Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"I'm not budging," said X. "We need to find a different way to settle this."

Zero grimaced. X could be accommodating, even passive, on a lot of things. When he dug in on an issue, though, he was impossible to shift short of orbital bombardment. Even then, Zero could easily imagine X still standing in the midst of smoldering ruin, that stony expression still on his face, saying, "No, you move."

'Kill him' was an option that immediately presented itself, but Zero had grown used to smushing that instinct when it came to X.

Still… was it a pointer in the right direction? "Spar you for it," Zero said.

"That'd take too long."

"This is taking too long," said Zero with a scowl.

"I want to get away from the idea that everything has to be settled by fighting," said X.

"But some things do have to be settled with fighting," Zero objected.

X gave an extremely reluctant nod. "Yes, but… not this. There are other ways of resolving conflicts. Neutral arbitration, for example."

Definition not found. Typical. Zero tried to puzzle it out. "So… we each fight a common opponent, and the one that wins in a better time wins the argument?"

"No, no," said X hastily. "Not at all. Like, we both submit our arguments to a third party, and that person decides."

"That sounds suspiciously like a debate," said Zero.

"So?" said X innocently.

"Do you think I'd volunteer for a swimming competition with Klaxon Crab? Do you think I'd volunteer for a flying competition with Shriek Skyray? Do you think…"

X winced. "I get it, I get it. So… a different sort of neutral arbiter, then."

"Like what?"

"Chance."

Zero cocked his head. "What do you mean?"

"We do something with even probabilities, and we both agree that whichever result turns up we'll go with that outcome. The classic example is flipping a coin, but I don't have one. I don't think you do, either."

Zero frowned. He didn't want to say why.

"I suppose there's always janken," X said, almost chuckling.

This time Zero couldn't restrain himself. "What?"

X reacted to that. "Janken-pon?" he tried. "Rock-paper-scissors?"

Definition not found. "Explain it to me."

X's expression changed. "Alright," he said, suddenly enthusiastic. "It's conflict resolution, but with no hint of violence. The two of us say together, "jan, ken, pon", and we shake our hands on each beat. On "pon", we both reveal one of three shapes.

"Rock," he said, holding up a closed fist, "paper," his fingers splayed out, "and scissors," two fingers stayed up in a 'v' shape. "The shapes have different relationships that determine who wins. Scissors cut paper, so if you show scissors and I show paper, your scissors would win. Rocks crush scissors, so rock wins that matchup. And paper… uh… wins against rock."

"Why?" said Zero, worried he'd missed something.

"You know, I'm not sure," X said uncertainly. "I've wondered about that myself. I guess it wraps the rock up or something?"

"But the rock maintains its integrity," said Zero, frowning. "The scissors and the paper are destroyed when they lose, but the rock is the same as it was before."

"It's just to make the game make sense," said X. "It's… symbolic."

"Oh." Zero didn't ask what it was symbolic of. He hated metaphor.

"And if we both make the same symbol," said X, recovering his footing, "it's a tie and we try it again, but this time we say "aiko desho"—on the beats again, like "ai, ko, desho"."

Zero began to fret as to whether he'd remember all of this. It seemed simple, but that hadn't helped before.

"Want to give it a try?" X offered. "It's easier to learn by doing."

"What should I choose?" Zero asked.

"Whatever you want," said X, affably and unhelpfully.

Zero closed his eyes. He was very good at math—so much so that he kept going over it and over it, convinced it couldn't be so simple. There didn't seem to be any way to gain advantage. Any choice he picked had a one-third chance of victory, one-third chance of defeat, and one-third chance of a draw. That was basically random, wasn't it? That wasn't right. Games should be winnable.

Unless he'd misidentified what kind of game it was…

"Ready," said Zero.

X balled up his fist. Zero matched him. "Jan-ken-pon!"

Immediately X frowned. "Zero, you're not supposed to change your choice."

Zero affected blankness. "I thought it was a reflexes game," he said. "You try and counter the enemy's attack as it's happening."

"It's not," said X. "Once you make your decision, ahead of time, you can't change it."

Rust. That took things back out of Zero's comfort zone. "Okay," he said reluctantly. "Let's try again."

"How about we do… nine rounds?" said X. "Or two sets of five. That'll let you get the hang of it. Then we'll do it one more time to settle the argument."

"Okay," Zero said.

"Jan-ken-pon!"

Zero won the first set, three-to-two. That was reassuring. X took the second set by the same margin. It helped assure Zero that things were, essentially, random.

"This one's for real, then," said X, looking suddenly determined. "Ready?"

Zero closed his eyes. If things were truly random, it didn't matter which one he picked. In that case, he could pick whatever he wanted. Whatever made sense.

Scissors. It had to be. You cut through the weirdness of the world to get to truth. Scissors.

"Jan-ken-pon!"

And X was already smiling. Rock. "I win," he said.

Zero frowned. "Just one pass?" he said. "Even in sparring we do more than one pass."

"Best two-out-of-three, then," said X agreeably.

"Jan-ken-pon!"

"Best three-out-of-five," Zero hissed.

"Jan-ken-pon!"

"Jan-ken-pon!"

Zero looked disbelievingly at his own hand, as if it had somehow betrayed him.

"I think I win," said X. "Unless… you want to keep going?"

Zero bridled. Was there something about the game he wasn't getting? Or… or maybe this was just random variation working in X's favor, a bit of small-sample-size theater. Yes. That had to be it. Because even if it was a game of chance, Zero couldn't lose. He just… couldn't.

The original source of the argument long forgotten, Zero balled his fist up and set his face determinedly.

X cracked the smallest of smiles, and acted in kind.

Chapter Text

"You ready to hear something awesome?"

"Sure, give me a jolt."

"I've got eighteen hours off coming up."

"No way!"

"Way!"

Rondel gave an envious glare at his fellow operator, Blue. "I haven't gotten more than twelve hours off duty at a stretch since… my socialization, maybe. There's always training, or drills, or maintenance, or admin, or some other rusted thing. How'd you manage this?"

Blue leaned back. He laced his fingers together behind his crested head, carefully avoiding his operator's headset. "Some of us are just that good," he said languidly.

"Break down," Rondel scoffed. "You're dropping something. You've gotta be."

"Nope! I've just never, even once, volunteered for something. I only have one secondary duty, and it eats around four hours a month. I don't have any tech certs so I'm not on the maintenance roster. When admin jobs come up, I let you go-getters who want promotions catch 'em. I'm doing everything I'm asked to do… and nothing more."

Rondel frowned. "Is that how I ended up with the liaison job? Are you saying you got offered that one first?"

Blue grinned.

Rondel's hands tightened. "What about training? I know you've at least got to do your Pyrrhus refresher, that due date's coming up fast."

"Not for another week," Blue lazily riposted.

"What about your weapons qual?"

Blue laughed. "Rondel, I'm gonna let you in on a secret: no one checks operators' weapons quals. No one cares. Think about it! We're operators. We direct the Hunters with weapons. They're the ones whose quals actually matter. If we're fighting, we're toast anyway, and everyone knows it, so no one bothers to police us about the quals."

A self-satisfied smirk came over Blue's avian face. "I tell you, I've got this operator thing figured out."

Rondel scowled. "You are awful."

"Awful smart, you mean."

"The work doesn't go away just because you're not doing it."

"Sure," said Blue, "but what good does it do me to do that extra work? How is it to my benefit to bust my bolts? I can just let you weirdos who like that sort of thing handle it."

"We don't like it," Rondel said, scowl deepening, "we just realize that someone has to do it."

"Sure, sure," said Blue, unimpressed, "but I can't think of a single reason why "someone" should be me. This way functions. The work will get done. And I will be off the Floor, enjoying my eighteen hours off. I just hope I don't get bored!"

"There'll be little chance of that."

Rondel was taken aback. His mouth had been open to speak, but those hadn't been his words. Those words had come from behind. Both Rondel and Blue turned. Someone had been working on the console behind them; with the console's maintenance door open they'd never seen who it was. Now, the door went shut. As it did, it revealed a black carapace, red-and-peach flak plating, and shoulder-length blonde robot-hair.

"Alia," croaked Blue. "Didn't know you were back there. So… nice to see you."

"Is it?" the senior operator replied drily. Her expression was very much on the 'stern' side of professional. She reached down into her toolbag and retrieved a datapad. "I heard you're coming into some free time, Blue."

"That's not… er…"

"Well, what do you know," she said. "It looks like you do have a little excess capacity. Curious—no one else does. Let's take a closer look."

Tap-tap went her fingers against the pad. It was a terrifying sound for Blue. "Actually," said Blue, his voice sickly, "when I got off-shift, I was going to work on…"

"…your team reports?" Alia supplied.

"Right," said Blue, nearly collapsing in relief. "I'll be finishing up my team reports."

"Good call," Alia said, nodding. "Those are due tomorrow." Her face hardened. "But your mission reconstructions were due last week."

Blue winced as Alia's trap snapped shut on him. "Yeah, I'll work on those, too."

"And… it looks like you haven't turned in your analysis tasking. It's not delinquent yet, but you're the only one who hasn't submitted by now, so you're holding up the whole project."

"I'll get to it," said Blue, squirming.

"Yes, you will," Alia agreed. "I just locked you out of your recharge tube. It won't unlock until all of that datawork has been filed."

"What?!" exclaimed Blue. "You can't do that!"

His declaration didn't seem to register with her at all. Tap-tap. "You know, I've been meaning to shuffle secondary duties. Now's as good a time as ever. You just picked up OpSec officer and ComSec custodian. Those were Polly's second and third secondary duties—she'll be glad to be rid of them. Then she can take over Workcenter Supervisor from me, and you can take Maintenance Planner from her."

"Don't you need a class for that?" prompted Rondel, whose grin was approaching the limits of his face.

"Yeah," said Blue, but without much hope. "I haven't taken the class, I can't pick up Planner duty."

"It's a twelve-hour class held once a month," Alia said snappily. "The next offering is Tuesday. I've just signed you up for it."

Blue deflated a little more. "Thanks for making it convenient."

"No problem. Pick a technical track."

"Huh?"

"We maintain all our own equipment, you know that. Why do you think I was in that console? You were supposed to have picked a technical track and started your training weeks ago. Shame on me for losing that thread—but we'll fix that. What sort of equipment do you want to specialize in?"

"Uh…"

"Communications gear, you said? Perfect. It's a longer track, but it works well with your ComSec custodian duty. Nice synergy there. You've got three months to get your level one cert."

"But…" Blue objected, trying to remember, "doesn't… doesn't Yoko do our comms gear maintenance?"

"What if she transfers? Or gets promoted? Or dies? Or actually wants a few hours of free time every once in a while?"

No reply.

"Three months to get your level one," Alia repeated, "and six months to get your level two. Get studying."

"Yes ma'am," Blue mumbled.

"Oh, and you'll be taking your weapons requalification test in two weeks. You've been lapsed for too long, so you can't just get a renewal—you need to take the full version."

"What?" said Blue, starting. "I—I can't take the full test. I won't pass it!"

Alia's face held no pity. "Then you'd better find some time to get on the range and put in some practice hours."

"Alia," pleaded Blue, "we're operators! What operator has ever had to use their weapons training?"

"I have."

Blue had no words.

"All of us operators did, during the Second War. Mavericks raided Hunter Base to steal some tech, and they thought they'd make a detour to knock out our command and control. If this had been the First War, they might have succeeded, but we'd learned from that. We operators were able to hold the Watch Floor. We kept the Mavericks at bay until they had to withdraw. It contained the damage. It was a pretty big deal—we all got medals and everything. Hm… maybe I should develop a training product about that incident."

