The morning news was louder than it needed to be. Benito Morgan sat at the diner counter with one elbow propped against chipped laminate, watching his reflection warp in the chrome napkin dispenser.
“Authorities continue their search for the missing M-Class interceptor registered under the name The Quinton. The elite bounty hunter crew assigned to the vessel remains unresponsive. Citizens are advised to report any unusual spacecraft activity—”
Ben lowered the volume without looking up.Unusual spacecraft activity did not happen in Alder’s Reach. Alder’s Reach had three gas pumps, one diner, and an argument about corn subsidies that had been ongoing for six years.
He preferred it that way.
Outside the window, wind turbines turned lazily over endless farmland. The sky was wide and empty. Too empty for anything dramatic.
The waitress slid a wrapped cheeseburger toward him.
“Same as always.”
“Tradition matters,” Ben replied solemnly.
She snorted.
He paid, stepped outside, and made his way up the grassy hill behind town. the one that overlooked the fields like a natural viewing platform for absolutely nothing.
He sat.
Unwrapped the burger.
Took a bite.
Chewed slowly.
Ordinary.
Ordinary was good.
Ordinary didn’t involve plasma fire.
He swallowed.
A shadow passed over the sun.
He frowned.
The sky screamed.
A streak of white and pastel purple tore through the clouds, trailing smoke as it spiraled toward the fields beyond the ridge.
Ben stared.
“…That seems incorrect.”
The impact shook the ground. Dirt erupted into the air. Birds scattered in a frantic wave.
Silence followed.
The turbines kept turning.
Ben finished chewing.
“Well,” he muttered. “There goes ordinary.”
The crater was still smoking when he approached it.
The ship was embedded nose-first into the earth, angled awkwardly, hull scorched but intact. White plating streaked black. Pastel purple accents dulled by heat.
It didn’t look military.
It looked expensive.
One side hatch hung partially open.
Ben stood there a long moment.
“If something jumps out and vaporizes me,” he said calmly, “I’d like it noted I didn’t start this".
Nothing jumped out.
He stepped closer.
Interior lights flickered on one strip at a time.
A hologram shimmered into existence in front of him.
White hair braided neatly over one shoulder. Fuchsia eyes.
Perfect posture.
A thin blue beam scanned him from head to toe.
He stiffened.
“That feels invasive.”
“Scanning.”
The beam lingered.
“…Are you going to at least pretend that’s polite?”
“Politeness is not required for biometric verification.”
He blinked.
“Strong opening.”
The hologram straightened slightly.
“Primary owner unresponsive.”
“…Unresponsive how.”
A pause.
Just long enough to be uncomfortable.“Fallback protocol engaged.”
“Transfer of ownership complete.”
He stared at her.
“That did not answer my question.”
“You are now the registered captain of M-Class Interceptor: The Quinton.”
“Registered where?”
“Everywhere.”
He looked around the smoking cockpit.
“At no point did I agree to this.”
“You remained within activation radius.”
“That’s not how consent works.”
“Local authorities will arrive in approximately forty-two minutes".
He narrowed his eyes.
“You keep saying that like it’s a threat.”
“It is information.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
“Your interpretation is noted.”
He rubbed his face.
“If I walk away?”
“You will be detained.”
“The vessel will be confiscated.”
“You will be questioned.”
He grimaced.
“I don’t like being questioned.”
“I gathered.”
He glanced at scorch marks along the interior wall.
“The previous crew".
A fractional pause.
“Unresponsive.”
“That’s still vague.”
“Correct.”
Silence stretched between them.
The wind outside the crater rustled faintly.
“…Hypothetically,” he said, lowering himself into the captain’s chair, “how difficult is it to fly this?”
“For you?”
“…Yes."
“Extremely.”
He winced.
“I don’t like your tone.”
“You do not like most of what I say.”
“…Fair.”
He placed his hands on the controls.
“Let’s ruin my life properly.”
“Finally.”
Lift-off was not dignified.
The Quinton lurched upward at an angle that suggested regret. Dirt cascaded off the hull in clumps.
Ben yanked the controls instinctively.
The ship tilted harder.
He overcorrected.
Now they were sideways.
“…Is this part of the design?” he asked.
“No.”
He adjusted again.
The ship spun slightly before stabilizing with a violent shudder.
“…We are airborne,” he declared.
“Technically.”
“Encouraging.”
He squinted at the navigation display.
“If I’m keeping this,” he muttered, “I need someone who knows what they’re doing.”
The mechanic district smelled like ozone and burnt metal.
The landing rattled half the tools in the hangar.
“Controlled,” Ben said.
The hangar doors slid open with a metallic groan.
A woman stepped inside first, wiping grease from her hands.
She stopped.
Her yellow eyes slowly traced the hull.
“…No way.”
She walked toward it without speaking to Ben.
Her fingers brushed the plating like she was checking if it was warm.
“Quad-engine propulsion… reinforced warp spine…”
She crouched slightly near the engine housing.
“This is M-Class."
Ben shifted near the hatch.
“That’s good?”
She didn’t look at him.
“It’s bounty fleet grade.”
Bootsteps echoed behind her.
“What is that wreck doing in my bay?”
The woman straightened.
Her boss stood near the entrance — sleeves rolled, grease-stained gloves hanging from his back pocket.
He looked tired.
Not angry.
Tired.
“It’s M-Class,” she said.
“I can see that.”
“It’s intact.”
“It’s illegal.”
She frowned slightly.
“It’s not illegal.”
“It came in without clearance, registry scan, or contract.”
“It crash-landed.”
“And that makes it better?”
She stepped closer to the hull.
“The warp spine’s still aligned. Do you know what that means?”
He sighed.
“It means it’s not our problem.”
“It means it’s salvageable.”
“It means it’s a liability.”
