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 the Market 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 the Market 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 rock where the best drink is the one you don't finish?"

 

[Failure-64]

It was a shame he kept a professional distance. Part of her was eager to see just how far down that rabbit hole she could have gone. Most tended to loosen their tongue when under the impression of something more going on.

Then he said it: Axar.

What little doubt she had been clinging to was shattered. This was the man that had Gehn cowering in the Doctor's institution. The man that had nearly killed him not too long ago.

"I've been here my whole life," she answered. Truthful, though certainly misleading given her apparent age. "As for why I haven't left..."

She shrugged, one open palm lifting toward the ceiling to exaggerate the next few words.

"I don't have a ship."

Also truthful. Gehn's ship wasn't in flying condition yet. Furthermore, it wasn't hers. He had offered her a flight with the heavy implication of her continuing to fulfill her role as his muscle.

But, the mere fact that she answered to any degree of honesty solidified where her mind was. How much she truly cared about walking the dangerous line she had found herself on.

The corner of her lips twitched. Not quite a smirk, but enough for the observant eye to pick up on what must have been an amusing thought crossing her mind.

Any bounty hunter worth his pay would have noticed.

"Let's go with me being a unique specimen," she circled back to the information he was truly after. "While I'm sure you're an upstanding and honorable Changeling, I think you can understand my reservations for telling you everything. Your kind has a very unique reputation for kidnapping, after all."

She dragged the tip of her index finger around the rim of her drink. Idle motions either from the boredom that her expression still leaned towards, or the fidgeting of a person flush with excited or nervous anxiousness.

She wondered which Axar would assume.

"You're here on a bounty, then?" It was her turn to make an assumption. "Ideally not one for my pretty head, right?"

 

[Axar]

The lip twitch. He caught it. Filed it alongside the way she'd angled the drink comment earlier, the measured honesty, the calculated pause before each answer. She was good at this. Controlled the flow of a conversation the way a fighter controlled distance. Gave ground only when she chose to.

Useful skill.

"Kidnapping," he said, flat. "That's one word for it." He didn't elaborate. Didn't flinch from it, either. The Scorch Clan's practices weren't a secret to anyone who'd spent time in Changeling space, and she'd already proven she had. Denying it would insult them both.

He took a sip of the drink. Worse than expected.

"Bounty work is what I do. Whether I'm on one right now isn't something I discuss with people I met five minutes ago." He set the glass down and pushed it a few inches away. Done with it. "But nothing on the boards has your face on it. And if it did, I wouldn't have bought you a drink first. Bad for the margin."

His tail uncurled from beneath the seat and resettled. Slow. Deliberate. His hands came back to the table, one stacked over the other.

He looked at her directly. Unique specimen. Powerful enough to stand alone in a room full of people who made their living off easy marks and not draw a single approach until he'd walked over. Stuck on this moon with no ship and no visible affiliation. Bored enough to sit in a hole like this and talk to a Changeling she'd just accused of being a potential kidnapper.

And she'd been here long enough to know the Market's rhythms. Who came and went. Where people hid.

That had value beyond the obvious.

"Here's what I see," he said. "You're capable. You're stranded. And you've been on the Market long enough that the walls are closing in." He leaned back. Let the booth creak under the shift. "I work contracts across three systems. Some of them need a second pair of hands. The pay is real, the transport is covered, and I don't ask people to do work I wouldn't do myself."

He let that sit for a beat.

"You can keep waiting for whatever you're waiting for. Or you can get off this rock and do something worth your time." One shoulder lifted. "Your call."

 

[Failure-64]

His response to her choice of word -- kidnapping -- earned a proper chuckle. Well, not quite a chuckle. Air exhaled through her nose heavily and her lips curled with amusement. A "half" chuckle was more accurate, but still a show of amusement all the same.

But, then, he said nothing she never would have expected:

He offered her a job.

Her brows lifted with no attempt made to hide how it piqued her interest. She paused for a beat and then lifted her head. The palm that once cradled her check drooped, hanging limply at the wrist, but never fell to the table. It just waited, as if she expected the boredom to return at any minute.

"Tempting," she answered honestly.

As critical as Gehn had been to her standing on her own two feet, there were drawbacks. Some she considered severe. All of this time and he had done nothing but poke away on his tablet, take calls, and fuss around with documents. Important work, she had no doubt, as the pay was generous, but not the sort of work that built a fighter.

She could only get so strong by herself -- she needed a partner. Or foes to truly put her skills to the test. Even if Gehn was the type to train with her, she wondered how useful it would even be.

If she punched him too hard, she might rupture his organs without realizing.

"I'm not the sort who wishes to be beholden to another's desires," she said, eyes turning toward her drink. She seemed to consider taking a sip, but decided against it. "That said..."

An idea flashed across her eyes; excitement or eagerness to learn more. She flicked her crimson gaze to meet his own.

