Quix's chest ached from anticipation and a healthy shot of terror.

She was outside, bolting for the nearest shade while her datapad rang and vibrated in her hands. The heat was searing, her heart throbbing, and her palms sweating. Her eyes traced the screen, with Marcen's number ringing into her datapad for a video call while Runt's trace program waited in the corner of the screen and blinked, just needing a lead to follow.

Shade rushed across Quix's skin as she ducked back into the alley, and pulled on the edge of her datapad. The screen stretched, the advanced material keeping the image on screen with only a few twitches as she pulled her pocket-sized pad into a tablet.

Quix slammed her back against a brick wall, panted, and looked down at her destiny.

It was really him.

Quix shuddered.

Ok. Calm down. Calm down. You're happy to hear from him. Happy.

She took a few breaths and looked at the icon on the screen.

Lucius Marcen

Her stomach turned over, and she whispered a few curses under her breath, half incredulous, half terrified.

Her boss. Biggest cartel ring leader in the entire system. Some said in the whole galaxy.

And she was about to make good on her thirty pieces of silver.

Quix bit her lower lip, hesitating over the button for a half second.

If she stabbed Marcen in the back, pinpointing his location and marking him for death... there was no going back.

There wouldn't be a place for her in the MLA. There may not even be an MLA. Pathmos would destroy them with railshot and missiles, lasers and guided slugs. Marcen's network would crumble to dust. The violent, murderous thugs she'd spent her life around would crumble to dust under the fire of a new order.

Quix felt a venomous grin slide across her teeth as the fantasies danced in her mind.

She'd been waiting for this day for years.

She tapped the button.

She sealed her fate.

And the trace began.

Quixxa lifted her chin, and looked down her nose at the datapad. She could feel herself tensing up, her fight instinct lighting up every nerve ending in her body. She set a dry, lifeless expression on her face as she waited for the connection.

Before the call came through, she spit to the side, the alcohol based saliva evaporating nearly instantly on the hot pavement.

"You're gonna have hell to pay, Marcen."

Two seconds later, the call went through.

A face she knew well appeared on the screen, his dark, curly hair and pock marked cheeks sickeningly familiar. His hazel eyes settled on her and his perfect smile widened.

"Good morning, Quixxa. How are you doing down on that rock?"

Quix forced herself to create a half-smile.

"Pretty good, boss. I'm boiling alive, but other than that, pretty good."

For once, she didn't have to lie. She was about to end his career, and her time on that world. It was enough to make it a good day.

The terror figurehead leaned back in a chair somewhere far, far overhead and smiled. The scene behind him was nothing but a sweeping view of space beyond glass. Nothing to tell where he was.

Except a computer, willing to betray his location if she could just buy time.

"I might just have a solution to your temperature problem, Quix." Marcen said. "I have a new job for you, and some good news to go with it."

She raised a brow, and felt her stomach plummet.

"What do you have in mind?"

Marcen leaned forward.

"First, a congratulations. Runt and you really made us proud. The MLA has next to no competition left in the cartel markets now. Our financial supply lines are secure, as are our resource lines. I can't thank you enough, Quix."

Quix forced another half-smile. This time, she had to suppress a grin. She hadn't secured anything. Just laid a trap.

"So does this mean I get a raise?" Quix asked with a chuckle.

"That, and more." He replied. "I've got a promotion in mind too."

Quix kept up her bright expression.

She smiled back at him and nodded. "Good. Can I have a corner office?"

But she wanted to bite her tongue.

She wanted to rip out his throat for making her do this, say this, live like this. Runt's grand plan to eradicate the MLA one brick at a time wasn't unique to him. Marcen had a similar vision. Only problem was, where Runt wanted to remove every brick, Marcen wanted to cannibalize every brick into his own organization.

And thanks to Runt's expertise, and Quixxa's willingness, he was managing it quite nicely.