She appeared thoughtful for a moment, then shrugged. "Two weeks until your requal test, and if you fail it, you'll be on the range eighteen hours a day until you pass. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes ma'am," said Blue, defeated. Rondel was trying, and only partially succeeding, at keeping his laughter held inside.

"So!" said Alia, looking over the datapad one last time. "If my calculations are correct, you should have some free time in… June."

Blue stared at her.

She slid the datapad back into her toolbag, hefted the bag's strap over her shoulder, then, on her way out, whispered loudly, "You should probably get started."

When she was gone, a dazed Blue looked back at Rondel, who was shaking with suppressed laughter. "What just happened?"

"Dude!" howled Rondel. "You just got Alia'd!"

Chapter Text

Five hundred games in, Zero found janken-pon more confounding than ever.

He'd gotten more proficient at the mechanics of it. He and X had matched their rhythms so that they no longer needed to say the words; they just shook their hands and went. That sped things up, allowing them to accumulate games in a hurry.

No, it was the results of those games that were driving Zero to distraction.

A game of pure chance should not allow anyone to win consistently. It was unreasonable to expect a pure 50-50 distribution, and it was common for an early leader to maintain a lead in terms of number of games even as their winning percentage decayed. Zero would have had no trouble if X was leading, say, 270-230 or something like that.

Instead, X was winning 372-128, an absurd percentage, and that percentage wasn't moving much.

"Again," Zero demanded.

"This is really the last round," said X. "I mean it this time—I'm due on patrol soon. Best two out of three."

Zero nodded his assent, and focused.

Jan-ken-pon!

Jan-ken-pon!

"I don't understand!" exploded Zero.

"I'm sorry," said X, chasing a short-lived smile off his face. "If I knew this was going to upset you so much I wouldn't have brought it up."

"It's not like that," said Zero, teeth grinding together. "I'm not upset about…"

"About…?"

Zero couldn't find the words. He changed tacks. "Are there any more rules to this game?"

"No," said X.

"And you're sure it's not a reflexes game?"

The corner of X's mouth twitched upwards. "I'm sure."

"Then it's random, right? It's really well-and-truly random. But…" Zero put a hand to his helmet. "…if it's random, I can't be losing this badly!"

X squirmed a little bit. Zero caught this instantly. "What is it?" he demanded.

X looked like he didn't really want to speak, but he did. "It's only really random if you only do it once in a while," he said. "Or if you only do it once, or with different people. Once you start doing a few games with the same person, it's not random anymore. It can't go back to being random, either."

Zero tried to understand this. It went poorly.

X noticed. "I'll try to help you get it. One more game—just one, then I have to go on patrol."

Zero nodded vigorously—anything that could help narrow the lead X had over him. He closed his eyes and reexamined the problem. There was no 'right' solution. Each of the options had equal probabilities of winning and losing. Nothing—augh, it was painful to admit this—nothing Zero could do could make one of the choices better than either of the others. They were all the same. That was why his record should be closing. Maybe that would start now, and X's streak of impossible luck would normalize.

Zero opened his eyes, fixing X with his best "target acquired" stare. "Ready," he said.

Jan. Zero focused intently on X's hand.

Ken. His own hand was tightly clenched.

Pon! A dramatic, flourishing reveal.

And a rush of disbelief and disappointment.

X had chosen rock. He'd won. Again.

"I don't understand," said Zero.

"Here's your hint," X said, smiling. "You always start with scissors."

He turned and walked away. Zero's eyes were pointed in X's direction, but they were unseeing, unfocused. It shouldn't matter what he started with, he thought bitterly. It shouldn't make a difference. The odds were 50/50 no matter what, weren't they?

There was no subtlety, no hidden art to this stupid game; there were no synergies or clever combinations. It was embarrassingly shallow. It was just probability, wasn't it?

Wasn't it?

Zero hardly knew where his feet were taking him. When he came to his senses, he was entering the armory. That made sense. Few things made him feel better than weapons. He could do to feel better.

The door opened.

His saber was in his hand in a moment. He bent into a lunge automatically.

He cut himself off; he had to catch himself, one-handed, while extinguishing his saber.

"What was that about?" said a Hunter nervously. The Hunter had stumbled away and dropped what he'd been doing.

Zero rose again, tried to reassess. The Hunter was stripping and servicing busters. Zero had reacted to the barrel of the buster being raised in his direction when the action had, in fact, been quite innocent.

"You're not actually a threat," Zero said. "I won't kill you."

"Thanks?" said the Hunter, voice quavering.

Zero could almost feel X's voice prodding him. He decided he had to explain. "It looked like you had a weapon pointed in my direction. That's the third most dangerous thing you could have done."

"The third?" said the Hunter. He pushed the buster across the table so it was far away from him. "You nearly killed me over the third most dangerous thing?"

Zero frowned. Explaining himself was hard. "I didn't 'nearly kill you'," he said. "I had at least two more milliseconds to abort the attack before striking you, and one-point-five milliseconds after that to make the attack non-lethal. I thought I reacted quickly."

The Hunter's eyes could hardly be wider.

Zero considered his words. "I reacted quickly to decide not to kill you," he amended.

The Hunter shifted so that the workbench was between him and Zero.

Even Zero could tell this wasn't going well. Try something else… "It's not as if you did the first or second most dangerous things," he hazarded.

"So you might have killed me if I'd done one of those?"

"Yes, of course," said Zero.

The Hunter shrank further. Whoops.

"But you didn't," Zero said clumsily. "And I don't think you would."

"Great," said the Hunter. "Could you… um… move out of the way? So I can go? I need… a maintenance check, yeah, that's it."

Even Zero noticed that people seemed to want to leave his presence unusually quickly. He was about to accede when something else occurred to him. "First, play some janken-pon with me."

The Hunter froze. "Do I have to?"

"I want you to," said Zero. It wasn't exactly 'yes', but it wasn't 'no' either. Zero was proud of himself. "Best two out of three."

Zero cupped his fist in his palm. The Hunter reluctantly mirrored him.

"Jan-ken-pon!"

"Jan-ken-pon!"

The Hunter scrambled backwards, terrified. Zero simply nodded. "Good enough. You can go now." He looked at the table again, and his mood brightened. "I'll clean up this buster," he said, gesturing to the half-stripped weapon on the table.

"Th-thanks," said the Hunter. Zero moved past him; the Hunter scrambled out of the room helter-skelter. He was dumped from Zero's memories moments later.

So, there wasn't anything inherently faulty with Zero and janken-pon. He could win against people other than X. That meant there was something unique to X that made him good at janken-pon.

What could it possibly be?

Zero needed to know. He had to know. He had to play more games; had to gather more information. What techniques was X using, what extra skills did he possess? Or was he, possibly, still riding an incredibly improbable run that would inevitably come to an end?

All Zero knew for sure was that he wanted to play more janken-pon with X. And that justified the top of his "most dangerous things" list.

But X was out. Aggravation. At least that other Hunter had left Zero some weapons to play with.

A slight smile on his face, Zero moved to the buster and began work.

Chapter Text

"Thank you all for attending the opening ceremony!"

The enthusiasm in the voice was, if Iron Iguana had to guess, probably a little forced. It was still complimentary, though, and, given the purpose of the ceremony, it did make Iron feel nice.

It dulled the pain a bit. The pain never really went away, these days. Not completely. He could turn pain sensitivity down, of course, but never disable it. Disabling pain altogether meant you missed signals you really ought to heed. Pain, however unpleasant it might be, was a survival mechanism.

Then again… especially given the purpose of this place… maybe that wasn't needed anymore?

How novel.

"…And a special round of applause for our first inductees!"

Inductee. So that was the word they were using. Huh.

He couldn't stay grouchy, not when people were clapping for him. He found it a little embarrassing, all things considered, but even that drained the grumpiness. He gave a half-hearted wave of acknowledgement. The other reploids around him gave similar gestures.

"These brave Hunters have done more than anyone could be expected to do. They've fought on through trials few others can imagine! Each one is a genuine hero. They've done their parts—they've done enough. That's why the Office of Reploid Relations, working with the Commander of the Maverick Hunters, has decided that their service is complete…"

Iron resisted the urge to snort. "Genuine hero", huh? That wasn't why he was here. If heroism alone let you pay off your construction, X and Zero would have retired ages ago. They were still in the thick of things. Then again, they would be…

Iron felt a twinge, and turned pain sensitivity down to the minimum setting. Those twinges would never go away, they'd told him. There comes a point where you just can't keep repairing something. Eventually things can't go back to the way they were. Parts might be interchangeable, sure, but some things couldn't be replaced without cost, and other things couldn't be fully replaced at all.

This wasn't retirement. This was a medical discharge. Iron, and the others here, had been wrung out as Hunters. They had been shot up and welded together one too many times. They had nothing left to give.

The humans, somehow, had found enough decency not to scrap them. Iron gave a wry grin at himself. Okay, that was a little too melodramatic. Things like that didn't happen, definitely not to Hunters. (People were applauding again. Apparently it was a good speech, or something.) Maybe, after years of seeing only humans' backs as they ran away from the danger he was running towards, he was just a little cynical about humanity.

They weren't being cynical about him. Not today, at least. He opened up a bit, allowed himself to appreciate the well-wishes.

Soon the unbearable ceremony was over, and the first class of Hunters was being escorted into a reception area. There, they were served refreshments- "refreshments" in this case being a selection of somewhat more exotic metals in a nanite slurry. It wasn't unlike an upscale E-tank, except that it lacked the bonus power packs E-tanks came with. Without them, a reploid's systems had to expend effort to "digest" the goodies—which made them function as a mild depressant.

All of which is to say that Iron was feeling rather pleased with the world as he looked at his fellow retirees.

Iron knew all of them, and most of them well. Sitting down at his table, though, was a relative stranger. "Hey," he said curiously, "aren't you Tom? Longshot Tom?"

"That's me," said the reploid. He looked like a blurred outline of a reploid, as if none of his outsides were quite the right shape. Like he was bent or dented everywhere. Iron wondered if it was his self-repair system itself that was beyond repair. "And you're… Leaping Lizard?"

Iron shook his head. "Iron Iguana. Leaping Lizard died in an ambush over a year ago."

"Did he? Shame." He grimaced. "They blend together sometimes... hey, at least I didn't call you Sting Chameleon!"

Iron ingested a bit of slurry to avoid answering. No one appreciated association with Mavericks, even as a joke.

"Say…" said Tom, "…what tours did you do?"

"What, to get hurt this bad?" said Iron.

"Yeah."

Iron considered. "Sure you wanna hear? It's a little grisly, an' this is a kinda… cheerful event."

"Like we could separate the two."

"Fair enough." Iron gathered himself. "Well, I was a Hunter before the First War. I was at the old Maverick Hunter HQ on that day. Armor Armadillo was cleaning out our floor. I took a direct hit from one of his rolling spins, but it knocked me far enough away that he lost track of me. Mangled most of my systems, though—couldn't even walk. I played dead while his cleanup crew followed behind—bad as I was hurt, it wasn't hard to be convincing. After they declared the area clear I crawled for the fire escape. I knew I wouldn't be able to escape that way, so I had to wait. When Zero came tearing through the place, it caused enough of a distraction that I was able to crawl through some of the flames and out of the building to cover.

