The automatic glass doors had retracted on approach and now stayed open as Cole lingered in the doorway, unable to move. He had wanted to come here after the meeting the day before, but couldn’t bring himself to do it. Now, standing at the door to the Federation Memorial Gardens, he still wasn’t sure if he could do it, but he had to. They were set to leave in a few hours for a mission from which there was every chance he would never return. This may be his only chance to say a proper goodbye. He forced himself to put one foot in front of the other.

The Memorial Gardens were set on a hill overlooking the city and harbour below, and consisted of a series of interconnected glass structures that had expanded over the years to cover nearly the entire hill. The gardens were inside to protect them year round from the extremes to which the weather in Cotar could slip to. Winters were bitterly cold, and the summers were some of the hottest on the planet. The precisely controlled climate inside protected the gardens, and the heavy security outside protected those interred there. In the years after the war, grave robbery was common place, which lead to the construction of the gardens around the original cemetery, in order to protect the dead.

“Olivia and Zara Traske,” Cole said to the receptionist sitting behind a thick glass panel just inside the door.

“And your name?” she said, not even looking up.

“Cole Traske.”

There was a short wait before a slip of paper appeared from a slot below the window. “We’re sorry for your loss,” the receptionist said, her voice a flat monotone.

Cole passed through three separate security checkpoints before he arrived. The garden wasn’t as thick with foliage as many of the others. There were ferns, and some large trees scattered throughout, but a lot of the ground was covered with rock formations and sand, raked in decorative patterns. It was nice. Cole walked along the paths until he found them. Nestled between the roots of a Xerenium tree were two small stone plaques.

OLIVIA ARAIN TRASKE - 35

ZARA TALRA TRASKE - 13

It seemed wrong to Cole that only their names and ages were listed, but it was the same for everyone, always had been. It was as though it didn’t matter to anyone else where and when they died, or how, or who they left behind. Only it did matter, it mattered more than he could put into words.

Cole knelt down and brushed away some petals that had fallen from the branches above. Then he sat. He wracked his brain for the right words to say, and even if he found them, he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to speak. How could he tell them that this was his fault? That he was the one that had put them in danger? He sat for a long time in silence, as the air circulating in from the outside rustled the leaves in the trees above. 

Finally he found the courage to speak.

“You deserved better than this,” Cole said, fighting back tears, “I should have protected you from this. From him. I failed you. You trusted me to take care of you and I failed.”

The dam broke, tears flowed and after a long while, subsided.

“I have to go now,” Cole said, “I’m going to make this right. I will make him pay for this and I won’t fail you again.”

Cole leaned forward and touched Olivia’s grave. “Goodbye my love, I will see you again.”

Then Zara’s. “Bye baby girl, Daddy will always love you. Never forget that.”

He got to his feet and turned to leave, not wanting to take his eyes off of them in case he never returned. But he had to.

***

Cole entered the cockpit, Sol had been in there for a while making sure everything was ready to go. Ram and Gregor were just finishing up loading the last of their supplies.

“How’s she look?” Cole asked.

“Not bad,” Sol said, “surprisingly it seems Oren’s boys barely even touched her in the decommissioning.”

“I made sure he wouldn’t,” Cole said.

“Thanks mate,” Sol said.

“Plus,” Cole continued, “he knows what this ship means to you.”

“Saved his bacon more than once,” Sol said with a chuckle.

“Yes it did, and we’d probably all be dead many times over if it wasn’t for her.”

Sol turned his chair to face Cole. “So where we headed?”

“Ship yards near Nikara,” Cole said.

“Looks like the old girl’s getting a bit of a homecoming,” Sol said, a smile crossing his face.

“I thought you’d be pleased,” Cole said, “look, we’re just about loaded up, I’d say we’re good to go in about thirty.”

“Roger that,” Sol said.

***

It was a four day trip to Nikara, and Cole was thankful that it had been largely uneventful. So much had happened in such a small space of time and he was glad for the reprieve, short though it was. They were just now entering Nikaran space and the ship yards loomed large before them. The ship yards were basically a massive space station that travelled in Nikara’s orbit, but the station itself was a lot more than just a construction yard for the Federation’s fleet of ships. It was also home to a couple hundred thousand people, many of whom were workers at the yards, but many more were refugees, private citizens or criminals trying to hide right under the Federation’s nose. 

