He’d had that tattoo when she first met him ten years ago; every Vanguard from that era had one—it’d been a rite of passage at the start of the Resurgence War. Humanity had enjoyed over two hundred years of peacetime after the Viator War, until the SCS Volucris arrived at the edge of the Outer Core for a routine mineral survey, but instead found a Viator fleet.
As the primary operations division of the First—the foremost command component of the Legion—the Vanguard had been the first to muster. For them, the tattoo served as a reminder of how unprepared they’d been for a real enemy to return—one they’d thought dead for two centuries. A reminder of what came from complacency.
The interface beeped as Griffith resealed the crate. He looked up at her, any trace of melancholy vanished, his features alit with his usual congenial amusement. “All I ask in payment for freeing you,” he said, “is a few minutes of manual labor. Then you can run along back to the bridge, if you insist.”
“Void, you’re needy.”
Griffith’s Imprints buzzed softly, rearranging as he pushed the inventoried crate aside. “What, you losing your edge, Dextera? Life on the fringe of reality making you soft?”
She summoned a little extra strength from her Imprints and punched him square in the shoulder.
He let out a hard breath, equal parts laugh and pained grimace. “To be honest, I actually need the help. Lace is fixing the only working cargo lift, and we’re the only two people on the ship with these guys at our disposal.” He held up his arm and the Imprints flashed as they slid around the top of his wrist.
She shook her head. “Actually, not anymore.”
“No?”
“New soldier came in yesterday with a set.”
“Black market?”
“Nope.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “Another Titan?”
She scoffed a laugh. “Definitely not.”
“Then how the hell—” His confusion flattened and he let out a low whistle. “A royal? How’d that happen?”
“Shit if I know.”
“Sounds fun.”
Adequin sighed. “If by fun, you mean an exhausting trial of willpower, then yes.” She unstrapped her jacket and tossed it aside. The short sleeves underneath left her bare arms exposed to the cool air. Her skin warmed, tingling as her Imprint squares energized, breaking from their default formation to spread across her back, neck, and shoulders.
“All right, what goes where?”
“Empties go to the cargo lift,” he answered. “The others, move across the aisle and I’ll take stock.”
They spent the better part of an hour moving crates in circles, sorting out which still needed to be cataloged, which could have their contents combined, and which should be off-loaded.
Adequin put the last of the empty crates onto the cargo lift and wandered back to find Griffith at the end of an aisle, stretched over the top of few shorter, quarter-and half-sized crates.
“Ah, got it,” he grunted. He shoved another smaller crate aside, revealing a sealed footlocker behind it. He tapped the access pad as the lid hissed open. A glint of light flashed across the necks of a dozen or so metal and glass bottles.
“Uh,” Adequin began, leaning to look past him into the shadowed container. “Tell me we didn’t move all these crates just to unearth your booze stash…”
Griffith slid her a please-be-merciful grin. “Not just any booze stash.” He pulled a bottle free, angling it toward her. Adequin squinted at the brushed-metal bottle as she stepped forward, though she didn’t need to be able to read the etched label to recognize it.