She turned to face him fully now.
“It’s a once-in-a-decade find.”
“It’s a once-in-a-decade fine if we touch it.”She folded her arms.
“We can’t just scrap something like this.”
“We are not scrapping it."
“Then what?”
“We call it in.”
Her jaw tightened.
“And let some corporate retrieval team strip it for parts?”
“That is how the system works.”
She shook her head.
“The system wastes things.”
“The system keeps this place open.”
A beat.
Ben stayed very quiet.
Her boss ran a hand through his hair.
“Grace.”
That tone was different.
Lower.
Measured.
“You don’t get to ignore the law because something is interesting.”
“It’s not just interesting.”
“Then what is it?”
She hesitated.
“…It’s history.”He looked at her for a long moment.
“And history doesn’t pay insurance claims.”Silence.
“You’re not touching it,” he said finally.
She didn’t move.
“Grace.”
She stepped toward the engine panel again.“If we just stabilize it—”
“Grace.”
She opened the panel anyway.
He closed his eyes briefly.
“Step away from the ship.”
“No.”
That word landed clean.
Not shouted.
Just firm.
He looked at her.
Tired.
“You’ve been here six years.”
“And I’ve fixed everything you’ve thrown at me.”
“And I’ve covered for you every time you bent a regulation.”
She didn’t respond.
“You think I don’t know?” he continued. “You think I don’t notice when you ‘forget’ to log salvaged parts?”
Her shoulders stiffened.
“This is different.”
“No,” he said quietly.
“It isn’t.”
A long pause.
The air in the hangar felt heavier.
“Step away,” he said one last time.
She didn’t.
He exhaled slowly.
“…You’re fired.”
That hurt more than if he’d yelled it.
She blinked once.
“…You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“You’re choosing paperwork over this.”
“I’m choosing the shop over you getting arrested.”
She looked down at the wrench in her hand.Looked back up.
“Say it again.”
He met her eyes.
“You’re fired, Grace.”
The wrench dropped.
It hit the concrete with a heavy clang.Ben flinched.
The next thirty seconds were loud.Not chaotic.
Just… loud.
When it ended, she walked back into view adjusting her gloves.
Her boss was sitting on the floor against a tool cabinet, dazed but conscious.
He looked up at her.
“…You always did overreact.”
She paused at the ship’s ramp.
“…You always did underestimate it."
When it ended, she adjusted her gloves and walked past him, Then she climbed inside.
“…Move,” she told Ben.
“You’re fixing it?”
“You can’t fly it.”
“That’s harsh.”
“It’s accurate.”
She climbed into the engine housing.
“Name.”
“…Ben.”
“Grace Solaris.”
The engine hum deepened under her hands.
Alive.
Stable.
She stepped down.
“It’ll hold. For now. I need my tools. Land ten minutes east.”
The city glowed in neon below.
Grace stood at the hatch.
“Stay put.”
“Absolutely.”
“You will not absolutely.”
She stepped out.
Silence filled the cockpit.
“…Well,” Ben muttered. “This escalated.”
Few minutes later, the hatch slammed open.
But rather than Grace, it was a young man in a black beanie who slipped inside and shut it behind him.
He adjusted the beanie.
“Right. We’re leaving.”
“…I’m sorry?"
“Start the ship.”
“Why.”
“I’d prefer not to be here when they arrive.”
“Who.”
“The ones with badges.”
Ben stared.
“…Did you do something illegal?"
The young man tilted his head.
“Illegal’s a strong word.”
“That was not reassuring.”
He glanced out the viewport.
“…Ah.”
“That ‘ah’ concerns me.”
“Two patrol drones.”
Ben looked down.
Red lights scanned rooftops below.
“…Why are they scanning rooftops.”
“Community outreach.”
“That feels inaccurate.”
At the same time, another figure stepped inside.
Tall. Composed.
“I require transport,” she said politely.
“…This isn’t public,” Ben replied.
She folded her hands.
“That can be remedied."
A third figure peeked in, smiling brightly.
“Oh! Are we going somewhere?”
Ben looked between the three of them.
“…Why are there more of you.”
Red warning lights pulsed.
“Rooftop scan locked,” Mel announced.
“Departure window closing.”
The beanie-wearing man clapped once.
“Time to go.”
Ben grabbed the controls.
“Everyone sit.”
The engines roared—
The hatch alarm blared.
Grace climbed back in mid-liftoff.
“You didn’t stay put.”
“Developments!"
Plasma fire streaked past the viewport.
The ship lurched violently.
“Little confidence on the throttle!” the beanie-wearing man called.
“You brought cops!”
“Allegedly!”
“You ducked!”
“I lowered my profile!”
“Emergency burst propulsion available,” Mel said.
“Safe?” Ben asked.
“No.”
“Don’t press mystery buttons!” the beanie-wearing man said quickly.
Grace didn’t hesitate.
“Press it.”
Ben pulled the lever.
The Quinton screamed forward in a violent surge of light.
Silence.
The patrol drones overshot.
The city fell behind them.
For a moment—Stillness.
Mel projected a notification.
VESSEL FLAGGED
LOCAL BOUNTY STATUS: ACTIVE
The tall woman folded her hands.
“It would appear we are fugitives.”
The cheerful boy waved at the shrinking skyline.
“Bye!”
Grace leaned back.
“You better not regret this.”
Ben stared at the stars ahead.
“…I regret nothing.”
A beat.
“…Okay. I regret trusting strangers.”
The beanie-wearing man grinned.
“You’ll grow.”
Ben exhaled slowly.
“New rule.”
Everyone looked at him.
“No more strangers.”
The proximity alarm blinked again.
Mel’s voice was perfectly calm.
“Captain.”
“That statement is already obsolete.”
Ben stared at the blinking display.
“…I regret everything.”
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