"During the Second War, near the end, right as we were pinpointing their base location, the Mavericks hit us at Hunter Base. When they blew through the perimeter, we established a secondary barricade. It… wasn't much of a barricade, especially to that Violen guy. His spike ball went straight through it, into me, and smashed me to the wall. Then Serges started flinging explosives around… it dumped that part of the floor, and I went down with it. Of course, all three of those freaks could clear the gap, and I was out of the fight, and they were on the clock and couldn't come back around to finish me off, so I survived.

"Then, in the Third War, we sent out that expeditionary force to Doppler Town—but Doppler hit us first, and our best Hunters were out of the base already. The rest of us schmucks rallied to the defense of Hunter Base. I've never seen so many Bee Bladers. I took pieces of it, like the rest of us, but it wasn't until the wall came down that we were really hurt. Cost us Mace and a bunch of other good Hunters; I didn't quite get enough of it to be out of the fight.

"Then Maoh the Giant showed up. I thought I was dead for sure—not because he was gonna kill me, but because he was smashing through the rubble and I thought he'd step on me. Not quite. X got there first and blew the thing's head off. It fell backwards, away from the base… and on to me.

"After that, the techs declared that you can't overhaul micro-fractures throughout the entirety of someone's internal structure, and the third instance of devastating blunt-force trauma was a bit too much to repair. So here I am."

Tom appeared to be digesting this. He took a swig of his refreshment, slammed it down on the table, and sneered at Iron, "So. All garrison duty, huh?"

Chapter Text

Finally Rekir was alone! Now was his chance.

He popped the cap off the lubricant. He applied a generous coating until the surface glistened, then used a sliding motion to make the coverage complete and remove all friction. Grinning lustily, he pursed his lips, leaned in...

…and blew the first note from his lovingly-maintained trombone.

The first sound was a foghorn blast, a brassy statement of intent. The second slid readily into a scale. Another scale, one-half-step below, followed, then another, stepping down with each recursion until Rekir was a full octave below where he'd begun.

"That'll do for warm-up," he said. He replaced the cap on his small vial of slide oil and placed it aside. His eye wandered to the small birdhouse mounted to the wall. A candy-apple-red, canary-sized robot bird (which Rekir, in a fit of creativity, had named Red Bird) was glaring at him. "How do I sound?" he asked it.

"Tweet tweet!" it declared.

Rekir's shoulders slumped. "Well, what do you know anyway." He jerked his head at the birdhouse door. "Go home."

With a final, disdainful "tweet", Red Bird retreated into its birdhouse.

There wasn't much else in the room. Assistant Squad Leaders in the Maverick Hunters didn't have much in the way of accommodations. The room was barely nine meters square, and separated by the thinnest walls from more rooms just like it, but it was his, and that was good enough. It was certainly more than the rank-and-file got; they were jammed in three-to-a-room. He didn't have much in terms of possessions to fill the room, anyway. Then again, wasted space was its own kind of luxury.

Aside from the trombone, birdhouse, and recharge tube, the main feature of the room was a display case for Rekir's decorations. Someone versed in the pageantry of the Hunters would have noted an unremarkable number of individual awards, but a staggering number of unit citations and campaign ribbons. Such an observer might have concluded that Rekir was in the mix of all the fighting, and his units always won, but he was never singled out as the reason why.

That was just how Rekir liked it. It was safer that way.

At present, fighting wasn't directly on his mind. Playing the trombone was. He had fifteen minutes before he'd need to get in his tube and recharge, but that was fine. His lips could only hold out for about ten minutes of continuous playing before he lost his "chops" and the sound wandered. Things would work out.

When he began playing again, it was in the form of a gentle serenade—as gentle as a trombone could get, anyway. Which, apparently, wasn't gentle enough.

"Again? Seriously?!"

The complaint reached Rekir through the barely-there walls from the next Azzle's room. It must have been quite a holler to be heard even above the music. "Get over it!" Rekir shouted back at about the same volume. Without waiting for a reply he launched into a march Sousa would have loved, with a rhythm so powerful and driving that a wheeled reploid could have moved in time with it. It was bold and brassy, as a march should be—qualities Rekir's neighbor didn't seem to appreciate.

"Cut out that racket! Shut up! Hey, I said shut up! Stop torturing that thing and cut it out!"

Rekir ignored it as best he could. It didn't last. His neighbor was banging on the walls before he reached the march's trio. Exasperated, Rekir pulled the trombone from his lips. "You're fine!" he hollered.

"I'm not fine, I can't think with that scrap playing!"

"You're not supposed to be thinking!" said Rekir, well aware of his neighbor's schedule. "You're supposed to be in the tube!"

"Well, I'm not!"

Now a new voice joined in, from the room on Rekir's other side. "Too much yelling! Stop it! I can't stand it!"

"Then turn your ears off!" Rekir shouted.

"I don't wanna!"

"And I don't wanna hear your whining!" Once more he blotted out the complaining with more music—this time a dirge, dark and leaden, eerie and unpleasant. It was more of a message for his neighbors than something he enjoyed.

They got the message.

"That's rusted solid!"

Rekir played it louder.

Another interruption—a knock at the door this time. Reluctantly, suspiciously, Rekir lowered the trombone and went to answer.

The door revealed an on-duty Hunter—not an Azzle—and Rekir was instantly annoyed; he could see the interloper struggling to keep a straight face. "Can I help you?" he asked acidly.

"Just checking up," said the duty Hunter, cheeks twitching. "Is everything alright in here?"

"Yeah, why?" said Rekir. He wasn't bothering to conceal his surliness; the duty Hunter was cracking up.

"They sent me to ensure everyone's safe here. We got a report of a sonic weapon being deployed in this area…"

"I'll give you a 'sonic weapon'!" Rekir bellowed. He charged; the duty Hunter, laughing like a hyena, fled down the hall towards the exit from Azzle country. Rekir chased him a few steps to ensure he left. Then, reviewing his situation, he decided there was something he had to check. He turned and went back to his neighbor's door.

It was locked, but that was a minor obstacle. Rekir had been a major participant in the work that had converted the former Cain Labs into the temporary Hunter Headquarters, and then further into the permanent Hunter Base. He knew all the codes. The door opened for him.

Three guilty faces looked back at him.

"I knew it!" Rekir exclaimed. "I thought there were different voices coming from here. I mean, seriously? You came here and sacrificed some tube time just to whine at me?"

The other Azzles recovered quickly. "It's a rare treat to hear something so awful," one said.

"Hearing you play makes me feel better about myself."

"But can you go back to your room? I like your music better the less I can hear of it."

Rekir shut the door again with a sigh. "Recreational heckling," he muttered as he returned to his room.

Well, fine, then—if they weren't sincere, if they were going to complain no matter what, then who cared what they thought? He was going to play for himself. It was time to play his favorite song—the sort of song that fully justified playing the trombone as opposed to, say, a flute.

Not that his fingers would have let him play flute. Fine, trumpet, then.

He swung into with gusto once his door was shut. He started with the background track, up-tempo with a Latin flavor and heavy swing. Eight bars in, he transitioned to the melody line with its exaggerated jazz rhythms, and barreled right on in to the chorus.

Ba-dut ba-waaaaarble faaall,
Ba-dut ba-waaaaarble faaall,
Ba-dut ba-waaaaarble faaall,
Dut da-dut da-dut-dut blatt.

"Tequila!" he shouted.

Without any gap, the voices started. "What the rust is tequila?"

"Please say it's flammable!"

Rekir sighed. "I empty my spit valve in your general direction," he murmured, and he did, in fact, perform that bit of maintenance, though without malice. His chops were gone anyway. It was time to be done.

He began to disassemble the trombone, to a non-musical accompaniment from the next room. ("Keep playing—I think someone in the Base is still asleep!" "That was your best performance yet—I give it two outta ten!" and so on.) He tuned them out, and eventually they got bored as it became clear he was done.

His thoughts wandered as he cleaned and stored his trombone. He played the music for self-gratification, but it was so hard to do that privately, not in the compressed environment of Hunter Base. It was a shame, because lugging the trombone around to other locations took up that much more of his free time. Still, if he wanted to have his fun without an audience, he'd have to do something. Maybe he could borrow a transport from the hangar and find a nice, quiet spot where he could have some solo time…

He slid the trombone case beneath his recharge tube. As he clambered in, he saw that Red Bird had emerged and was staring at him. Feeling suddenly awkward, Rekir asked, "Did you enjoy the show?"

Red Bird turned in place, flared its tail "feathers", and gave a derisive "Tweet!"

Rekir sighed. "Everyone's a critic."

Chapter Text

"Maintenance checks are done, boss!"

"We're ready! C'mon, you promised!"

Douglas sighed and looked over the two junior armorers who were on-duty for his shift. They were still learning, so they didn't have full command of the things Hunter armorers needed to know. They could only work on some systems; they were several months away from being ready to stand on their own. That left the rest of the work, the hardest of the work, for Douglas.

He could train them on those things specifically, even if it was beyond them. That would extend how long it took to do this job and blow his time requirements. Or, he could train them in principles, not just on how to do this or that procedure but on how to be an armorer. He could get them doing other work that needed to be done, and get them out of his way while he did the hard stuff—so that when it was time to teach them the hard stuff, it wouldn't be hard anymore.

Simple choice.

They looked so eager! Douglas liked to affect grouchiness, but it couldn't stick, not in front of that. Ah, to be a newbuilt again… not really, Douglas knew the folly there. Still, they were invigorating. They had no idea what they were getting into. "Alright," he said, "you ready for your challenge?"

"Yeah!" they both replied.

Douglas rubbed his hands together. "Here we go. We've got three new Hunters joining us. Your jobs are to prepare their recharge tubes for them."

A pout of disappointment might have been their response, but the armorers knew better than that. That was part one of the problem description. Part two was coming. They could barely contain themselves.

"The first two are standard models," Douglas said, drawing it out. "No individualized qualities or after-market addons. Just a gee-are-twenty-two, no mods, and a you-are-aye-thirty with the enhanced self-repair package."

"That doesn't change anything," said one of the armorers, unable to help himself. "They can get standard… ouch!"

"Shut up!" said the other junior armorer, elbowing his comrade.

So they saw through his ruse. Douglas grinned. "But the third one… heh, the third is special." He leaned back. "The third one… is a custom, one-off feraloid."

Instantly the two junior armorers were taking notes—one was working on a sketchpad, the other had raced to a terminal and was banging away at the keyboard.

"One-point-seven meters tall!" Douglas rattled off. "Point nine meters in breadth! One-thirty-five kilos in weight! Exotic materials composition cee! Twenty percent increased power capacity! Cold weather preference! Amphibious! Hands two centimeters diameter larger than forearms!"

That caught them. "Are you sure?" asked one of the trainees. The great majority of reploids had bulging forearms and comparatively slim hands, in the mode of X—though almost no reploids had X's hand-replacing busters.

"I'm sure, I've got the specs right here! No, you can't see them," Douglas added before the armorers came running. "You have to go with what I've told you. Some of it's useful, some of it's not. I want your designs for tubes for all three of them, with whatever mods you think are appropriate, in one hour. I'll grade them based on appropriateness, space-weight-cooling considerations, and ease of build. The ones that score highest, we'll build together after I'm done with this overhaul. Your timer starts…" he smacked an antique alarm clock on his workbench, "…now!"

Immediately the junior armorers scurried off. Douglas grinned to himself. An hour would give him enough time to finish his current tasks and get them signed off before the equipment needed to be used. After that he could relax—relaxing, in this case, meaning putting the trainees through their paces.

