Port security didn't come to "help."
They came to make sure everyone remembered who owned the ground.
The next morning, Lyra stood in a glass-walled office above the docks with a tired captain and a thinner lieutenant who kept glancing at the Moonjaw incident report like it might bite him. The bay footage played on loop—smoke rolling in, infantry hitting the doors, the Commando and Raven appearing, Moonjaw's response contained inside the lease perimeter.
Lyra kept her voice calm and clipped. "We didn't pursue. We didn't fire into civilian structures. We stayed inside the leased boundary and neutralized a threat."
The captain leaned back. "That Dire Wolf of yours could have flattened half the street."
"It didn't," Lyra said.
The captain's eyes narrowed. "You always this… precise?"
Lyra didn't blink. "Precision keeps us paid."
The lieutenant cleared his throat. "We have to tag your unit for review."
Lyra's gaze snapped to him. "For defending a leased bay from an armed assault?"
"Procedure," the lieutenant said quickly, already uncomfortable.
Lyra slid a slate across the desk. "Then follow procedure. Here's the lease. Here's the arbitration record for the pirate cache contract. Here's the chain of custody for the detainee you took. And here's the statement that your people arrived after the primary engagement ended."
The captain looked down, read, and made a sound like he'd bitten something sour.
Lyra added, "If you tag us as a hostile actor, you'll be explaining to the municipal authority why you're blacklisting the only unit that just burned a pirate staging yard off your convoy routes."
The captain's jaw worked. He glanced at the footage again—at the way Moonjaw had braced and held, instead of rampaging into the streets.
He sighed. "Fine. Review stays internal. No public flag. But you're on the short list now. We see you fire a single round outside your perimeter, I'll personally recommend impound."
Lyra nodded once. "Understood."
The captain stood, signaling the meeting was over. "And Sato?"
Lyra paused at the door.
The captain's voice dropped. "That wasn't random. Someone wanted you watched."
Lyra's expression didn't change. "We already know."
She left before he could ask how.
---
Back aboard the Union, the mood was taut in a way it hadn't been after the cache hit. Not fear—focus. The kind of tension that came from realizing the enemy wasn't just pirates in a ravine. It was networks. Nodes. People who wore clean boots and smiled while they bought lives.
Dack sat at the small terminal desk, contract boards open. He didn't waste time on jobs that smelled wrong. He filtered hard: travel lanes, pay schedule, salvage clauses, employer history.
Lyra dropped into the seat opposite him and opened her own slate. "We can't go to Lark's Nest on impulse."
Dack didn't look up. "I know."
"We need cover," Lyra continued. "A reason that looks normal on a flight plan. Normal cargo. Normal delivery. Normal contract trail."
Jinx leaned in from the doorway, grin returning like she refused to let the ship stay too serious. "So we take a job that pays and points us at the birdcage."
Taila hovered behind her, quieter. Morrigan stayed further back in the corridor like she'd been passing by and wasn't listening.
Dack scrolled, paused, then tapped a listing and turned the slate slightly so Lyra could see.
"Reclaimed components transport," he said. "Planet-side pickup. Outer ring drop."
Lyra's eyes tracked the details fast. "Pay is decent… hazard bonus if the pickup site is contested."
Jinx's eyes lit up. "Contested means someone shoots at us."
Lyra ignored that. "Drop location is one-hop from Lark's Nest spur. That's not a coincidence. That's a lane."
Taila's brows knit. "Who's the employer."
Lyra checked the header. "A registered salvage house. Legit on paper."
Dack's finger tapped a clause. "They want speed. Quiet. No questions."
Jinx laughed softly. "That's basically our slogan."
Lyra didn't laugh. "It's also how people like Mother Lark hide work inside work."
Dack leaned back slightly. "We take it. We keep our eyes open."
Lyra nodded once. "Agreed."
Morrigan finally spoke from the hall, voice flat. "So we're going to her."
Dack looked toward the corridor. "We're going near her."
Morrigan's eyes narrowed. "Same thing."
"No," Dack said. "Same direction."
That made Morrigan shut up—not because she agreed, but because the line was solid.
---
The twins stayed port-side until the paperwork cooled.
Lyra insisted on it, not as an insult—tactical reality. If port security decided to be difficult, having "uncertified techs" living on the Union would give them an excuse to dig in.
So Moonjaw moved like a unit split in two: mechs and ship home, repairs and techs on leased ground, Lyra bridging both with schedules and encrypted comms.
When Dack and Lyra walked into the repair bay that afternoon, the air was full of tool noise and hot metal smell again.
Rook and Rafe were under the Dire Wolf's open torso access panel. Not full disassembly—just the kind of internal check that kept an assault mech from turning into a coffin when stress stacked wrong.
Rafe slid out first, face smudged, eyes bright with concentration. "Your heat flow—"
Rook finished from inside the bay shadow. "—is uneven."
Rafe nodded. "Not the sinks."
Rook: "Not the engine."
Rafe: "Routing."