They were after a salesman.

Sol brought the ship down in one of the many commercial hangars that lined the port side of the station. The hangars were immense, stretching for several kilometres across the stations surface. Hundreds of ships were scattered along it’s length and it seemed like tens of thousands of people were milling about on the ground.

“So what’s this guy’s name again?” Ram asked.

“Kag Darka,” Cole said, “Oren said he runs a salvage reclamation place in the market district. Sol, can you find him?”

“Already on it,” Sol said, accessing the station’s directory. “Got him, he’s on the twenty third level of the market district,” –Sol started laughing.

“What?” Cole asked.

Sol managed to compose himself. “His shop,” Sol said, “it’s called The Darka Side of Salvage.”

“Wonder how long it took him to come up with that?” Ram said.

“Probably longer than it should have,” Cole said.

“I think it’s quite clever,” said Gregor, popping his head into the conversation.

The other three just shook their heads and laughed.

“We better get going,” Cole said, “don’t want to be here any longer than we have to be.”

“I hear that,” Ram said, “let’s just hope that what he has for us isn’t actually garbage.”

The ship yards weren’t the tidiest place in the galaxy, but the market district took it to a whole other level, or levels as it were. What started as a five level shopping complex for employees expanded over the years to become a ramshackle, cobbled together mess of buildings that spanned just over forty levels. Somewhere along the line it had merged with the residential district and was now said to be home to roughly a quarter of the station’s population. The higher it went, the less secure everything felt. Vehicles weren’t allowed past level twenty as the roads weren’t able to support the weight. Past level thirty the buildings had to be made out of natural materials, like timber and cloth, that had to be shipped in especially. Using anything else further threatened the stability of the levels below. Five years ago the Federation had intervened and put a stop to any further development past level forty one, deeming any expansion a danger to the lives of those living beneath it.

The Darka Side of Salvage was on level twenty three, which was sort of in the middle ground between the more established society below and the poverty of levels thirty and beyond. It was home to the central telecommunications hub for the district and as such any light that might have filtered down from above was promptly blocked by thousands upon thousands of cables running to and from every dwelling across the forty one levels. The streets were concrete, cracked even just from foot traffic, and they were lined by market stalls and shops that sold everything from a piece of bread to someone’s cousin.

Squelch.

There were also animals in the market district. Ram had the unfortunate distinction of finding this out first hand, or foot as it were.

“Son of a bitch,” Ram said, scraping his boot on the kerb.

“It should be down here,” Sol said pointing down a side alley that couldn’t have been more than two metres wide.

“Lead the way Sol,” Cole said.

There, hidden away in the corner was a doorway and next to it a small window, caked in dust. The sign above the door did in fact read The Darka Side of Salvage, but the whole shopfront did little to instil confidence.

“This is our arms dealer?” Ram said.

“I guess we’ll find out,” Cole said, forcing open the door that was almost rusted shut.

Inside wasn’t a whole lot better. It was bigger on the inside, not huge, but bigger than they’d expected. Shelves lined the walls, and large bins covered the floor, all were filled with scrap. Nearly all of it useless. It was dark and dusty, the few lights hanging from the ceiling were expected to illuminate the whole shop. They didn’t. 

“Don’t touch anything,” Ram said to Gregor, as he pulled him back after he got too close to a perilously unbalanced looking pile of scrap.

Picking their way through the mess they made it to what appeared to be a counter, it was after all, buried under boxes and piles of junk. Behind it was a door and some shutters, both closed. On the one clear space on the counter, there was a bell.

“Hello?” Cole called out, after ringing the bell amounted to nothing.

There was a muffled grumbling from behind the door before it swung open to reveal a squat little creature, maybe half Cole’s height. He wore glasses that rested on a long snout and had the look of someone who had just been woken up and might kill whoever had woken them.

“Kag Darka?” Cole asked wearily.

“Yes,” Kag said with a huff, “who are you?”

Cole motioned over his shoulder to the rest of them. “Shadow Point,” he said.