The sooner they learned how to deal with the many, many unique models the Hunters sported, the better. Exercises like this forced them to innovate and adapt on the fly. It was the closest they'd get to wartime outside of, well, wartime.

Ah, wartime, Douglas thought idly as he continued his job. It was the activity that fully justified the work he put in, and also completely ruined the work he put in. It vindicated and thwarted him simultaneously. Really, that was just a fast-forwarding of the normal course of things. He could build any number of splendid artifacts. Then he had to hand them over to the field Hunters to actually use the blasted things, and before he knew it, they were ruined and needing replacement or mangled and needing overhaul. Again.

But what were tools and weapons and armor for if not to be used? A ship in port is safe, but that's not what a ship is for. No. Better to lean into it. Embrace it. Hello entropy my old friend…

Now that was a song he'd always liked. Humming absent-mindedly, he set about putting the finishing touches on his latest sacrifice.

"Douglas!"

"What?" he shouted, affecting grouchiness again without looking up.

"Does the electrical supply coming into the room count as part of the design?"

Douglas frowned. Why was he asking… oh. The increased power requirements. Douglas grinned. "Tell me, Bert—do you wanna rewire the whole Hunter Base?"

The marker slipped out of the junior armorer's hand. "No sir!"

"I didn't think so. My teacher always told me, Don't walk across the street to get your butt kicked—and you'd better remember that, too. Do everything you can in the areas you can control. Don't sweat what you can't. Got it?"

"Got it," said Bert dubiously. "But then… how am I gonna…"

"Figure it out!"

"Yes sir," he muttered.

"Newbuilts," Douglas muttered, and grinned. "Father of Mechanics help us."

"Who's that?"

"What?"

"Who's the Father of Mechanics?"

"Light, of course, who else?"

"Well… how's he gonna help us?"

Douglas glared at the junior armorer. "No one's gonna help you if you're not done with your design in forty-five minutes."

Bert yelped. "On it, sir!"

"You'd better be," said Douglas, his own gaze dropping once more. "Before I start thinking of what else I can use your armor for."

"You don't mean that."

"What?" His head snapped up.

The junior armorer looked like he was trying hard to wear a brave face. "One of the other armorers…"

"Jonesy, wasn't it?" Douglas grumped.

"Er…" Bert hesitated. (Yup, Douglas thought. Jonesy for sure.) "…whoever it was… they said you make that threat all the time… but you never mean it."

"Well, you found me out," said Douglas. "If I bashed you up, then I'd have to help fix you. It's more trouble than it's worth."

"J—he—said it wasn't that. He said you're just a hugger."

Douglas tried to glare. It didn't go well.

"Sir… what's a hugger?"

Douglas chuckled. Newbuilts. Too young, not enough human interactions yet, to know what a hug was, let alone a hugger. "Let's just say if this alarm goes off and you're not done with your design, you may never find out."

The newbuilt smiled slyly. "And if I go over a few minutes because I want to do a good job?"

Douglas could not maintain his veneer. "You'd better hope it's a very, very good job," he said, but there was no threat in his voice.

"Yes, sir," said the junior armorer, and he grinned before turning away.

Some people, Douglas decided, just weren't cut out to be hardasses. Especially those who weren't clear on the concept of 'ass'.

He returned to his work with a smile.

Chapter Text

"You ready?"

"Sure. Not like I'll get any readier by waiting. Talk to me."

"I had it, you got it."

"…Really? Don't do this."

"Alright, this way then: cold, three out, one in, one turning. Jay-five is bubbling, Ess-seven is simmering… what?"

Cozumel, assistant squad leader in the Third Squad of the Maverick Hunters, sighed. "You know the right way, the formal way, to do turnover. Why are you on-purpose doing it some other way?"

"Lighten up!" said a jovial Vertos, Cozumel's counterpart in the Sixth Squad. A lanyard was looped around his neck, ending in a small magnetized sign reading 'Standby Squad'. "It's only eight hours of waiting and hoping no one calls. What's the worst that could happen?"

"There could be a large-scale Maverick incident where we, as the Standby Squad, would have to scramble, and then get steamrolled buying time for the rest of you jokers to gear up. That's 'the worst that could happen'."

"C'mon, what are the odds of that happening?"

"About one in one-fifty."

Vertos blinked. "Really?"

Cozumel nodded wearily. "Yeah, really. I have a dreary little rookie who likes to do that kind of math."

"He sounds like fun."

"I'll trade him," said Cozumel. "You can have him."

"I'll think about it. Anyway, who cares about the odds? I got through a whole shift just now with nothing more interesting than a gear delivery from Douglas. I was fine, so you'll probably be fine."

"Yeah, because that's not anecdotal or anything."

Vertos smiled. "I get it, you're not looking forward to being the Standby Squad. Just keep griping. Your happiness is delicious."

Cozumel blinked in confusion. "My…?"

Vertos' expression was like he'd just received an unexpected gift. "Are you kidding? You made Azzle without ever learning about the Law of Conservation of Happiness?"

"Please tell me you're joking."

"Not even a little bit," said Vertos with relish. "Formally stated: 'Happiness can neither be created nor destroyed, only transferred between bodies.' If you want to add to your own happiness, you have to take it from someone else. We all know that the people of Abel City are happy and that we Hunters are unhappy, but what people don't realize is that they're happy because the Hunters are unhappy. When I relieved Clement, I lost happiness, and he gained it. Now you're relieving me, and because you don't want to go on-watch, I'm harvesting your happiness. The more you whine, the better I feel."

He leaned back, as if basking. "So keep right on complaining! I can't get enough of it."

That might have been crushing to many reploids, but no Hunter made Azzle without at least a little mental fortitude. Cozumel's regard of Vertos steadied. "So… it's a game," he said carefully. "Whoever gets more happiness from the other person wins."

"Please, like you could take my happiness right now!" Vertos' voice was dismissive, but there was a hollow quality to it, which Cozumel noticed.

"You seemed like you were in a real rush to get relieved," he went on. He cocked his head curiously. "Is there somewhere you'd rather be? Something you'd rather be doing?"

"Just the usual," said Vertos, perhaps a little too casually. "Everyone wants to get off-watch. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious," said Cozumel. "It just seems like you were in a big hurry, earlier."

Vertos shrugged. "I can't be in too much of a hurry, can I? Even if you relieved me this instant, I'd still have to go do my formal debrief to the Watch leader."

"But you suggested not much happened on your watch," said Cozumel. "If that's true, you could knock out your debrief in… what, ten minutes? Five, maybe?" The corners of Cozumel's eyes curved up in suggestion of a smile. "In enough time to catch the start of the sportsball game?"

"It's not called 'sportsball', it's called…" Vertos cut himself off, but the damage was done.

Cozumel's smile was triumphant. "Let's do this right," he said, deliberately. "Which units are out?"

"First, Twelfth, and Seventeenth," Vertos snapped back. "With Fifth doing gear change-out."

"Which halves?"

Vertos gave Cozumel a hard stare, as if trying to determine if he seriously wanted to know. Then he rattled off a string of designations, name-squad combos an outsider would have found impenetrable. "Happy now?" Vertos concluded.

"Oh, happier every moment," Cozumel said in tones that matched his words. "I've reversed the flow. I'm sucking up your happiness now."

Vertos' mouth twitched in agitation. "Are we done now?"

"I don't think so," said Cozumel languidly. "You told me Jay-five was bubbling. What did you mean by that? Can you give me some background info?"

Vertos' face was disbelieving. "Are you really doing this to me?"

"Well," said Cozumel with faux innocence, "I could just relieve you… but if I did, and someone asked about it, I'd hate to have to tell them I had an inadequate turnover. I couldn't bear to say that I didn't have a thorough understanding of the situation."

"That's so much static," said Vertos, who'd gone from disbelief straight to fury. "You were on the Jay-five patrol route yesterday!"

"But what if something changed since then?"

"Nothing changed!"

"Are you sure?"

"YES!"

Cozumel laughed. "I think I like the Law of Conservation of Happiness."

"Okay, okay," grumbled Vertos, "you've had your fun, can we get on with it now?"

"Hm," said Cozumel thoughtfully. "I could torment you a while longer, but I don't want you to do the same to me in the future. I think I'll let you go now."

"How enlightened of you," Vertos said with a roll of his eyes—a human gesture he'd appropriated, and which came in handy for a Hunter.

Cozumel composed his features into a formal, impassive state. When he spoke, it was in a ritualistic way. "I have reviewed your situation and mustered my team and I am ready to relieve you."

"I am ready to be relieved," said Vertos with utter sincerity. He took the lanyard off of his neck and held it out. "Do you have any further questions?"

"I have no further questions," Cozumel replied, and took the lanyard. "I relieve you."

"I stand relieved," said Vertos, letting the lanyard slip out of his fingers.

And, at that moment…

"Maverick incident in Jay-five. Standby Squad, deploy."

Cozumel's gaze snapped up to the overhead speaker. "What? No… no!" Face twisted in horror, he looked at the lanyard which he alone was holding, and then back at Vertos. "No!"

Vertos' smile could not be any wider. He was gorging on Cozumel's happiness. "I had it, you got it," he said with delight.

Cozumel's eyes clenched shut. "I hate you so much right now."

Vertos sighed luxuriously. "And that fact is delicious."

Chapter Text

Zero's communications system scanned continuously.

Almost no reploids had the luxury of an internal system. Most operators, from Alia on down, had external systems, though a couple of the newer purpose-built models had internal ones. Almost no field Hunters had internal systems, as power/space/weight were at too much of a premium for combat models.

Then again, almost no Hunters were the masterworks of robotics' greatest artisans.

Zero—and X, of course—had internal comms. So, even as Zero stripped, cleaned, and reassembled buster after buster, his comms system scanned. It was always, always scanning.

From the beginning, he'd been programmed to "guard" three channels. The first two were Light family channels. Zero had enough self-awareness to know he wasn't a Lightbot. How he had the right protocols to communicate on their channels was an unnerving mystery to him. Still, it meant he had two secure ways to communicate with X. That was very comforting.

The third frequency was, in fact, not a specific frequency at all. To monitor this channel Zero's comms, following his programming, jumped from one frequency to another. Both the timing of the jumps and the new frequency were determined by a complex randomizing algorithm running against the output of an atomic clock.

An atomic clock running somewhere else.

Zero's internal clock couldn't remain as precise as an atomic clock; no clock in a machine made for combat could. Zero knew his settings would wander over time. Eventually, they'd be different from anyone else running the same algorithm, and he wouldn't be able to communicate with them on this channel. He also knew that he was supposed to periodically recalibrate his internal clock against that atomic clock to synch up again.

He didn't know where that atomic clock was. He didn't know who the clock belonged to. He didn't know who to ask about it; instinct screamed that asking blindly would be fatal. He was sure his settings were off by now, and he was at a loss as to how to fix them.

Nevertheless, he couldn't shake the feeling that something dreadful would happen if he stopped monitoring that channel. So he let his system scan on.

Those were his pre-programmed channels. Of his own volition he'd added two more. One was the Abel City-wide general alert channel. The other was the Hunter emergency channel.

When the call came out, therefore, Zero heard it.

" Maverick incident, confirmed Maverick in block jay-five. Seventeenth is on-scene. Fourth-one deploy to jay-six. Eleventh-two to aye-five. Standby squad to kay-five. Alert squad, arm and stand by."

Zero was already moving. The buster he'd been cleaning was immediately forgotten. Combat subroutines were devouring all available cycles and memory.