Rook: "Someone did a patch job."
Rafe looked at Dack. "Not you. Whoever owned it before."
Dack's jaw tightened. "My father."
Rafe blinked once, then softened slightly. "Then not him. Someone who touched it after."
Rook's voice stayed steady. "We can correct it."
Lyra stepped closer, watching their hands. "How long."
Rafe wiped sweat from her brow with the back of her wrist. "Two days for a proper reroute."
Rook added, "If we get the parts."
Lyra's eyes flicked to her slate. "We'll get the parts."
Dack watched the reroute plan on their pad—clean, efficient, almost elegant. They weren't just fixing. They were improving while pretending they weren't.
He didn't like that he was impressed.
Because impressed meant attached.
And attachments could be used.
Jinx walked in behind them and immediately sniffed the air like she was hunting a new kind of trouble. Her eyes went straight to the twins' backs, then to their hands.
"Okay," she said. "I've decided something."
Lyra didn't look up. "No."
Jinx ignored her. She stepped closer to Rook and Rafe like she was about to sell them something dangerous.
"You two," Jinx said brightly, "are officially pack-adjacent."
Rafe froze. Rook slowly slid out from the mech's shadow, face unreadable.
Jinx produced a Moonjaw patch from her pocket—black and red, the dire wolf with the moon in its jaws.
She held it up between two fingers like bait.
"You want to wear the wolf," Jinx asked, "or do you want to keep pretending you're 'just contractors'?"
Rafe's mouth opened—then closed. She looked at Rook. Rook looked back.
Rafe said, "That paints targets."
Rook finished, "On us."
Jinx's grin didn't fade. "Sweetheart, you already have targets. Mother Lark sent a Raven to grab you."
Taila stepped in quietly, voice softer than Jinx's but just as firm. "Wearing the patch won't make you safer. But it might make you feel less… alone."
Rafe's throat bobbed. "People always stared when we—"
Rook finished, "—stood out."
Lyra finally looked up, calm. "You don't have to decide today. But understand what the patch means if you take it."
Dack watched them. He didn't speak. He'd already learned that pushing people like this made them pull away.
Rook's gaze slid to the Dire Wolf—then to Dack—then to Lyra, and back to her sister.
Rafe exhaled. "Patch only."
Rook nodded. "For now."
Jinx's grin turned radiant. "Yes."
She held the patch out.
Rafe took it carefully, like it was fragile or holy. Rook didn't reach for it—but when Rafe placed it in Rook's palm, Rook's fingers closed around it like she didn't intend to let it go.
Jinx leaned back with satisfaction. "Good. Uniform talk later."
Lyra's eyes narrowed. "Jinx."
Jinx's grin sharpened. "What? I said later."
Taila hid a small smile. Morrigan, leaning in the doorway, watched the patch exchange like it was something she didn't understand and wanted to.
Dack saw that too.
He didn't comment.
---
The contract cover needed rehearsing.
Lyra gathered them in the Union galley that night, slate projecting the new job's details above the table.
"Pickup site is planet-side," she said. "Old industrial depot. The salvage house has legal claim, but local raiders have been stripping the site. We go in with the employer's authorization, secure reclaimed components, and lift them to the outer ring drop hub."
Jinx cracked her knuckles. "So we kill raiders."
Lyra's expression stayed level. "We secure cargo. If raiders choose violence, we answer. But we don't turn this into a massacre on camera."
Taila nodded. "Contained."
Morrigan sat near the wall, arms crossed, but she was listening hard.
Dack asked, "What's the cargo."
Lyra flicked the slate. "High-value components. Guidance packages. Actuator bundles. A few crates flagged as 'restricted salvage'—meaning they're probably hot."
Jinx laughed. "Everything is hot."
Lyra kept going. "We treat it like normal. We are a merc unit under contract. Nothing about Mother Lark gets spoken outside this ship."
Jinx lifted a hand. "What about inside the ship?"
Lyra stared at her.
Jinx lowered her hand. "Okay, okay. Fine."
Taila asked, "And the twins."
Lyra's answer was immediate. "They come with us. Port-side isn't safe now."
Dack nodded once. "We need techs on the ship anyway."
Morrigan's eyes narrowed. "So we're bringing more women aboard."
Jinx turned slowly, grin wicked. "Yes."
Morrigan flushed with irritation. "That's not what I—"
Jinx leaned forward. "Do you want them left behind to get snatched?"
Morrigan's jaw worked. "No."
Jinx sat back, satisfied. "Then stop complaining."
Dack's voice cut in, calm but firm. "Morrigan. Sims tonight."
Morrigan's eyes snapped to him. "I did sims today."
"Again," Dack said.
Morrigan's face hardened like she wanted to argue on instinct—then she swallowed it. "How long."
"Two runs," Dack replied. "Heat management and break contact."
Morrigan nodded once, sharp. "Fine."
Lyra watched that exchange quietly. Taila did too. Jinx's grin softened into something approving.