Runt's good intentions were putting every criminal, terrorist, and smuggler that could compete with Marcen behind bars. And insulating Marcen further and further every day. The plan, on Marcen's part, was brilliant. Runt was his mole in the justice system, just as much as she was Runt's mole in the MLA. She told him what to crash, where to look, who to report. And since he trusted her, since he believed she was trying to crash the market too, he cooperated without questioning too much. Through her, Marcen could precisely target anyone. And all in a seemingly legal manner.

That was their cover, at least.

In reality, the game was much deeper and darker.

Runt and Quix protected the MLA, but only half-heartedly. Obsidian knew their game, and was willing to wait. While she and Runt obeyed Marcen, they quietly filed encrypted reports. They collected data. They sent in orders for selective assassinations and targeted airstrikes. Runt and Quix both knew very well what was going on, and for every step backwards they took, they laid a landmine behind them.

They were simply drawing the MLA into a deeper and deeper trap, entangling them in the long threads of Pathmos's intel net while they played the villains.

The real game began when they started to suspect Marcen was playing too.

Obsidian's intelligence arm had started to whisper in Runt's ear months ago. The MLA knew. They knew they were being set up. They knew Quix had turned. They were just biding their time.

So Runt had set up a plan to escape.

And now they'd arrived at their last days, and she wasn't sure yet if Marcen knew.

Marcen grinned and chuckled.

"A corner office isn't out of the question. But I do have something a bit out of your usual field."

She cocked her head, pretending to be curious.

Quix glanced at the corner of her screen.

The trace was still working.

"I've got work for you. Off world work." He said with a smile.

Quixxa's heart jumped, but she didn't let her face so much as twitch.

I'm not pulling out now. She thought flippantly. She had her way out. He could ask her all he wanted. She'd just smile, and nod, and lie, and then escape while she laughed and he burned.

"Sounds fun. Give me what you got, and tell me when I start." She said.

"Ah, anxious to start. Good. I'll need you to deliver something to Vostograd station first off. That'll be your new operation area."

She ignored the offer.

"Alright. When do I leave?"

"Two days."

Quixxa's heart stopped.

That was too soon. In fact, it was dangerously soon.

Not that it moved her timeline. But it did modify it. Their plans had the MLA assuming her loyalty until the very last second. If Marcen had something in mind any sooner...

Her thin veil of cover would blow away like sand in the desert breeze.

She turned her head slowly, pretending to think. "I don't know if I can leave that soon. I'll have to tie up the loose ends with that runt."

She knew what her departure meant. She was Runt's only link to the market. She was the only reason his frail little life hadn't already been snuffed out. Because she'd made him useful. Her departure meant his death. Instant, guaranteed death.

She needed more time.

She needed a way to stall, to make Marcen think she was playing along when she really wasn't. A way to hedge herself in just a little more...

Marcen nodded, and smiled at her. "I appreciate your loyalty to that project, but I have a separate aspect of it for you to cover. Thanks to your little dump last week, a cascade of events has led to the collapse of the cartel aboard Vostograd Station."

Quixxa twitched visibly, and nodded. Her hopes were dying.

"We haven't been able to crack that market for years. It's too tight up there. Everything was clean, neat, and well organized. No way for us to get a foothold. Now, they're gone, or in disarray. It's our shot to capture a whole new field, and in Northern space at that."

Her skin went numb, and her mind filled with violent thoughts.

She glanced at the trace, still working. She imagined it as a countdown timer with a missile on the end of it, and she could only let her fantasies soar as that missile found Marcen and turned him to dust and ash, along with her past.

"So here's my job for you. I've got a network established up there, with people moving in to fill the vacuum. That said, nearly all of my resources are on the ground there on New Medina, and no one on Vostograd station has the contact lists they need to start running a market smoothly."

"Where do I fit in?" She asked, trying not to choke on the news.

Marcen's face glowed.

"I need you to deliver a data drive to the station. You know of another Springer near where you operate named Fia, don't you?"

She nodded suspiciously. Fia didn't work well with Marcen...