Out the door. He traced his way through Hunter Base at high speed. Down the corridor. He narrowly avoided several collisions. Down the stairs. He left ruffled and bewildered people in his wake.

To the hangar.

In the larger space he was able to move even faster. He was at the hover cycles in the blink of an eye. He gave one the most cursory of visual inspections before deeming it suitable. He mounted it, activated it, and set off.

As he exited the hangar he cut off a larger Hunter van that was just leaving. He decided it must have been the transport of the standby squad. He'd beat them out the door.

That was something.

Not relevant, though. Motion was.

The city never let him reach full speed—not for lack of trying, to be sure. Aggressive use of the cycle's altitude controls helped mitigate traffic problems. Even so, the city was still so dense there weren't straightaways long enough to max out speed.

Couldn't they have made the streets straighter? Couldn't they have made the blocks more regular? Couldn't they have, well, planned the city better? There had to be someone who was responsible for this. Whoever it was, their incompetence was costing Zero time. He resented it horribly.

This was a moment of peak danger. Every second counted.

He did a power slide ("power", in this case, meaning heavy goosing of the hover controls, with the side effect of knocking over some streetside garbage and vending receptacles) around a corner. Final approach. Ahead was the engagement zone. Typical Seventeenth—two Hunters manning a heavy weapons station behind cover, another separate and angled to cover their blind spots. Their fourth was doubtless on the Hunt inside the building they faced.

Zero belatedly realized that the sudden, unannounced appearance of a combat model might cause those Hunters to start shooting. He didn't want that, it would complicate things. He swapped over to Seventeenth Squad's working channel. "Seventeenth, Zero, I am on approach."

He finished saying it just as he arrived at the scene. He kicked off from the cycle in mid-air (it drifted away and settled gently to the ground at the end of the block); a backflip ended with his feet on the ground, facing the same building as the Seventeenth's heavy weapons. His left arm was up and slightly extended, either to act as a guard or to project his buster; his right hand was perched by his saber handle.

He was ready.

He took just a moment to assess the building, and derive its likely floorplan. Then he bent forward to dash inside…

" All, X. Maverick dead. Conducting sweep to ensure no runners."

Zero shuffled his foot to keep his balance. His torso rocked forward regardless. He recovered his footing in a moment. Recovering mentally wasn't as clean.

That was it? That was it?

His senses, still at full combat capacity, swept over the scene. Now that he was taking his time, he noticed things that hadn't been as important before. Like: there wasn't much damage on the building he was facing. Like: there was no evidence that the heavy weapons team had actually fired. Like: there was no billowing smoke, no blown out windows, no sounding fire alarms, no streams of terrified humans.

This had only barely been a Maverick incident.

What a letdown.

" All, X. Sweep complete. Maverick appears to have been a solo Thirdie. Area clear for emergency services. Request medical—I have two injured humans requiring attention."

A solo Thirdie? A lone reploid who wanted escape and decided to commit suicide-by-Hunter? That wasn't even a Maverick incident, that was…

Zero frowned. He wasn't sure what it was; his vocabulary was limited and he had no mind for metaphor.

It was disappointing, is what it was.

He lowered his arms. He didn't leave combat mode—he didn't know how—but he did marginally lower his state of readiness. His systems complained about this. How, after all, could combat be over when he hadn't killed anything yet? That wasn't right. That was a waste, a missed opportunity. There was a physical dimension to this as well. His busters and sabers were still primed and in a state of high charge. It made Zero even more anxious, to have that unspent energy bouncing around inside of him.

There was nothing for it, though. There would be no fighting here.

He was frustrated, but also… relieved, maybe? Or at least reassured? Because it meant the moment of danger had passed, that moment when someone had triggered the very top of Zero's list of Most Dangerous Acts.

Even Zero wasn't totally sure if he meant dangerous for him or dangerous for whomever was committing the act. In the end, he supposed they were the same thing. Someone doing the dangerous thing was threatening Zero, which meant he was also courting termination.

With a small puff of pride, Zero realized that his list wasn't ambiguous. It was efficient.

He was fluent in the language of violence. Languages that required flimsy things like words were so much trickier. He swore that he'd master them yet.

Regardless, it was a good list, he thought as he retrieved the hover cycle. He'd put a lot of work into it. Occasionally he had to revise parts of it up or down, based upon bad things he saw happen or how he felt about them potentially happening. The top two items hadn't shifted—had, in fact, been the basis of the list in the first place.

The second most dangerous thing: attack Zero.

The most dangerous thing: attack X.

With some embarrassment, Zero realized X had been in no danger. A solo Thirdie would never be a threat to the Avenging Angel. He was still glad he'd come. It had been a chance to kill something, even if he'd missed that chance, and X might have needed him. He trusted X, of course, trusted him to take care of himself. Still, if there were a chance X needed him, Zero wanted to be there. He would be there.

He didn't need to linger to prove that point to X. Teasing himself with the unrealized possibility of violence was… not good. No. Best to return to base.

He kicked the hover cycle into gear. At a still-aggressive but less-frenzied pace, he made his way back towards Hunter Base.

He never did remember the buster he'd been cleaning.

Chapter Text

"Hey. Could you help me?"

Two Hunters, Pollus and Castus, stopped in their tracks. A reploid in Hunter support staff colors was standing outside a storage locker. He wore a plaintive expression. "What with?" said Pollus.

The reploid sagged in relief. "I'm Aegis—one of the junior armorers. I was sent by Douglas to retrieve some components from this locker. The trouble is, it's… er… locked."

"So unlock it," said Castus, in a low, slow, careful voice.

"I can't," whined Aegis. "The contents are high value, so it's a limited access locker. You know, the ones that only have a single key-holder? Moe is the only person who had access to this locker. He was called to field duty to support an assistance mission in Shiloh, and never came back."

"And no one thought to check the locker until now?"

"Now's the first time we needed it," said Aegis. "Douglas sent me up here to get something from the locker, but… well, I can't get it open. I can't go back to Douglas empty-handed! He said he'd use my arm for spare parts if I couldn't open the locker!"

The Hunters glanced at each other. "You know Douglas is the biggest hugger in Hunter Base, right?" said Pollus.

"Oh, easy for you to say," Aegis said. "It's not your arm on the line."

The Hunters rolled their eyes, almost in synch. "Fine," said Castus. "We can help, but what do you want us to do?"

"Thank you," said Aegis. "Just… help me get into this locker, could you?"

"What's so hard about that?" asked Castus.

He and Pollus looked at the locker properly for the first time. 'Locker', each of the Hunters decided, was too mild a term to describe the thing. It had the heavy, thick feel of a safe. It was large, almost scraping the ceiling; it was anyone's guess how it had ended up here. The door fit into a backstop which made an air-tight seal. There was no hinge to undo, no gap between door and frame to exploit, no screws to remove to attack the knob.

It was, the Hunters silently agreed, quite a secure place to store valuables.

"I don't have the key to open it," said Aegis. "Moe had his main keys on him when he left, and we don't know where he kept his spares."

Pollus frowned. "Tell me again why Moe took his keys with him on an assistance mission."

"I don't know!"

Castus was banging around the edges of the door, which fit quite snugly into the locker's frame. "Looks like the door's secured top, middle, and bottom," he said. He stepped away, thought for a moment, then returned and began banging again, this time all along the door's top edge. "Huh… there are more bolts up here, they're just not engaged. I wonder why…"

Aegis looked pensive for a few beats, then reached into a satchel resting against the wall. He drew a small instrument from it, which he pressed against the locker door. "I think… there," he said. "The lock has electrical connections leading top and bottom. I bet if we tried to compromise the lock, these other bolts would engage. Then we'd never get it open."

"Sure we would," said Pollus. "Just grab a breaching charge and be done with it."

"Breaching charges are shaped explosives," said Castus crossly. "You wanna spray everything inside the locker with molten metal? Go for it."

"Don't go for it!" squealed Aegis.

"Fine," said Pollus. "Let's blast the lock out."

Castus rolled his eyes. "Did you miss the whole "extra bolts will engage" thing?"

"Fine, I'll get a pulser and short that stuff first."

"You want to use an ee-em-pee weapon? Here? Inside Hunter Base?"

Pollus went sullen. "It'd work. Well, what about you? If you're so smart, what's your idea?"

Castus pursed his lips. "We could cut the bolts with a beam weapon."

"All of them?" objected Pollus. "All seven? With that little clearance? You'll be carving through the safe itself."

"Well, that's a thought," said Castus.

"No!" said Aegis. "We don't know how the contents are arranged. Any cutting in to the safe and you risk slicing or burning or spraying metal on the valuables!"

Castus shot Aegis an annoyed look. "No one knows how the insides are arranged?"

"Moe did," said Aegis ruefully.

"I'm going to be sending Douglas a sternly-worded memo," Castus promised. "Well, what if we popped the top? I don't think there are any… um…"

He and Pollus were looking up towards the top of the locker. It was hard to tell where the locker ended and the ceiling began.

"Through the ceiling?" said Pollus doubtfully. "And through the next level's floor?"

"I was thinking we'd tip it over first."

They looked at it again.

"How?"

Castus grunted in frustration. "Okay, what if we walked it over to the stairwell? That has a higher ceiling, there's room to work there."

"Can we even move it?" asked Pollus.

"Here, grab that side, and I'll get this side…"

Aegis watched in amazement as the two Hunters moved in synch, positioning themselves on either side of the locker, bracing themselves, and pushing.

And pushing.

And… pushing.

"Um…" Aegis began. "…is it supposed to be moving?"

"Yes!" the Hunters barked at him as they sagged away from the locker. One person pushing, one pulling, and they'd managed to move the locker not-at-all.

"What is in this thing?" demanded Pollus.

"We'll… we'll never know if we can't get it open," said Aegis.

"That sounds like a you-problem," Pollus began, but Castus waved him off.

"I'm not crazy about it either, but rust me if I'm giving up here. What if we…"

The hallway wasn't a major thoroughfare, but neither was it wholly out of the way. Over the course of the next half an hour, the increasingly frustrated Aegis, Pollus, and Castus were joined by a handful of other Hunters. Some offered genuine suggestions, or more hands for (unsuccessful) attempts to move the locker. Others lingered for the spectacle alone.

The crowd grew. No progress was made. The locker remained stubbornly closed.

Eventually, X and Zero came by. They stood back, observing for a time, X looking thoughtful, Zero frowning. Then X leaned over and whispered something to Zero. The red Hunter's eyes went wide, then snapped into focus.

"Okay, you know what? I withdraw my objections to the breaching charge," said Castus sourly. "Bring up one of those and let's just blow this away."

"You can't do that," protested Aegis, voice and face distressed. "You'll destroy everything inside, and we lose the locker in the bargain."

"No loss," grumbled Pollus.

"I'm sorry for asking for your help," Aegis said.

"Look, let's just find the manufacturer and bring them in."

"Into Hunter Base? Are they cleared?"

"They will—oh, Zero!"

Every Hunter knew to give Zero the right-of-way. They parted before him, leaving his path to the locker clear. Aegis opened his mouth to talk to Zero, but he never spoke. He could tell the words would never hit their target.

Zero was already at the door. His hands were on it. Gently, gently, moving from place to place, by touch alone—his eyes were closed. He made no sound, and neither did his observers, as if no one dared break his concentration.

His hands moved around the lock—touching for a moment, moving, touching, moving. Then one of those hands balled into a fist. The Hunters braced themselves for violence.

The fist hand went to Zero's side, grabbed a handful of hair, and pressed the tress against and into the lock.

