopped at the edge of the alcove. Close enough that she'd have to decide what to do about him.

 

[Failure-64]

The Market was, as 64 had learned, not all that exciting. After a month, she felt like she could predict just about anything that would happen when she went out into its streets. People trying to make as much money as possible. Patiently waiting hunters waiting for their target to make one misstep. "Tourist" with bright eyes and wonder for the immenseness of the Market.

It was simultaneously the perfect place for anything to happen, while also having nothing new to offer for those who lived there.

Because Gehn continued to turtle inside of the facility, only daring to peek his head out when necessary, it was up to 64 to handle any errands. Menial work, such as passing along messages for Gehn, gathering supplies, or finding a one-day job to make some extra zeni.

Today, however, was a day in which she had nothing to do. Gehn needed nothing. No jobs were appealing. She had nothing to do herself but wait until their ship was ready. So, she chose to "people watch". She knew that Gehn was being hunted -- he reminded her almost every day, even if indirectly -- and she didn't doubt that the Doctor had loose threads that would inevitably come after him or his work.

Or, more positively, she could find someone who's interests were aligned. Another body guard for Gehn. Someone who could fly their ship better than the man who crash landed on the moon. Fuck, even just someone who was better company than the too-serious Cyborg she lived with.

There was an irony to her finding Gehn overly practical, though she didn't draw that conclusion consciously.

What drew her to this hole-in-the-wall was what guided her to anywhere: Curiosity.

Power levels were wild and varied on the Market, but there was still a general "cap". Seldom did she sense a power beyond her own, and even rarer did that power stay at the Market for an extended period. Here, tucked away, was one such power source.

She didn't look at him -- didn't need to -- but she knew he was there. Sitting across the room with a drink he had clearly bought only to "pay" for his seat in the room. A Changling with reddish skin -- maybe more pink to her eyes, but colors were so often subjective. She wasn't one to assume, but what were the odds of a Scorch Clan being here. Not here as in the Market, but here in an establishment that would draw someone of his profession in like flies to a carcass.

Their eyes never met, but she knew he was watching her -- maybe he knew she was returning the gesture. Curious stares were frequent given how she stood out, but, again...What were the odds?

After some time, enough not to seem hurried or overly interested, he stood and waded through the open tables and inebriated Saiyans. Silently, he slipped just into the alcove she had claimed for herself. He didn't address her, barely even glanced at her, but neither of them needed a polite "Mind if I join you?"

"Haven't seen many Scorchs around lately," she commented truthfully; he was the first. "I don't think you're here just to savor the piss-water they call a drink."

 

[Axar]

She'd spoken first.

That registered before the words themselves did. Axar had crossed the room on his terms, positioned himself at the edge of her space, and she'd taken the exchange out of his hands before he'd opened his mouth. Not a flinch. Not a glance to confirm who'd just stepped into her alcove. She'd known he was there. Known before he stood up, probably. The drink comment confirmed it. She'd been watching him watch her.

He let that resettle the picture.

Scorch Clan. She'd said it like she was naming a ship class. Specific. Accurate. Most species couldn't tell a Scorch from a Cold at a distance, let alone in a room this dim. That meant she'd either spent real time around Changelings or she'd done her reading. Both were worth knowing.

His tail curled once, slow, then went still against his calf.

"You're right about the drinks," he said. Flat. No inflection to work with. He didn't look at her directly yet. Let his gaze rest on the room behind her, the same sightlines she'd already mapped. "Though I'd have said something worse than piss-water."

A beat. He shifted his weight forward, just enough to settle into the alcove's edge rather than loom at it. Arms crossed. The overhead light caught the red of his polycarbonate crest and slid off again.

"Not many people catalog Changeling clans by color." He turned his attention to her fully. Up close, the species question got louder, not quieter. Humanoid frame. Wrong details. Something behind the eyes that didn't match any database he carried. "Most just see the armor and stop thinking. So either you've spent time on Cold space stations, or someone taught you what to look for."