---
The Union's sim pod was loud in its own way—harness straps, breathing in a helmet, the faint whine of systems pretending to be a battlefield.
Taila ran the Griffin scenario first—ridge line, raider armor, poor visibility. She held her lane like muscle memory now, didn't chase the bait, didn't panic when a light mech tried to sprint into her flank.
Dack's corrections were short and clean. "Good." "Hold." "Don't chase." "Reset."
Morrigan took her turn next, jaw set.
She moved with more confidence than she'd had a week ago. Still rough, still aggressive, but less wasteful. When she made a mistake, she didn't spiral—she corrected.
After the second run, she ripped the neurohelmet off and looked at Dack, breathing hard.
"I want more," she said.
Dack didn't blink. "Tomorrow."
Morrigan's eyes narrowed. "Why not now."
"Because you're tired," Dack replied. "Tired makes you sloppy."
Morrigan's jaw clenched like she hated that he was right. "Fine."
She hesitated at the pod frame, then—quietly, like it cost her—asked, "When… when do I get a cockpit."
Taila went still behind her. Lyra, leaning against the bay bulkhead, watched without moving. Jinx's grin faded into something intent.
Dack's answer didn't come fast. He looked at Morrigan like he was measuring her the same way he measured a terrain line.
"When you can run these drills without getting yourself killed," he said. "And when we can afford a chassis you can sit in."
Morrigan's throat bobbed. "So never."
Dack's voice stayed flat. "So earn it."
Morrigan stared at him a long beat—then nodded once, sharp. "Fine."
She walked out without slamming the door.
That was progress too.
---
They brought the twins aboard the next morning.
Not with ceremony. With lists.
Rook and Rafe carried their tool packs up the ramp and paused for a second at the Union's threshold like they were stepping into a different life. Jinx stood right inside, grinning like she was welcoming prey into a trap.
Taila stood beside her, gentler. Lyra watched from the corridor, already thinking about where tools would be stored, how access would be controlled, what cameras would watch which doors.
Dack met them at the ramp.
"No wandering," he said. "Bay, bunks, galley. You need something else, ask."
Rafe nodded. "Rules."
Rook finished, "Understood."
Jinx leaned in, eyes sparkling. "Also, welcome to the pack."
Rafe's cheeks warmed. Rook's expression stayed neutral, but her fingers brushed the patch tucked into her pocket like she needed to feel it was still there.
They moved into the mech bay, and for a moment both twins went quiet—eyes taking in the Dire Wolf, Highlander, Griffin, and the Centurion sitting reserve like a patient predator.
Rafe breathed, almost reverent. "You live with these."
Rook finished, softer. "All of them."
Dack watched them watch his machines. He didn't like how much it looked like respect.
Because respect turned into loyalty.
And loyalty turned into responsibility.
But the truth was simple: Moonjaw needed them.
And now Mother Lark wanted them.
So they stayed close.
---
Lyra finalized the cover story before lift.
She walked the crew through it one last time in the galley: salvage house contract, legal authorization, pickup coordinates, cargo manifest, drop hub. She drilled the key phrases that sounded boring enough to be true.
Jinx complained the entire time. Taila memorized anyway. Morrigan listened like she wanted to prove she belonged.
Rook and Rafe listened in-sync, occasionally finishing Lyra's sentences when she described mechanical considerations like load balance and crate securing. Lyra pretended not to notice. Dack noticed anyway.
When the Union's engines spun up and the ship began to vibrate with impending departure, Jinx bumped Rafe's shoulder lightly as they walked toward the bay.
"Patch still in your pocket?" Jinx asked.
Rafe nodded. "Yes."
Rook finished, quieter. "For now."
Jinx smiled. "We'll make it 'for good.'"
Rafe didn't answer. But she didn't look away either.
---
The Union lifted clean.
Port lights fell away beneath them, the dock shrinking into a strip of metal and exhaust. Space swallowed the ship in silence and stars.
Lyra sat at her station, calm and composed, guiding them onto their contract lane. A normal flight plan. A normal job. A normal crew.
Nothing about Mother Lark.
Nothing about Lark's Nest.
But everyone on Moonjaw felt the same underlying truth: they were moving toward the enemy's shadow, one "legitimate" contract at a time.
Dack went to the mech bay once the ship settled into cruise. He walked between the machines, hand brushing armor plates like he was counting them.
The Dire Wolf waited at the end of the row—Moonjaw's spine.
He climbed into the cockpit and sealed the hatch out of habit more than necessity. The world narrowed to HUD glow and the familiar scent of metal and stale heat.
His thumb found the scratched marks beneath the display.
He added another line—quiet, precise—then paused.
He didn't say the number this time.
He just sat there for a moment, breathing, letting the ship's vibration pass through the frame around him.
Then he keyed comms. "All stations. Stay sharp. We're getting paid for this one."
It wasn't a speech.
It was a reminder.
And in the dark cockpit, the Dire Wolf hummed like it agreed.