The blinking of the crowd was audible.

The blinking was louder when, five seconds later, there was a click.

Zero's eyes snapped open. One hand went over his back, perched above his saber. His other gripped the door's handle.

He threw it open. It banged against the wall. He leaned forwards, into the opening—

And stopped. Whatever he'd been expecting, it wasn't there.

Applause erupted behind him. He whirled about, confusion bright on his face.

"Thank you, Zero!" said Aegis. It was plainly startling to Zero, who stepped away from the armorer, blinking rapidly. "We couldn't have done it without you!"

Zero's head jerked about distractedly before landing on X. The blue Hunter was smiling. Zero set off straight for his fellow squad leader. The Hunters parted for him but kept clapping.

"What?" said X innocently.

"You said there was a Maverick in there," Zero said accusatorily.

"No I didn't," X said breezily. "I said I wondered if there was a Maverick in there." He turned to go. Zero, far from mollified, hurried after, his hair swaying gently behind him.

"But then unlocking that thing was pointless," Zero complained. "I wasted my time."

"Not at all," X replied. "You were a great help to all of those Hunters. They're grateful that you aided them."

Zero's brow wrinkled as he applied his considerable intellect to the problem. It didn't seem to help. "So?" he said after several seconds.

X's mouth dropped open. Then he smiled. "Well, someday you'll understand. We'll keep working at it."

"Now you're just being obtuse," Zero pouted.

"I believe in you," said X, "so I believe that someday you'll get it. While we're at it, we're also adding layers to your reputation, Sudden-Death Man."

Zero scowled. "I like being Sudden-Death Man. It's useful and safe."

The smile broadened. "And we'll keep working on that, too."

"Keep working at what?"

"The reason you're bad at jan-ken-pon."

"You can't be bad at something random!"

"Exactly."

"You're mean."

Chapter Text

Jargon and acronyms are a form of condensed language. At their best, between people with shared understanding, they allow for rapid sharing of large amounts of information.

They can also do the opposite.

I don't advocate the below behavior, but it absolutely happens...

"Thank you," said Altern, jotting notes quickly on his data pad. "And what does 'A-R-B' stand for, again?"

"Armaments requisition board," said Cozumel. "That's the process we go through when we want new weapons that aren't in our inventory."

"I never would have guessed," said Altern, nodding as his fingers flew.

"I've gotta run," said Cozumel. "I think some of the other Azzles might have some time, though."

"Glad to hear it," said Altern. He scrolled up in his notes. Azzle, he read. Slang pronunciation for ASL: Assistant Squad Leader. "I know where the Azzles recharge, I'll ask them," he added.

"Have fun with that," said Cozumel. "And when you finish with your list, send me a copy, okay? I'm sure there's stuff in there I haven't seen before."

"I will," Altern promised, then stalled. "Wait, there are terms even you don't know?"

"We love our acronyms," replied Cozumel. "And I only know the ones I've encountered myself. A lot goes on in Hunter Base that I just don't see."

"Wow," murmured Altern. Cozumel had been in the Hunters over nine months—he was practically ancient. If he didn't know all there was to know, how would Altern ever manage?

He was still pondering this question when Cozumel departed. Unable to come up with a satisfactory answer, Altern looked down at his list of acronyms, terms, and jargon, and ran through it once more, trying to commit it to memory. Once he knew how to talk like a Hunter, he'd be one step closer to being a Hunter…

The door to the Hunter common room cycled again. "Hey, rook," came a voice.

It took Altern a moment to realize no one else was in the room and, ergo, he was the only one the words could have been addressed to. That didn't help them make sense. He looked up. "My designation is... Altern?"

His interrogator, a plain-looking, green-armored Hunter with Azzle markings, gave an elaborate roll of his eyes. "Rookies," he muttered. He entered the room and noiselessly eased the door shut behind him.

"Uh… D-class Hunter Third Rate Altern?" Altern tried, trying to tamp down his panic.

"Yeah, you're all rookies to me until you've seen real action," said the Azzle, walking for Altern's table. "If you survive, then I'll bother learning your names."

Altern felt himself shrinking away. "Well, what's real action to you?" he challenged, hating how his voice cracked. "What've you seen?"

The Azzle made a show of failing to suppress a snort. "Listen, rook. I'm Azzle Rekir. You can look up my service history on your own time, and when you do, feel free to be embarrassed for asking that question. Meanwhile, I've got something more pressing."

Rekir settled into the chair across from Altern. It should have put Altern at ease; instead it made him feel more squeezed than ever. "I heard," Rekir went on, "that you're putting together a Hunter Base acronym list."

Altern hesitated. He knew there was a right answer, but he didn't know what it was. Why did it feel like he was in trouble? "Yessss," he said slowly.

Rekir sighed. "I was afraid of that."

"Am I not supposed to?" Altern said, his worry spiking. "How can it be bad that I'm trying to understand?"

"Oh, that's not bad," said Rekir, waving his hand. "Trying to understand is a good thing. Nah, the problem is writing down a list that other people might see."

"What's the problem with that?" said Altern as his distress grew.

Before Rekir could answer, there was a crackle from his waist. "Report location," snapped a cold, decisive voice.

Rekir hefted his radio. "Hunter lounge two," he replied promptly.

"Stand by."

"Yes, sir." Rekir replaced the radio, then returned his gaze to Altern. "I'm gonna have to confiscate your list."

"But I need it!" Altern protested.

"You need to learn," corrected Rekir, "and you'll have to find some other way. It's too dangerous to let documents like that float around."

Altern looked down at it. "But it's not… classified information, is it?"

"Probably not, I'm sure you've been careful about that," Rekir granted. His expression became thoughtful. "Let me put it this way. It's in your interest to keep that info to yourself. It's best not to have that kind of knowledge circulate."

Altern's mouth opened before he realized he had no idea what he was going to say. "Huh?" was the best he could manage.

The door flew open. Altern gasped. In strode a vision of Hunter perfection: purposeful, deliberate, technically immaculate. Altern may not have recognized Rekir, but everyone knew Maverick Hunter Zero.

Altern's memory protocols helpfully supplied video of Zero wiping the simulator floor with Altern's whole squad. Altern squelched that subroutine, but too late.

As far as he could tell, though, he didn't even register in Zero's vision. The leader of the Zeroth Squad had eyes only for Rekir. "Rekir," he said, confirming this suspicion, "Shale of the Fourth Squad has accused us of taking spare parts to his squad's ride chasers."

Rekir sighed broadly. "I bet he did."

"Did we?" asked Zero.

"I really don't like that phrasing," Rekir replied. "I didn't 'take' anything, and they're not 'his' ride chasers, they all belong to the Maverick Hunters."

"What did you do?" Zero said, voice sharp.

"I helped Douglas keep up with his vehicle maintenance backlog," said Rekir, and Altern noted how the Azzle's tone had turned low and fast. "Zeroth Squad has op-tempo well above the nominal ay-are-are, so our em-tee-eff is lower than other squads'. That goes double for Fourth Squad, which has a mixed mission profile and a below-average op-tempo, not to mention that our tee-are-are is coming up in two months and theirs isn't for another six. You don't want to fail tee-are-are, do you?"

Zero shifted uncertainly. "No, of course not," he said, but his brow creased in worry. Altern didn't blame him; out of the jargon Rekir had just spewed, Altern understood maybe one term in four.

"Neither do I," Rekir agreed. "So I submitted a ten-eleven for more parts for our ride chasers, but it takes four weeks for those to go through without a you-en-are, which take a couple weeks to get outside of the blanket authorizations we get in wartime. I could have put in a CANAB, but even those take two weeks to process, and that's with an attached ten-sixty-seven."

It was unmistakable, even to Altern's rookie eyes: Zero was squirming. "Does that mean… we don't have enough parts?"

"We do," Altern said, "because I used the Delphi method to estimate our parts needs, filed a two-twelve for parts transfer, submitted an additional ten-eleven to plus-up Fourth Squad and backdated it, and did a hand-transfer per the BISSM."

Altern had to wonder if those were real terms.

Zero looked as unmoored as Altern felt. Though his expression was as stern as ever, he looked off-balance, something Altern had never seen in the simulator. "So we have enough parts," he said, hammering the only point he could see clearly.

"We have enough parts," confirmed Rekir. "And Fourth Squad will end up with more parts than when we started, so, really, we're doing them a favor."

Zero's frown deepened, but if this statement from Rekir concerned him, he didn't know what to do about it. "What do I say to the commander?"

"Tell him what I told you," said Rekir. "We're helping the maintenance shop reduce downtime by focusing its efforts on what breaks first. There are enough parts for everyone."

Zero nodded. "Reduce downtime. Fix what breaks first. Enough parts for everyone."

"You've got it, sir," said Rekir with a note of praise.

Zero's frown vanished. "Good," he said, turned on the spot, and departed, hair swish-swishing behind him.

When the door had closed behind his squad leader, Rekir gave an immensely self-satisfied stretch and sigh. He languorously looked over at Altern. "Thus endeth the lesson."

He plucked the data pad out of Altern's unresisting hand, deleted the jargon dictionary, and handed it back.

"Knowledge is power," Rekir said, smiling wickedly. "Guard it well."

Chapter Text

The evidence of treachery lay there, in the open, atop a console.

Small. Yellow. Candy-coated.

Someone was sabotaging Jones with chocolate.

Jones felt his mouth watering as he contemplated the candy. He was supposed to be supervising Hunter Base's Watch Floor. He was supposed to be ensuring all the Operators had the resources they needed. He was supposed to be providing the extra authority and guidance only a human could bring to a reploid operation.

He was distracted.

Maybe doing some actual work would get his mind off the candy. He walked towards one of the Operators. "Alia, what do we have?"

"Fourteenth-two is in gee-seven, investigating Maverick precursors," Alia rattled off instantly, "while we have show-of-force operations afoot, with Thirteenth-one and Eleventh-one in bee-six and ell-twelve, respectively…"

Jones nodded numbly, to meet expectations rather than from comprehension. The words slipped in his ears and out his brain without truly registering.

He was hungry.

There was candy behind him. Silent and unmoving it might have been, but it was burning a hole in his attention all the same.

It wasn't much food, but it was something…

It'd been three hours since he'd assumed his duties on the Floor, and it'd be another three before he was relieved. That was a long time for him to go being this hungry.

Confound it, he'd eaten before he'd come on watch for exactly this reason! Why did he feel like this?

He realized his attention had wandered, and that Alia had been expectantly quiet for several seconds. Face flushing, Jones blubbered, "Very well, carry on."

Alia mercifully said nothing and turned her attention back to her console. Jones reversed direction, trying to keep his embarrassment to himself.

That just brought the candy back into his field of view.

It was tasty, he had to admit. He wanted it. On another level, he knew it wouldn't fix anything. It was too small to put a dent in his appetite, and eating it might mess with his blood sugar and make him even hungrier.

Experience told him this, too. He was this hungry even though this was the twelfth, possibly thirteenth, candy someone had left lying around for him. He didn't know who it was, or why they were doing it. Process of elimination suggested it was one of the three Operators on duty with him, but why they were doing it—and when they would even have the opportunity to—was beyond him. For that matter, how did they think to put candy on the consoles? They couldn't eat, they didn't know from human food, let alone human vices.

That meant, by extension, that whoever was leaving out the candies was leaving them out for him, and him alone. They had silently confirmed this theory: Every time he ate one, another appeared in a different place.