"I might be tempted for the right price. How much were you paid for your last hunt?"

 

[Axar]

She'd said hunt, not job. Not contract. Axar filed the word choice and kept his face level.

Brows up, no attempt to mask it. Head lifted. Her hand dropped from her cheek and hung loose at the wrist. She hadn't said yes. She'd said tempting, which was better. People who said yes too fast were either desperate or lying. People who said tempting were doing math.

"I don't discuss what clients pay me," he said. "Same reason I don't discuss active contracts. Both sides pay me to keep my mouth shut." He turned the glass once more, a slow rotation between his thumb and two fingers. A habit. Something for his hands to do while the rest of him worked. "But I can tell you the range. Low-end bounties clear two, three thousand zeni. Competent targets with resources, connections, reasons to run — those pay more. Substantially more."

"And I heard what you said. Not beholden." His tail gave a single slow sweep behind him, then settled. "Good. I'm not looking for a subordinate. I've got a low tolerance for people who need to be managed."

He leaned forward. Elbows on the table now. The polycarbonate of his crest caught the overhead light and held it for a second before he dipped his chin.

"What I'm offering is contract work. Job by job. You take the ones that suit you, pass on the ones that don't. The pay splits fair based on what you bring to the table, and I don't short people who pull their weight." He held her gaze. Red on red. "No leash. No hierarchy. You walk when you want."

A beat.

"But you'd need to show me something first. I don't bring dead weight into the field based on a conversation in a bar." The corner of his mouth moved. "You said you're capable. I believe you. But I'm the type who likes proof."

 

[Failure-64]

The lower end was around a couple thousand. Did that mean Gehn was there? Or was his ability to run enough to up the price? Without much to go on, she assumed he was around the five thousand mark. She wondered, briefly, if she could just buy out Gehn's bounty. He had a way of making zeni. How long could it take him to--

The wooden bench creaked as Axar leaned forward, more onto his elbows now. His voiced dropped ever so slightly accommodate their new distance.

She didn't pull away, elbow still resting on the table.

"Ha," 64 breathed out something like a chuckle. "Fair enough, I suppose. I would assume you also don't want a stranger strong enough to slit your throat at the first opportunity."

If he could sense Ki, she would most certainly fall into that sweet spot. Dangerous enough to be worth the time and effort, but not so much that he couldn't put her down if things went sideways. Even in that moment, resting in the bar, he exceeded her by a comfortable margin.

If he decided to pull more on those Changeling powers of his?

"How about a spar?" She asked the question she had asked Gehn at least a dozen times already -- rejected each time, of course. "A few rounds, or however long you need to get a good measure. I promise not to scuff your polycarbonate."

 

[Axar]

She'd gotten there before him. Again.

He'd been three sentences from proposing it himself. Instead she'd skipped past the negotiation table and landed on the only part of this that actually mattered. Axar could appreciate that. Words were useful. Fists were conclusive.

"The polycarbonate will be fine," he said. "Worry about that horn."

Single point, curling up from her forehead into the black of her hair. Decorative or functional, it was a protrusion on a fighter's skull. Protrusions broke.

He straightened from the table and rolled one shoulder. The booth had done its job. The drinks had done theirs, badly. What came next needed space. A Changeling and an unknown throwing hands in a broker's den would generate talk, and talk made his work harder.

"There's a training block near the Gravitron facility, eastern district. Rented by the hour, built to take damage." He stood. The half-gravity caught his weight and held it like it always did here, a fraction too light, the ground not quite pulling hard enough. He'd compensated for it so long it barely registered anymore. "Neutral ground. No crowd. No interruptions."

His tail swept once behind him. Settled.

"A few rounds is fine. I'll know what I need to know before that." He looked down at her, still seated. The overhead light cut across the armor plating of his chest and the red of his crest. "Rules are simple. We go until I've seen enough. No cheap shots to start. After that, fight like you mean it."

He waited. Turning your back on someone you'd just met was a good way to learn how fast they could hit you from behind.

"You coming?"

 

[Failure-64]

The warning about her horn earned a smirk.

"I won't touch yours if you don't touch mine."

Axar stood, 64 lingered. The limp hand fell to the rim of her glass, lifted, and then brought it to her lips. She dared a sip.

Immediately her face twisted and the glass was set back down. It was a crime that anyone had to spend zeni on that.

She slid out of the booth, twisting just as he beckoned her, and then gave him a dismissive wave. Nothing about her was hurried -- in fact, she had been slow, measured the entire time. Whether it was because she was genuinely naive enough to let her guard down while in public, or if it was a conscious effort was up for debate. Though, after this little match, she hoped that Axar would have that answer.

Out the patched-steel door, Axar guided her through the streets and to the aforementioned training ground. Neither were interested in small talk and neither were invested enough to ask more personal questions. No more than a dozen words filled the near 40 minute walk to the training ground.