Kag just looked at them. “Should that mean something to me?” he asked.

“It should,” Cole said.

“What was the name again?” Kag asked.

“Shadow Point,” Ram said.

Kag looked over the top of his glasses, squinted and then scrunched up his nose, his face then flickering with recognition. “Ohh,” he said, “Shadow Point. You,” –Kag pointed at Cole– “you need to speak more clearly. Also, your late.”

“Do you have our gear?” Cole asked, doing his best to ignore the chuckling of his friends behind him.

“Wait here,” Kag said as he shuffled out through the back door.

“Charming little fellow ain’t he?” Sol said.

Thirty seconds had passed before the grumbling started again from beyond the door. It got louder and soon Kag was standing in the doorway, hands on his hips. “You coming or what?” he shouted.

They looked at each other in stunned silence before laughing and heading into the back room. It was like entering another world. You could walk around for one, and several large crates were hovering over the much cleaner floor. There wasn’t much in the way of shelving and windows on the far wall let in the artificial light from the street outside.

“You know,” Cole said, “you really should use this as your shop instead of–“

“This is my shop,” Kag snapped, “you broke into my storage room you idiots.”

“Why didn’t you tell us that in the first place?” Cole asked.

“Don’t you think this was more fun?” Kag said, a smile appearing on his dour face, “I do.”

“The gear?” Cole said, his patience wearing thin.

“Ah yes,” Kag said heading towards the crates in the middle of the room, “over here.”

They helped Kag remove the tops of the crates. There was a crate for each of them and two others containing ammo and other supplies. Kag pulled out a short rifle from one of the crates.

“The Xanthar P23,” Kag said, handing the rifle to Cole, “thirty caliber, polycarbonate frame, laser sighted with a folding stock. Light as a feather, kicks like a Gurk.”

Cole weighed the weapon in his hands and checked the sight.

“You’ll each get a sidearm,” Kag said, holding one in the air, “Peronas CR-90, silenced, low recoil. They won’t know they’re dead till they drop.”

Kag looked around. “Where’s our sniper?” he asked.

“Uh, here,” Gregor said, raising his hand, “I’m the sniper.”

Kag looked at Cole and raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess, he’s new?”

He handed Gregor the rifle. “Tolivar Deathstrike,” Kag said, “it’s a hell of a thing. Three kilometre range, computer assisted targeting, silenced as well. You could drop ten targets and no one would ever find you.”

Kag turned to Ram and pointed to the crate floating beside him. “In there you’ll find something to your liking.”

Reaching into the crate Ram pulled out a small, compact weapon. “What? This little thing?”

“That little thing, my large headed friend,” Kag said, testing his boundaries, “is the Huris CPL60. Compact Projectile Launcher. Can be configured for rockets or grenades of which you will have plenty of both. Half the size, half the weight, four times the stopping power.”

“Not bad,” Ram said, admiring the weapon.

“For the engineer,” Kag said, walking over to Sol, “we have this, the Worth G4. Combat spec automatic shotgun, modified for greater spread and impact. Someone surprises you, this will stop them right quick.”

“Oh and you,” –Kag pointed at Ram– “you get one of these too. Believe it or not there are times when blowing shit up isn’t the best idea.”

Cole punched Ram in the arm. “There’s a lesson you should probably listen to.”

“You love it when I blow shit up,” Ram said, returning the favour.

“Now,” Kag said, “all your weapons are taking the same type of rounds, shotguns and CPL excluded. These took a lot to get a hold of, so don’t waste them.” He pulled a box out of one of the crates and threw a bullet to each of them.

“What are these?” Cole said, “I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“Ceramic rounds,” Kag said, “White Death. Sensors inside the bullet set off a small charge just after impact. The ceramic shatters, tears shit to pieces, then vaporises. Untraceable.”

“I thought these we’re only in the experimental stages of development?” Gregor asked, looking closely at the round.

“Why do you think they were so hard to get?” Kag said, “look I’ve seen these things do some scary shit to people. Cut people in half kind of scary. So be careful with them.”

Gregor tentatively placed the round down on a nearby bench top.

“You will also each be getting one of these,” Kag said producing a knife, “standard issue Federation combat knife, with a little added extra.”