This wasn't right. Food was forbidden on the Watch Floor. Eating the candy just encouraged whoever was doing this. He couldn't let it continue.

God he was hungry. Nothing interesting was going on, which meant there was nothing to think about other than the candy.

He took a sniff. Hunter Base normally smelled of lubricant and atmosphere control chemicals, but he swore he could make out the faintest hint of chocolate.

Moment by moment his resistance crumbled.

Fine.

Trying to appear casual, Jones sidled up next to the console, pretended to look at something, and swept the candy directly from its top into his mouth.

Crunch, crunch. Yum.

"JONES!"

Uh oh.

"Yes, sir?" he said, trying not to cringe and failing spectacularly.

Commander Grant, the man in charge of the Maverick Hunters, looked like steam was filling his insides and escaping only through his ears. "What on God's green Earth are you doing?!"

Jones couldn't think of anything to say, but that was just as well, because Grant seemed to not require a response; he was barreling along. "Am I going blind, or are you eating candy in a place with a no-food rule?!"

Jones knew the only way out was to take his medicine and hope it all blew over. "I was, sir."

Grant sucked in a breath, and Jones' hope died. "Are you kidding me? What kind of unprofessional, sloppy, raggedy outfit do you think this is? Are the rules just a joke to you?"

"No, sir."

"Ol' Jonesy here is above the rules, he's too good for them, is that it?"

"No, sir."

"'No' what?"

"I'm not too good for the rules, sir."

"Damn straight you're not! And yet here we are! It's not just a cleanliness issue, although as filthy as you look right now, it's clear you don't much care about that, either. When's the last time you had a haircut?"

"Uh…"

"If you can't remember, it's been too long. I'm going to have to start writing down all the things that are wrong about you—there's too many for me to just remember. Now look around. Do you see any nanite slurries?"

Jones turned on the spot, which had the advantage of letting him face away from Grant. It helped. Marginally. "No, sir."

"How about materials washers?"

"No, sir."

"Spare parts?"

"No, sir."

"So your eyeballs work after all! You have now demonstrated the visual observation and language skills of a three-year-old. That's more than I expected. Of course you don't see those things! Because reploids know not to do their personal maintenance or materials consumption on the Watch Floor! And yet here you are doing exactly that!"

"Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I mean…"

"Shut up if you can't figure out something useful to say! I retract my statement about your having a three-year-old's language skills! Obviously I thought too much of you! If you had that level of basic understanding, you'd know that if we don't let reploids do those things on the Watch Floor, we're not going to let humans do it, either!"

"Of course, sir!"

"You don't get to say 'of course' when I'm having to explain this to you! We are not going to have human-reploid double standards in the Maverick Hunters, do you hear me?!"

"I hear you, sir!"

"What did I say?!"

"We're not going to have human-reploid double standards in the Maverick Hunters, sir!"

"Good! If no part of your higher brain is working, at least we've got some neurons firing in the autonomous part! Because if you were thinking, which you weren't…"

Jones winced, despite Grant being behind him. Grant was on a roll now, and had decided he needed to make a point, and Jones was just going to have to stand there and take it. He couldn't very well try to blame the reploids either, since he didn't know which of them had been placing the candy, and anyway he'd condoned that behavior by eating the candy. He was stuck.

At least the Operators were sparing his dignity. They were all facing their consoles and continuing operations, pretending not to see, although he was sure they heard everything.

He blinked in surprise and reran the last thought in his mind.

Although he was sure they heard everything…

"Is that what you want?!"

"No, sir!" chirped Jones in surprised reflex.

"Good! And face me when I'm yelling at you!"

"Yes, sir!"

Cubit was a reploid servicing Hunter Base as a janitor. Given Maverickism, that also meant he was forbidden to leave, lest he be exposed to anything (or anyone) untoward.

It wasn't too bad a life, though, he reflected. Most of the time. Sometimes it was awful.

Sighing to himself as he replaced his mop in one of his supply closets, he shut the door—only to find himself face-to-face with one of the Base's humans, who wore a nametag with 'Jones' on it.

Cubit stalled out for a moment. "Uh… excuse me," he said, trying to get away. Getting a human's attention never worked out well, in his experience.

"Just a minute," Jones said. Cubit froze in fear. Jones took a deep breath, screwed up his face, and spoke. "I'm sorry for calling you a malfunctioning, low-wattage dumbot."

Cubit blinked in surprise. "Uh…"

"I was in a hurry and frustrated and you were in the way," Jones went on, "but none of that was your fault, and I took my temper out on you. I'm sorry."

Now that Jones had given context, Cubit did remember that incident, though he'd written it off at the time as typical human callousness. This… wasn't. It was, perhaps, the first time a human had apologized to him. His words almost couldn't make it through his vocalizer he found it so disorienting. "No pro… uh… don't worry about it?"

Jones gave a sharp nod before turning on the spot. "There, are you happy now?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," was the smooth reply. To Cubit's further surprise, Alia was standing behind Jones—not saying or doing anything, and apparently preoccupied with her datapad, but she could have been working that datapad anywhere, she had no reason to stop in the middle of a hallway to monitor some random apology being made…

She looked up from the pad to meet Jones' eyes. "On a completely unrelated note, the other Operators found some human material in the Watch Floor's north spares cabinet."

"I bet they did," Jones muttered bitterly.

Alia made no note of the tone. "We think it's human food, but we can't tell for sure. We leave its disposition up to you."

"I appreciate it," said Jones, trying hard for politeness. "Have a good day."

"You too, sir," said Alia, and she stood aside while Jones walked past her. When he was gone, she looked at Cubit and gave him the smallest smile he'd ever seen, along with a thumbs-up. Then she was gone.

This really wasn't too bad a life, Cubit decided as he headed for his recharge tube. Not too bad at all.

Chapter Text

"Excuse me, sir, can you help me with this?"

Douglas looked up from his requisition work. He recognized that the newcomer was a rookie, and a newbuilt, in no time at all. He recognized the model in an instant. That didn't mean he knew who it was.

"I'll do my best," he told the rookie. "What's your name?"

"D-Class Hunter Third Rate Durand," the rookie replied. "I was working through my advanced weapon qualifications, and I hit a roadblock."

Douglas frowned. "I don't have any signature blocks on that qualification. I mean, I can sign the theory section, but almost any qualified Hunter can sign that."

"I know," said Durand, and his voice was pained. "I'm trying to get my Azzle's signature. I went to Cozumel to get it, but his first question was about seeing lasers."

"Seeing… lasers?" said Douglas with a frown. Lasers, he was pretty sure, traveled at light speed, and so couldn't be seen, except in their effects.

"Of course I flubbed it, but Cozumel said there was a technique to it, and I should go to Vertos and ask him about seeing lasers."

That didn't make sense to Douglas, either. He wasn't a reploid medic, he specialized in arms, armor, and vehicles, but he knew that Vertos' optics weren't any better or worse than Cozumel's. "What then?" he prompted.

"Well, Vertos said he'd love to teach me the technique," Durand went on, looking increasingly haggard. "But he was behind in his own work, and he needed me to help him with some other things first. He said he needed to do an inventory of our plasma bolts, and he sent me to Blue on the ops floor to get me started."

Douglas' frown deepened. Plasma bolts weren't something you kept lying around; they were the technical term for buster blasts. Douglas tracked and inventoried busters and buster power packs, but it was both impossible and pointless to track the bolts. For that matter, why would anyone go to an operator to inventory something in Douglas' arena?

"Blue said he could get me started, but he said he was way behind in a lot of his datawork, and he'd only help me…"

"If you helped him," said Douglas. "I'm starting to see where this is going. What'd he ask you to get?"

"A left-handed socket wrench," said Durand, pained.

"Yeah, I get it," said Douglas. "Okay, let's skip to the end. What am I supposed to get you, and who do I owe it to?"

"It went all the way back to Cozumel," said Durand. "And he sent me down here to get a bucket of steam."

"A bucket of steam," Douglas repeated.

"It doesn't make any sense to me, either," Durand said, looking like panic was overclocking his processors, "but they wouldn't make me get these things if they didn't have a good reason, right?"

Douglas' mouth quirked up in a wry smile. "Sure, they have a reason, but you won't like it."

"What?"

"Because it's funny."

Durand's hands shook. "Huh?"

"None of those things exist," said Douglas. "When a senior Hunter hears you're being sent for something ridiculous, they know it's a game, and they find some other thing that sounds almost plausible to shuffle you along. They could keep you running around forever like this. It wasn't even me you were supposed to find for the bucket of steam, was it?"

Durand shook his head. "It was Jonesy."

"That explains it. I'm a hugger, and Jonesy… isn't. You're just lucky I have him on an errand, or he'd be sending you to find some other blasted thing."

"Oh, great," said Durand, teetering on hysteria. "Lucky me!"

"I suppose it's not much comfort to know you've been sent on a run-around for the amusement of your seniors," Douglas admitted. "Could have been worse—they could have sent you down to get a Mechanic's Punch. Frankly, I don't know how to get you out of this. Some people are just jerks."

"Sounds like a systemic problem to me," came a voice from the side of the room. That's right, Douglas remembered—he'd come down here to work on a side project. He hadn't explained it to Douglas, but Douglas figured he had as much (or more) right to the Armory as anyone.

Durand, at the end of his wits, started at the intrusion. He frowned and peered closely at the brown-haired figure along the shop's periphery. "Sorry, who are…?"

X smiled and put his helmet back on. "Recognize me now?"

Durand staggered backwards in surprise. "S-sir, sorry, no, I didn't—why…"

"I didn't need it for what I was working on, this is a safe place," X said, "and I don't like being instantly recognizable all the time. But enough about me." He crossed his arms and put a hand on his chin. "You need some help, it sounds like, and the people who are supposed to be helping you aren't."

"You could help me, though," said Durand, looking relieved at last. "You're grandfathered in—you can sign any block on any qualification card. Can you sign this one for me?"

"The curse of writing most of our doctrine," X said wryly in Douglas' direction. "Zero wrote the rest, but I was his editor." He looked back to Durand. "You're right, I could sign it and get you out of this, but that wouldn't solve the problem. There's no reason to believe you're the first rookie to be treated like this, and unless we do something you won't be the last. I don't approve of hazing."

He tapped the side of his face as his mouth quirked up. "People are being petty. I think we can be petty right back. How'd you like to help me teach some folks a lesson?"

Durand's eyes lit up. "Yes, sir!"

X looked to Douglas. "I'll need your keys to the materials locker."

"They're yours," said Douglas. "Literally, as far as I'm concerned."

"I don't concur, but we can discuss that later." X smiled to himself. "This'll be fun."

"…So I tell him, Go get me a bucket of steam!"

"That's a good one," said Vertos approvingly. He and Cozumel were sitting in the Azzle common room. "I'll have to use that one some time."

"What do you have for next?" Cozumel asked.

"Hm… I was thinking a Mechanic's Punch."

"That's a classic," said Cozumel, knowing that this was code for the mechanic to actually punch whoever requested it, "but it gives the game away. I think we can keep him hopping a little longer…"

A chime sounded, signaling that a visitor was requesting entry to Azzle country. "Enter," called Cozumel loudly to be heard through the door.

The door opened, revealing Durand. "Sir, I have something for you, per your orders." He walked in, carrying…

Cozumel blinked, unable to believe his optics. He glanced at Vertos, who seemed similarly flabbergasted. In Durand's hands was a bucket, and billowing out of the bucket's open top was a cloud of rapidly-dissipating white-ish vapor.

"One bucket of steam, as requested," Durand said proudly.

