Ezekiel’s hand hovers over the handle of his blade. Metal scrapes against stone and they all wince, the hairs on Ezekiel’s arms standing as he resists a shudder. The ship lurches, buffeted by the turbulent weather of the planet, throwing Ezekiel against the opposite wall and sending a shockwave of pain through his arm. He glares at the offending piece of machinery. Why couldn’t he be thrown against the wall he’s literally standing beside?

Rubbing his already too-sore shoulder, Ezekiel turns to make sure Yin and Anika haven’t been tossed around too badly. Yin hasn’t moved—his feet hovering a scant few inches above the ground. Anika, on the other hand, looks like she’d been thrown slightly but had caught herself before being flung across the corridor. Unlike him. A mixture of relief, annoyance, and sheer embarrassment churns in his gut. But before he can think about it too deeply, another thud sounds from the airlock, drawing their attention back to it.

The three of them move as one, taking a step closer to the door. Ezekiel’s grip on his blade tightens. Anika has her hands poised over her pistol while Yin has already drawn his sword, the blade’s glow barely visible under the stark white overhead lights.

There is another thunk, followed by a softer scraping sound and then a hiss as the airlock depressurises. Ezekiel prays to all the stars in the universe that it is Mataio behind that door and not their clients, arriving early to claim their prize without so much as a life-sign scan. It’s standard protocol, really. They can’t afford to have clients seeing their face. Plausible deniability is kind of a must-have in their line of work. For both sides. Any slip-up also means way too much paperwork and getting their hands dirty in ways he’d really rather not think about at the moment.

But Mataio would have contacted them on their comms, so theirs odds aren’t looking very good.

Ezekiel glances back at Yin and jerks his head towards the airlock door. Nodding, Yin swoops past them to press himself against the wall beside the door. On the off chance that their clients have brought a whole crew with them, a pincer manoeuvre would at least provide some kind of advantage. Stars, there better not be a crew. Ezekiel has just about hit his quota for brawls today. They don’t even know who hired them—it could be an alien race twice their size and ten times as deadly. Ezekiel is not in the mood for deadly.

There is another loud hiss as the doors slide open, and Ezekiel swears his knees nearly give out at the sight of the person standing in the doorway. The man is at least a good head taller than him and so wide he takes up almost the entire entrance.

“Mataio!”

The relief colouring Anika’s voice is clear as she makes her way to the giant of a man currently exiting the airlock. “Why didn’t you let us know you were here?”

Mataio crosses his arms, which are probably bigger than Ezekiel’s thigh if he’s being honest with himself. Which he isn’t. “I did. I was going to wait for your signal, but when I didn’t hear back, I got worried.”

Anika meets his glare with one of her own. Ezekiel has to stifle a laugh at how alike they look in that moment, Mataio’s mannerisms mirrored in Anika as she stares him down. Not wanting to break their stalemate, Ezekiel edges around them towards Yin, who has already sheathed his sword and is watching the exchange with what Ezekiel can only assume is mild amusement. He can’t actually tell with that hood of his.

Ezekiel nudges Yin. “My money’s on Anika winning this one.”

Yin lets out a little huff of breath, practically a laugh for him. “I’m not accepting that wager.”

Sure enough, Mataio yields, chalking the communication errors up to the fact that they’re basically caught in the middle of a maelstrom. Not to mention the state of Mataio’s ship and the age of some of the in-built comms systems on that.

Ezekiel makes a mental note to talk to the guy about upgrading some of them. Ezekiel will take it out of his own funds if he has to. Not that he expects much from the man who has yet to be implanted with an in-skull communications device. Some nonsense about it being unnecessary body modifications. Mataio really acts an old man sometimes.

Ezekiel is brought out of his thoughts by Mataio turning towards them. “We better get out of here. You guys were already late in arriving; I don’t want to risk any other unwanted encounters.”

Heat rushes to his face. They’re definitely in for one of Mataio’s signature lectures on the way home. Anika darts an accusing look at Ezekiel as she walks past, trailing after Mataio, and Ezekiel sighs, knowing full well the blame will fall on him. Again.

A warm hand descends on his shoulder. “Don’t worry too much. Mataio isn’t that upset.”