“Added extra?” Cole asked.

Kag pushed a button in the handle of the knife and a small hum could be heard, when he touched it to the metal crate, sparks shot out. “The blade is electrified, it’s sorta like a shock pike, but a bit more personal,” Kag said, “know where I got the idea?”

“Yeah, I do,” Cole said.

“You do?” Kag asked, looking at Cole with astonishment.

Cole unhooked the small hilt from his belt, with a flick of his wrist the metal blade extended and quickly crackled to life. He hit it on the crate. Sparks. Kag’s eyes went wide.

“T-that’s,” Kag stammered, “that’s a Conduit blade. Is it genuine?”

“It is.”

“How much do you want for it?”

“It’s not for sale.”

“Oh,” Kag said, “wait a minute, are you–“

“I’m not a Conduit,” Cole said.

“Oh good, I don’t need that kind of hassle on my hands,” Kag said with a sigh of relief, “did you kill one?”

“Might have,” Cole said, raising his eyebrows.

“So you won’t be needing the knife then?” Kag asked.

“Might as well throw it in, “ Cole replied.

Kag unceremoniously chucked the knife into the crate.

“So are we right to go?” Cole asked.

“There is, one small issue,” Kag said.

Ram sighed loudly. “Let me guess you–“ 

“Our mutual friend is covering your costs,” Kag continued, “but he forced me down to quite a low rate and I just can’t possibly let the gear go at that price.”

“And there it is,” Ram said, walking towards Kag. Ram grabbed him by the front of his shirt and lifted him to eye level, clear off the ground. “Listen here, we’re really grateful for what you’ve done for us, really, but this was a done deal. You can’t renege on it just to try and get a better payday.” 

“Ram,” Cole said sternly, “put him down.”

Ram drops Kag to the ground.

“Okay, okay,” Kag said, clearly flustered, “No money, but, I do need a favour.”

“Of course you do,” Sol said.

“What’s the favour?” Cole asked, crouching down to talk face to face with Kag.

“Two days ago a small lock box was stolen from my office,” Kag said, “I know who has it. If you get it back for me you can take the gear as agreed.”

“I say we just take it anyway,” Ram said, arms folded.

Cole looked up at Ram. “We’re not taking it,” –Cole looked back to Kag– “who has the lockbox?”

“Beren Zarr,” Kag said, “he runs a competing salvage shop on the other side of level twenty three.”

“Of course he does,” Ram said.

“Whats the name of his shop?” Cole asked.

“Salvage BaZarr,” Kag said.

“That’s actually not bad,” Sol said, stifling a laugh.

“We’ll get your lock box back,” Cole said, “and then we’re leaving with our gear.”

“Of course,” Kag said, nodding, “of course.”

“Sol,” Cole said, “I want you to stay here and keep an eye on him, Ram, Gregor, you’re with me.”

Ram reached into the crates and picked out three sidearms and distributed them.

“You can’t take those,” Kag said.

“Think of it as a gesture of good will on your behalf,” Ram said, “besides, if we run into any trouble on this treasure hunt of yours, I don’t want to be left without protection.”

Kag went silent.

Soon after the trio had left, Sol turned to Kag. 

“So,” Sol said, “you named the business yourself?”

As they stepped out into the bright artificial light of the street Ram looked up to see a rather large sign for Kag’s shop above the door. “You know,” he said, “for a pilot, his navigation skills leave a lot to be desired.”

“Well Ram here’s your opportunity to do one better,” Cole said, “I want to find this lockbox quick and get out of here.” 

Ram puffed out his chest and led the way.

As they headed off down the main street a figure peeled away from the shadows, followed closely by three others.

There are a lot of alleys and side roads in the market district, and unfortunately for Ram, many of them aren’t marked, or are marked incorrectly. On their fifth trip down this particular unnamed main road, having looped onto it several times, Gregor sidled up to Cole. 

“Sir, can I ask you something?” Gregor asked.

“Only if you stop calling me sir,” Cole said.

“Oh, of course,” Gregor said, “I keep forgetting.”

“What’s on your mind Gregor?” Cole asked after Gregor had gone quiet, seemingly also forgetting that he had wanted to ask a question.