Axar paid for an hour of training -- 64 had no intentions when he was the one offering her a job -- and then they were guided down a narrow hall. Unmarked doors all of the same make were paced out evenly, spaciously. Private rooms for, assumedly, training. Theirs was at the very end of the hall, through a door that looked older than the building itself. When it hissed open, it was slow, tired with old age, but obeyed.

Within was a simple, flat area with floors made of dense, but very slightly flexible plastic. Enough give that someone wouldn't crack their head open if they fell, but firm enough to not bend underfoot. There were basic supplies: some weights hooked on a rack near the door, metal staves to practice melee weaponry, and a few other objects that 64 couldn't identify.

Neither hesitated and walked right in. Behind them, the door sighed with relief as it fell shut.

Axar stepped forward, putting a respectable distance between them. Her body, eager for a fight, felt electric and she had to make the conscious effort not to leap at him right then and there.

No cheap shots to start.

He turned to face her, body loose and ready to react.

"Ready?" She asked, unable to hide the impatient tension in the back of her throat.

He barely finished his answer by the time her feet kicked from the ground. A blur of black and white closed their distance before an eye could even begin to blink, and she appeared with a fist already reeled back. Her arm thrust forward with enough force that a whip-like CRACK echoed in the hard-walled room.

A simple punch to start -- no tricks, no obscurations. Just raw, full force power that couldn't be questioned. By many standards, the truest test to measure oneself.

 

[Axar]

Fast.

She closed the gap in a blink, black and white streaking across the floor, and by the time his hands came up she was already there. Fist cocked, full rotation through the shoulder, nothing held back.

He caught it on crossed forearms. The impact hit like a freight coupling. His boots slid three inches on the plastic and the floor flexed beneath him, absorbing what his guard didn't. The crack of displaced air bounced off every wall in the room.

The force ran up through his wrists, into his shoulders, down through his spine and into the ground. His bones held. His arms held. But he'd felt that. Genuinely felt it.

His tail snapped tight against his calf. Not a tell this time. Anchor.

The professional distance he'd worn all night — it thinned. Not gone. Thinner.

He liked this.

"Good," he said. Still behind his forearms. She was close enough to see his eyes. They'd stopped assessing.

He shoved forward off the block, converting defense into offense in a single motion. Used the half-gravity to carry the momentum. His right fist drove straight at her center mass, no feint, no angle. The same language she'd opened with. Raw force, clean delivery.

Fair was fair.

 

[Failure-64]

She considered herself quick when measured by her peers -- that's what the Doctor's data had told her, though it's reliability was likely questionable given his state of mind.

Axar was quicker, though only by a hair.

A gale erupted from her arms, red-pink Ki summoned so suddenly that the air itself was displaced. Around her fists and forearms, the Ki hardened and snapped into a solid shape just as quickly as it had formed. It looked like gauntlets; steel plates, extra-padded knuckles, the sort that looked out of place in a world with guns and lazars.

A single arm came up to meet Axar's counter. His fist met against hardened Ki, but had too much force for her to stop entirely. Instead, she grunted and threw her arm to the side, shoving his fist in a wide arc away from his center of mass.

Opening him up for her counter.

"Not bad yourself," she smirked.

Her other fist was already in motion, as if she could see the future laid out before her. She anticipated the way his body would move and react, and thrust right where his center of mass would end up. This punch, however, was not the plain, brute force as before -- that was already proven.

What he hadn't seen was her mastery over Ki. How a single punch, if landed right, could deliver a lethal dose of Ki straight into the body.

 

[Axar]

The gauntlets registered first. Ki condensed into solid form, shaped and hardened in the time it took him to throw a punch. That wasn't just power management. That was craft.

His fist hit the gauntlet and she redirected it. Not a block. A throw. She took his momentum and shoved it wide, pulling his guard open and his weight off-center in the same motion. Textbook. Better than textbook. She'd read where he'd be before he got there.

Her counter was already coming.

He sensed it through Ki Sense a half-second before impact. Not just force this time. Compressed Ki packed behind the knuckles, dense and hot. He turned his torso, tried to slip the worst of it, but she'd aimed where he was going to be, not where he was.

The punch caught him across the ribs. Hard.

The force was bad enough. Then the Ki hit. It punched through the surface and detonated inside him, a jolt that locked his chest muscles and made his vision white out at the edges for a fraction of a second. His feet left the floor. The half-gravity carried him two meters before he came down on the plastic, boots catching, one hand flat to stop the slide.

He stayed low for a beat. Got his breathing back.

That was real. Not a spar tap. Not a pulled shot. She'd hit him with a technique designed to end fights, and she'd landed it clean.

His tail unwound from his calf. Slow.

Except it didn't stop.

It swept low and fast as he surged forward, closing the distance in a step. His fist came high. Telegraphed. Obvious.

His tail whipped around at knee height with everything behind it.