En Route to Lagrange Point L5, Jupiter Orbit

  The corridors of the "Dusk Hound" greeted them with the usual crap—smell of oily dust, a metallic tang in the air, creaking bulkheads like the old freighter’s hull was trying to warn them: "Get the fuck out while you still can." No one bailed. No one even flinched.

  "Bitches, they haven’t even changed the filters," Singh spat on the floor, where a puddle of condensate was already spreading. "We’re seriously stuck in this coffin for eight days?"

  "You bragged your granddad hauled uranium in a hatch," Miro snorted, slinging a gear crate over his shoulder. "Now you can feel closer to your roots, you shitty showman."

  "My granddad would’ve died laughing at this junk!" Singh kicked open the hold door, where ammo crates were already piled high. "Is it even legal to haul us in this dumpster?"

  "All by the book," Ksenia’s voice cut in behind them, cold and flat like a headshot. "No luxury. Just the job. Isn’t that why you’re here?"

  "My bad, Major," Singh dipped his head, pulling a perfect stone-face, only to smirk a second later. "By the book it is, then."

  Michael overheard and just shook his head.

  "Goblins, fuck’s sake." He squeezed into the hold, shoving between crates. "Leave you clowns alone for three days, and you’d turn any ship into a damn zoo. Though in our case, that’s a plus—smugglers, motherfucker."

  Ksenia scanned them all quickly, out of habit. Her people didn’t need pep talks. Everyone knew their spot, knew how to act. Still, she stepped closer to Michael and added quietly:

  "They can smell this job stinks. That’s how it should be. Don’t let them slack."

  "They’re so wound up their asses are whistling," Michael grinned crookedly, though his eyes stayed sharp. "And you know, it’s not the lab that’s bugging me. It’s why they’re dragging us out there like special cargo—and in this…"

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  He rapped his fist on the wall. The hull rattled back.

  "This fucking iron." Michael raised an eyebrow. "You’d think the Sky Legion earned something better."

  Ksenia didn’t answer. She knew why. They all did. The Legion was a tool, and tools don’t get comfort. They get work.

  Meanwhile, the hold buzzed with the usual assault-team chaos. Some unpacked bunks, others unraveled cables, hooking personal terminals to the ship’s grid. Singh slapped an army dartboard on the wall—tradition for every long haul. Miro pulled out a deck of porn-printed cards, survivors of two wars and five planets.

  "Who’s losing first?" he grinned, spinning a card between his fingers. It landed on a redhead in a vacuum suit—and nothing else.

  "Not you," Pops smirked. "You play cards like my grandma plays bingo."

  "Singh, your grandma plays better than you," Michael tossed out, brushing past. "And she’d probably be sober by the start of the mission."

  "Bullshit." Pops chuckled, but tucked a flask of something strong behind his belt.

  Ksenia didn’t step in. She knew—let them blow off steam while they could. Eight days in this tin can, no real gravity, one shitter for all—better they goof off now than need dragging out of a breakdown later, feet-first.

  Within an hour, they’d settled into the coffin like it was home barracks. Some bickered about old fights, others spun tall tales, a few practiced knife-throws at an empty ration pack nailed to the bulkhead.

  "Hey, Harrison," Michael called, standing in front of her with the look of a guy ready for a real talk. "Before I forget—one of our newbies asked: why us? There’s a ton of local grunts out here, and the corps have their own dogs. Why haul us this far?"

  Ksenia held his gaze a beat longer than usual, then said:

  "Because we’re the best."

  "Yeah, that’s obvious," Michael smirked. "But someone upstairs really wants us to do this. You don’t think they’re setting us up to get slaughtered?"

  "If they’re setting us up," Ksenia lifted her eyes, a cold steel glint flashing in them, "they’ll be eating their teeth first."

  Everyone cracked up. Rough, short laughs—the kind only those long past fearing death could manage.

  "Fine, ‘best,’" Michael slapped the wall. "Welcome aboard the 'Dusk Hound,' bitches. Hit the bunks—tomorrow’s an early start for this hell circus rehearsal."

  They scattered to their corners—some to beds, some to cards, some to the flask. No one bothered pretending it’d be easy.