"Good. He's got the drive for you. It's got contact information about the markets, buyers, sellers, etcetera. We've got big contractors just joining our business on that station, and my branch there is going to need that information. That datadrive has got everything we should need to start up shop. I want you to pick it up from him in about two hours."

Quixxa felt her tail suddenly stiffen.

Did he say two hours?

"And after that, I need you to get on the next ship departing for Vostograd station. We've got a friendly ship docked right now, and it departs in about nine hours."

Nine hours?!

Her mind scrambled, looking for a way to stall without being suspicious.

"I've got things I need to tie up here. Can you send the information via tightbeam then let me take over in a week or two when I've gotten my business here finished?"

Marcen snorted and crossed his arms. "No, unfortunately I cannot. The Northern Alliance peacekeeper in the system, Admiral Yencenko, he's been getting nosey with his communications tapping, and he's in a serious warship. That last dump you and Runt organized roused him, and he's watching the comms in this system just as close as we're watching his."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Can't you use Encryption?"

"Nope." He said. "They've got the technology to break that down if they found it. And I don't think you want that to happen any more than I do, Quix. Your name's all over those lists."

Quixxa felt hollowed out suddenly. There had to be a way...

"What about that runt? Someone else gonna take over there while I'm gone? He doesn't trust anyone else."

"Probably not. I have a very powerful reason to believe the other cartels will be rooted out in no time. He's no longer needed."

Quix's heart nearly stopped.

Time's up.

Quixxa felt her bile rise like black fire in her throat.

"I see." She said. "Nine hours then?"

Marcen nodded. "You'll agree peacefully?" He seemed surprised.

Quixxa clenched her fist where he couldn't see it, and glanced at the trace.

Your time's short too...

Please let this work...

She was cornered. He'd moved her timeline up by force. There was no way he was stealing what she and Runt had worked for so hard now. But he apparently wasn't going to let her have it easily. She'd have to play along just a little longer than she'd hoped, or risk a full frontal assault.

If she played his game, there might be a hitman to contend with, or worse.

If she defied him outright, and called his bluff, New Medina would swarm as every agent and cell across the entire planet was sent after them, and them alone.

Either way, her time was up.

She grit her teeth.

"Yes."

There really wasn't any other option.

Marcen's face brightened. "Excellent! I look forward to seeing you soon, once I actually board the station. I'm still in transit. You know, I haven't actually met you in person for, what has it been, three years?"

She nodded. "Too long."

The trace suddenly lit up in the corner of her screen. It was finished.

Quix's skin flashed, boiling then freezing.

Got him.

"Well, I'll treat you to some good scotch once we meet. Have a good day, and good luck."

Quixxa nodded, and he ended the call.

The datapad's screen went black. There was a moment of quiet where Quixxa just sat, staring at the blank screen, not blinking, breathing shallowly.

All that was left was the trace program waiting on screen.

And shock.

Quix's lungs slowly emptied, and she let her backpack scrape down the brick wall until her butt came to rest on the sand below. She sat with a huff, eyes fixed on the datapad, heart pounding, mind reeling.

She had his number.

And he had theirs.

Her revenge was nearly complete, and so was his.

His empire was teetering.

And her redemption hung in the balance.

Quix collapsed her datapad and dropped it into her lap. She closed her eyes, pushed her palms against her eyes and cursed. She cursed again and again until it grew to a shout, and she looked back up with fury written across her sharp-toothed snarl.

She'd barely managed to keep herself on track.

Runt, though...

Quix screamed a curse and clawed her way to her feet.

Time was short for her now.

But it was shorter for Runt.

He needed to get to safety. He needed to spring his trap.

He needed better medication.

She reached around her side, and pulled her miniature, soft-cloth backpack over her shoulder, numbly. She picked out a tiny white bottle. Full of pills. Runt's dose was already gone, but she kept a few back as an emergency backup.

She stared at the plastic.

The pills were half the problem.

Runt's pills were... not enough. He'd been surviving, barely, with what was in them.

But he wouldn't, and couldn't, thrive on them. He needed something a little more potent. Something highly illegal in New Medina, but perfectly acceptable across the whole of the galaxy.