(It was actually dry ice, retrieved from one of Douglas' many lockers and kept refrigerated by X until moments before Durand entered the room, but Cozumel and Vertos didn't need to know that.)

"Rust me," said Cozumel.

"Also," Durand continued, "Captain X asked me to deliver a message."

Cozumel blinked his vision clear and refocused on Durand. "Yeah?"

"'Stop it'."

Cozumel and Vertos shared a distressed look. Then Cozumel slumped his shoulders in defeat. "Hand me your qual card. I'll sign."

Durand smiled.

Chapter Text

Zero emerged from his recharge room and entered the Maverick Hunter Squad Leader common room. X was there, wearily working at a console.

Zero blinked. X had been there when Zero went down to recharge. Either X had snuck in some recharge time between when Zero had gone down and gotten up, or…

There were several empty E-tanks on the desk by X's console.

…or that.

"What could you possibly be working on that's this important?" he asked.

X jerked, startled, before relaxing. "Oh. Good morning to you, too, Zero."

Zero's eyes narrowed. "If your situational awareness is so compromised you didn't see me coming, you are standing into danger. What is so preoccupying?"

"Datawork," X said glumly. He gestured at the screen. "It's tying me up in knots."

Zero blinked. This was terra incognita for him; his assistant, Rekir, took care of the Zeroth Squad's datawork. Still, if it was this vital to X… "Explain."

"In my role as Seventeenth Squad Leader," X said, gesturing at himself, "I've put in a requisition for additional heavy weapons- laser, plasma, and kinetic- plus ammunition to support operations of the same, with an additional fifty percent to train the operators. The requisition also includes more and larger transport vehicles so we can move this heavier equipment."

That all made sense so far. When the silence stretched on, Zero nodded, hoping that would get X to continue.

It did. "All of which is appropriate. I briefed the higher-ups on my desire to turn the Seventeenth into a heavy weapons squad, and they agreed. This requisition is supposed to help make that happen."

"That is an important thing to get right," Zero acknowledged. "I understand why you're putting so much effort into it."

"I finished it last night."

Back to confusion. "Then what have you been doing since then?"

X sighed. "Well, with us being so short-staffed, I've also taken on quartermaster duties for half our squads. In my role as quartermaster, I've denied the requisition."

Zero's understanding of the situation collapsed. He could not have heard what he just heard. "What?"

"I denied the requisition," X said, covering his face with his hands.

"The requisition that you put in," Zero said, desperate for clarity.

"Yes."

"Yourself."

"Yes."

"For your own squad."

"Yes."

So Zero had heard correctly. That made his lack of understanding even more glaring. "Explain."

"We can't afford it," X said, lowering his hands to bring up a spreadsheet. "We have so many other holes to fill, so much other equipment to buy, not to mention continuing repair work and upgrades to the Watch Floor, and we did just get a budget plus-up, but that's supposed to be for personnel, and government rules won't let me spend it on equipment. Not to mention that Fourth Squad put in a jumbo requisition for Ride Chaser parts." X frowned. "I don't know why Fourth Squad seems to burn through Ride Chaser parts at double the rate of the other squads… but that's a problem for another day.

"We have to maintain certain stockpiles of ammunition to be ready for major events, but we burn through ammunition regularly, in combat and to keep up Hunter proficiency, and there's only just enough in the budget to keep that steady. Buying new classes of weapons and having to build new stockpiles of their ammunition is just…" he sighed.

"So now I'm having to write a memo telling myself that I can only buy one new class of heavy weapon, that I have overstated how much ammunition I need for training and I need to recalculate, and that I need to submit a request to reconfigure our existing vehicles instead of buying new ones."

Zero grasped for any handhold. "You told yourself to recalculate?"

X closed his eyes as if in pain. "Yes, Zero."

"But you already did the calculations."

"Yes, I did."

There were no handholds. "Isn't that twice as much work?"

"It's how this conversation would go if I were two people," X said, looking at the console again. "As squad leader, I'm supposed to put in requisitions like this. If I were a quartermaster and a squad leader put in this requisition, that's how I'd respond. That's how the system is supposed to work. We're unlucky enough to be in a position where we have one person in those two jobs instead of two, but it's still supposed to work like that."

It was true and nonsense at the same time.

"Besides," said X, hitting "send" and shutting the console, "now it's all documented. Now I have everything I need to go back to the higher-ups and say, "You're telling us to do all these things, and we can't afford half of them. You need to either cut back on our mission load or give us more funds." When bureaucracies fight, the one with better documentation wins."

The mention of combat was a vicious tease. Zero knew that wasn't the kind of fight that felt good or was at all satisfying. It was the kind he needed X to fight… for him…

A burden was lifted from Zero's shoulders.

Oh. Okay. This was An X Thing. He'd been worried that it was something he needed to concern himself with and learn about, but if it was just An X Thing, he could leave it to those capable hands and not worry.

"I understand," said Zero.

X raised an eyebrow at him, as if to accuse him of not understanding all the… stuff… X had just said. Zero maintained his composure, and X let it slide. "One more thing, Zero. Could you not mention this to anyone?"

"Sure," Zero said, confused. "Why not?"

"I understand that the choices I make aren't the… typical ones other people make," X said. "Everyone else would be as confused as you, only I wouldn't be there to explain myself."

"I understand," said Zero, more sincerely this time.

X nodded. "In that case, if I head to the tube now, I can get…" his head drooped. "...maybe ninety whole minutes before I have to be up and ready for the next thing. Wish me luck."

Zero tried, but his memory returned a Definition not found error. Apparently he wasn't ever supposed to need luck.

He gave a herky-jerky thumbs-up in X's direction and walked for the door.

"...And you'll need to sign this requisition," said Rekir, handing a datapad to Zero.

Zero gave it the most cursory of glances and went to sign, only to pause when something caught his eye. Ammunition, in various calibers and amounts… like what X was working on.

"Rekir," he said slowly, trying to gather facts before they squirmed away from him, "you prepare the Zeroth Squad's equipment requisitions, right?"

Rekir's expression went blank. It was overkill- Zero wouldn't have been able to read Rekir's feelings even with the help- but it left Zero fully adrift. "Yes."

"Do you also do quartermaster work?"

"A little," Rekir said, voice perfectly even.

"Have you ever denied your own requisition?"

Rekir's composure cracked. "No," he scoffed. "What kind of idiot would do that?"

"Don't talk about X like that," Zero said heatedly.

The two stared at each other for a moment.

"...oops."

Chapter Text

Klaxon Crab and Vertos were sitting in the squad leader common room, engaging in their favorite activity (shooting the breeze), when there was a knock on the door.

"Enter," called Vertos.

Into the room came a junior Hunter, who wasn't as much walking as he was being frog marched by his Assistant Squad Leader. His discomfort was acute, obvious, and - to two otherwise bored squad leaders - delectable.

"Hey, Job," said Vertos.

"It's Job," protested the junior Hunter feebly. "Long 'o', the name, not the occupation."

"Sorry," said Klaxon insincerely, "I can't hear you over how junior you are. Can you try again with three battles' more experience?"

Job sighed, and seemed for a moment to contemplate leaving, but his Azzle's hands came to rest on his shoulders to lock him in place. Sim-swallowing, Job looked at the squad leaders once more. "Would either of you be willing to trade some of your spare supplies for some lubricant?"

It was easy to tell neither squad leader had expected this question; the disbelief was plain on their faces as they exchanged looks. "What brought this on?" said Vertos.

Job shifted under the pressure of their gaze. "Exactly what it sounds like," said Job. "My squad is looking to trade lubricant for anyone's excess supplies."

"My squad usually runs a tight ship," said Klaxon.

"Aside from using gratuitous nautical metaphors," said Vertos with a smirk.

"Hush. What I mean is, we don't have much in the way of excess. We don't order much more than what we need plus a small buffer. And that includes all categories of supplies, lubricant included."

Job's eyes turned to Vertos, but without much hope.

"Even if I had extra supplies to trade, which I don't," said Vertos, "I wouldn't trade them for something as low value and easily accessible as lubricant."

Job's head drooped. "Alright, then," he said, and looked like he was trying to escape. The hands on his shoulders tightened such that he didn't actually move.

The squad leaders' eyebrows rose.

Job hung his head for a moment, then looked back up at the squad leaders. "In that case, can I offer you some excess lubricant in exchange for a future supply swap?"

"Okay," said Klaxon, "this is really getting fishy."

Vertos laughed. "Light's tights, you can't resist playing to type, can you?"

"Shut up. I'm serious, I've never seen someone so aggressive about unloading supplies of any kind, never mind such a basic one as lubricant."

"Is that a no?" said Job.

"It's a no," said Vertos, "except you've piqued our curiosity. What's this all about?"

"Nothing," mumbled Job, and he gave one more attempt to escape. With his Azzle's hands clamping him in place, he didn't move at all.

Resigning himself to the worst, Job slumped where he stood. "This is my penance," he said dully. "This is me making up for getting ahead of the game and being dumb about it."

"Now I really want to know," said Klaxon.

Job didn't reply, but his Azzle cheerily picked up the slack. "Job here was recently assigned as Work Center Supervisor. Part of that is managing the squad's supply inventory. Well, we were starting to run low on lubricant, so he decided we needed more."

Klaxon smiled. "Oh, I know where this is going. Please, continue."

"Job, being the eager beaver he is, decided he wanted to save the quartermaster a step," said the Azzle mercilessly. "Instead of submitting the requisition and letting the quartermaster put in the order, Job here went ahead and submitted the order himself."

Now Vertos was smiling as well. "Let me guess: he wasn't too keen on the matter of units of issue."

Job groaned; his Azzle grinned even as he tightened his grip. "You got it. Job here thought he was ordering ten cans of lubricant. Instead, he ordered ten cases of lubricant."

"How many cans are in a case?" said Vertos.

"Twelve," moaned Job.

"So now we have enough lubricant to last us the next four years," said the Azzle cheerily. "It's so much, in fact, that we can't even store it in the storage space we've got! So Job here is making the rounds to see if he can make up for his mistake."

"Could have been worse," said Klaxon. "I bet you blew most of your supply budget on that order. If you were in my squad, that kind of mistake would get you keelhauled."

Vertos laughed. "Again with the-"

"I know, shut up!"

"Maybe," said the Azzle gracefully, "but we're using this as a learning opportunity. Because Job is never, ever going to make this mistake again, now is he?"

"No," said Job dully.

"Good for you," said Klaxon. "Looks like the lesson is sinking in already."

Vertos just laughed.

"Oh come on, that wasn't nautical at all!"

"If you say so," said Vertos unconvincingly.

"Look," said Job with something like desperation, "can I just give each of your squads a case? Not even a trade, just take the stuff so we can free up some of our storage space."

"I don't know," said Klaxon performatively. "I don't think my squad has storage space to spare."

"Ditto," said Vertos. "But you know who might? I think Zeroth Squad has some spare storage capacity."

Horror washed over Job's face even as the Azzle smiled wider. "Sounds like a great idea, we'll ask them next."

"No, no," said Job, "don't make me embarrass myself in front of the Zeroth Squad!"

"What, are you afraid of Zero?" said the Azzle innocently.

"Yes!"

"Don't worry, then. We'll talk to Rekir instead."

"That's even worse!"

"No," said the Azzle as he eased Job out the door. "It's not worse. Why, I bet Rekir can show you new uses for extra lubricant…"

"No!"

As the Azzle shut the door behind him, Klaxon and Vertos collapsed into laughter.