He left the question unasked. She seemed like the type who'd answer it or she wouldn't, and phrasing it as a request wasn't going to change which one it was.

"I know every species that works this level of the Market. Contractors, fences, hunters, brokers. Kanassan seers who'll sell your future back to you for six hundred zeni." His chin dipped a fraction toward her. "I don't know yours."

 

[Failure-64]

One of Axar's guesses was right, but 64 wouldn't tell him which.

"Most make assumptions that result in their untimely demise," she countered when he commented on how well informed she was.

She didn't say anything further. The Changling, instead, filled the silence with, what could only assume, was the real reason he approached. At least she hoped -- if he was who she thought he was, and he knew of her connection to a certain Saiyan, the situation would get difficult rather quick.

"Typically, you're expected to buy a woman a drink before you ask such personal questions," she said. Only the slightest curl of her lips confirmed she was partially joking; Her tone was dry and made landing jokes an ongoing battle.

Again, she didn't answer him directly. At least, not right away. She turned her gaze back to the bar, watching as a Saiyan with heavy bags under his eyes pretended to listen to a Human who had one too many drinks. Not that she cared about either of them, that was simply where her eyes happened to land.

If Gehn were here, he would tell her to leave. Find a natural way to end the conversation and get the fuck out. Every second she engaged with him risked him putting the pieces together. Risked her saying something that got him thinking.

But, Gehn wasn't here, was he?

"I'm not of a species," she clarified. "One of a kind."

She pushed herself from the wall she had been leaning against. A glance to him was a subtle invitation to follow as she passed by. A nearby booth with old, but padded, cushions was her location of choice. She slid far into one of the seats. Deep enough in that he could sit either with her, or across the table.

Almost certainly across the table. Well, unless he truly was trying to flirt with her, but she doubted it.

When he approached, 64 was already leaning on her elbow, pure-white cheek cupped by thin, curled fingers. Her eyes followed him, just curious enough to give away her desire to continue the chat, but not enough to hide the overwhelming boredom she had been enduring for hours now.

"I go by 64."

 

[Axar]

One of a kind.

Not an answer. Not a deflection, either. She'd given him something to work with and made him do the work himself. He could respect the efficiency of that.

She pushed off the wall and moved toward a booth without checking if he'd follow. He did. Not immediately. Half a beat behind, enough to make it his choice rather than her pull. Professional habit.

The booth was worn, cushions flattened to nothing. She slid deep into one side. Left room. He took the seat across from her, because that's where you sat when you were working, and whatever this was, it wasn't social yet.

She settled in. Elbow on the table, cheek against her fingers. Bored, but watching him. Paying attention despite herself.

He recognized the look. He'd worn it.

"64," he repeated. Let the number sit for a second. Androids used numbers. So did military designations, prison systems, and lab indexes. She didn't read as mechanical. The skin was wrong for it, the weight distribution too organic. But one of a kind and a numerical designation put her somewhere in the gap between natural and manufactured. That gap was where the dangerous ones lived.

He flagged down the nearest thing the den had to a server — a bored-looking Changeling kid running drinks between the bar and the floor — and held up two fingers without breaking eye contact with 64.

"Axar." He uncrossed his arms and set both hands flat on the table. Open, for him. A concession. "And you made the rules. Drinks first."

The kid dropped two glasses of whatever was cheapest. Axar didn't touch his.

"One of a kind covers a lot of ground. Could mean unique specimen. Could mean last survivor. Could mean someone built you in a lab and broke the mold after." His tone stayed level. No accusation in it. Just a list. "I've hauled bounties on all three."

His tail settled into a slow curl beneath the seat. Comfortable wasn't the right word. Engaged was closer.

"You've been on this station long enough to know Scorch Clan by sight and pick your sightlines before you sit down. That's not a tourist." He picked up the glass, finally, and turned it once in his hand without drinking. "So what's keeping you on a station where the best drink is the one you don't finish?"