She'd been short-changed once that day already. So she'd arranged a meeting with her Jonah and his mercenaries, the protection detail she'd secured for Runt and her. She was going to meet them in an hour or two, and call in the last of her favors to get Runt what he really needed.

Or at least, she had planned on it before Marcen had called and scheduled his day right over top of hers.

He had eaten away the sand in her hourglass. Runt would have to know...

But He didn't need the stress. He didn't need to fix more of her problems. She needed to fix some of his. She thought she would be able to by now. She'd counted on it. The pills were just a bandage on a gaping wound, and she's tried to find a way to help more. And now, Marcen had tried to step in.

To remind her that she wasn't free. To rekindle her guilt. To make sure she knew just how filthy she was.

And to make sure that her hopes died a slow, painful death right next to Runt.

She looked at the bottles and felt herself becoming sick. Throbbing pangs of anger and hatred slithered into her veins like bolts of lightning. Her chest tightened, her teeth ached, even the back of her neck tingled with impotent rage.

Sickness, regret, and unwanted memories boiled inside her.

Runt's medication might have been good enough to tide him over until they left the atmosphere if it hadn't been personal

She pushed off the wall and bit her lip, trying to keep from screaming. She turned, and started to skulk away, her tail lashing at the air behind her.

The sun hit her eyes as she walked out of the shade of the alley, and she cursed at it. At the heat, and the world she was on, along with everyone else on it.

Quix made no effort to contain her rage as she slunk around the corner of the building, and stopped in the shade again.

Her fist tightened around the package of pills, her knuckles draining of their color. Her jaws clamped together. Her throat tried to open in a scream of rage.

She silenced it, only letting out an enraged grunt as she raised her arm and threw the pill bottle onto the concrete like a spear into the ground.

The cap snapped off, scattering pills on the pavement as the plastic container clattered down the cement.

She shivered, and kicked the bottle against the wall. She watched it bounce, and tremored one more time. She thrashed her tail across the sidewalk, scattering the pills again and making her soft skin burn as the concrete bit in. She swung her fists at the air, scuffing her gloved knuckles on the concrete wall as her blind rage exhausted itself into a panting growl. She'd tried to do something good for a change. And now Marcen stood in her way. Again. The whole world around her seemed to take on a red tint as she whipped around, stalked over to a concrete block ledge and slid onto it. She sat. Fuming. Hating. Thinking.

C'mon Quix, there's gotta be something.

She sat. And she thought. And thought.

There were no good options.

She'd buried herself in her troubles, and Runt had fallen in after her trying to help.

Again.

And she'd just have to fix it all herself.

Again.

Quixxa sat on the concrete for a long time. She lost track of time, sitting, thinking, staring at the pills.

She once again had a choice.

One she'd had thousands of times before: Obey or Resist. Safety or Risk.

Right or Wrong.

She'd made the wrong choice thousands upon thousands of times. Now, she'd been given the second chance she'd begged for. And the price?

Resistance. Risk.

Just to do what was right.

She soberly dug open her pack, and plucked a well-worn piece of paper out of it. The glossy page was wrinkled and worked to matte from her constant handling. It was a brochure she'd gotten from Runt. She started at it, numb and defeated.

Immigrate to Pathmos Today!

She read and re-read the brochure, slowly shaking harder and harder as she did.

It was her plan. Her way out. Her only way out.

Even more than that, it was her dream. Ever since she'd been dragged kicking and screaming into the market, she'd had that distant hope to tide her over. More recently, Runt had re-kindled her hopes in getting there someday. It should have been simple.

It should have been as easy as just waiting until she and her only friend could trot on board a freighter and make a hard burn for freedom.

Once she was out, she could start over. Maybe she could make up for what she'd done. It'd be a new life. All she'd ever wanted.

But now she sat there looking at a piece of paper that promised her nothing, and dreading a schedule that reeked of death.

She could risk it all. Risk their last hours of cover, and refuse to play along so that she could