Ezekiel tosses a smile over at Yin, who is now steering them through the airlock. “I know. But Mat doesn’t need to be upset at us to talk our ears off for the next astral hour. I was hoping to have another nap.”

“I actually think the lecture will be more beneficial for you at this time.”

Ezekiel’s jaw falls open. Yin did not just say that. He brain stutters through potential rebuttals, but before he can get the words out of his mouth, Yin sweeps past him and into the main command deck of the ship, leaving an imprint of warmth on his shoulder as stark as his words. A smile pulls at his lips as the surprise is quickly replaced by an odd sense of pride. The Yin he’d first met all those years ago could not have done that.

Mataio’s ship is a standard-sized transport cruiser, not as tiny as some of the short-range transport shuttles out there—most of which are barely large enough to fit a full load of twenty passengers—but small enough that the command deck takes up the front end of the ship. It doesn’t help that they’d just come from a ship that was roughly the size of a small asteroid. Compared to the warship, Mataio’s ship is like a bug on its giant, metaphorical, stone-grey windshield.

The airlock chamber leads Ezekiel out into the rear half of the ship. It is outfitted to look like a terribly decorated living room that is trying a bit too hard to also be some kind of passenger lounge. A long, cushioned bench takes up the entirety of the rear wall, curving along the corners to accommodate the round tables bolted to the ground. The plush red leather of it looks even brighter than it usually does, thanks to their jaunt on that painfully monochrome ship.

Plants hang along the wall, fake ones, because Mataio has a tragic track record with live plants. He has been officially banned by the resident flora caretaking community—Ezekiel—who has witnessed more than enough plant deaths to last him several lifetimes. The real highlight, however, is the plush, shag carpet that is so huge, it takes up nearly the entire centre of the room. But it is also the perfect size for Mataio to curl up on in his beast form, so there’s no arguing against it.

Spotting a gleaming, red fruit on the bar counter to his right, Ezekiel swipes it before heading around it to the command deck. Mataio and Anika are already in the pilot and co-pilot seats, respectively, while Yin has seated himself in one of the other chairs usually meant for the scheduled flight crew.

He has finally lowered the hood of his cloak, and Ezekiel can’t help but take in the sheer contrast of his appearance to his outfit. Yin is so pale, he is probably only a couple of shades darker than paper white, with piercing, silver eyes that seem to see right into the depths of your soul. It is slightly unnerving, but Ezekiel will never say that to his face.

Like his eyes, his hair falls in a sheet of silver down his back with the top half tied in a simple knot held together by an ornate, metallic band. It looks a bit out of place amongst the rest of their world-hardened facades, but that’s never stopped Yin from wearing it. His hair looks even brighter against the pure black of his cloak. It might even be glowing, not that Ezekiel’s ever been close enough to examine it. Yin is way too skittish for that and Ezekiel would rather die than scare him away.

But Yin’s hair isn’t the only thing that stands out. He also has horns. Shaped like the slim branches of a crooked tree, they are a pale ash colour and point towards the back instead of sticking straight up. Paleness aside, they’re the real reason behind Yin’s industrial-strength shadow cloak. If he’s spotted anywhere other than the backwater, sad excuse of a planet that is the home to their faction, those horns alone would put a target on his back. It’s a pity because Yin is probably one of the most beautiful beings Ezekiel has ever seen.

Objectively speaking, of course.

For a brief moment, Ezekiel sees dark hair, dark eyes, and a wide, toothy smile that makes his heart ache for the barest fraction of a second before he quashes both image and thoughts about beautiful boys. That’s the second time those memories have cropped up in the past few hours. Sighing, he rubs a hand across his face before collapsing into the other flight crew seats. He usually has a better lid on the past.

Yin shoots him a worried look, but he manages the barest shake of his head. A few hours of sleep and he’ll be back to normal. Preferably an entire day of sleep, if Mataio doesn’t pick up a new job right after they land.

Ezekiel straps himself in, pulls off his mask, and breathes the freshly recycled air of Mataio’s ship before allowing the jerky listing of the ship as it disengages from the airlock to lull him into a fitful almost-sleep.

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