“Tobias,” Gregor said, “how did he die? I mean, well he’s not dead but–”

“Like I said, there was an incident.”

“But what happened?” 

“I’d rather not,” –Cole looked at Gregor and could see the eagerness in his face– “He was badly injured. The building we were in had become unstable and it began to collapse. I barely got out, and he never did.”

“Oh.” 

“I had no reason to think he was alive,” Cole said.

“And this was during the war?” Gregor asked.

“Right near the end, yeah.”

“So if you weren’t with the Federation back then, who were you with?,” Gregor asked, probing for more information, “like, what side?”

“Yeah,” Ram said, pulling himself away from his desperate search for Salvage BaZarr, “I’ve often wondered that myself.”

They walked in silence for a moment as Cole thought of the best way to answer. “No side,” he said. “Both sides. The lines got real blurry towards the end.”

“Oh.” It was all Gregor could think to say, he hadn’t actually thought of a follow up question.

They stopped at a food stand that they had passed at least three times before to get their bearings. 

“Consider yourself lucky kid,” Ram said. “That’s almost as much as I’ve gotten out of him in over ten years.”

Ram turned to Gregor but he was gone. A quick check of the area found him standing about twenty metres behind them staring at something.

“Hey kid,” Ram shouted to him, “what are you doing?”

“It was Salvage BaZarr right?” Gregor called back, pointing in front of him.

“Yeah?” Ram said, “so?”

“Found it,” Gregor said, a smile spreading across his face.

Cole and Ram walked over to him and, sure enough, there was Salvage BaZarr, sign and all, they’d walked right past it. 

“I knew that was there,” Ram said, on the defensive immediately. “I just wanted to grab something to eat before we headed in. Was just about to mention it.”

“Sure you were. Good work kid,” Cole said, patting Gregor on the back. Gregor’s smile grew wider.

“Let’s get this over with,” Cole said opening the door to go in.

They heard the sound of footsteps and rattling gear behind them.

“Cole Traske? I knew it was you.”

Hearing the voice Cole spun and was less than impressed with what he found.

“Charles,” Cole said.

Before them stood Charles Weaver, and his squad, Black Typhoon, also from within the 42nd. Cole’s dealings with Charles had never been pleasant. The two of them, along with Oren had been part of the same recruitment class. After five years of training, Oren moved into the officer ranks, while Cole and Charles went into the field. Cole was assigned to Shadow Point, which Charles always resented, and had antagonised Cole about it for years.

Weaver had long tried to muscle his way into Shadow Point, which was seen by everyone in the division as the top squad and he hadn’t exactly been subtle about it either. Three days after the death of Nathan Revik, he petitioned to become Shadow Point’s new leader, and to replace Cole, Ram and Sol with his own men. This hadn’t gone over well, not with Oren, whom Weaver had proposed the idea to, or with Cole, Ram and Sol. Ram spent four days in lockup after an incident with Weaver’s second in command, Jarak Rol. Jarak spent five days in the hospital. The other two, Darm Ju’rell and Levi Rhakti were the textbook definition of ‘brainless hired gun’, all you had to do was point them in the direction of something and say ‘go’ and they’d go till the job was done. Weaver and Rol ran the show, and the other two just went along with it, no questions asked. Sol had a pet name for them, the Goons.

Gregor knew none of this, but judging from the looks on everyones faces he figured that they weren’t a welcome addition to their travels.

“What are you doing here Weaver?” Ram said, deep seeded anger clear in his voice.

Ignoring the question Weaver stepped towards Cole and picked at his civilian clothes. “Huh, so the rumours were true,” Weaver said.

“Rumours?” Cole said as he pushed Weaver back, as politely as he could muster.

“You guys are out.” A smug smile flashed across Weaver’s face. “Cut and run, couldn’t run with the big boys any more.”

“If you say so,” Cole said, wanting nothing more than to carry on with the task at hand.

“What are you doing here?” Ram asked again stepping towards Weaver. Jarak cut him off and their eyes burned holes into each other. Gregor could see that this situation was about three words from escalation.

“Just carrying out a bit of business,” Weaver said, “nothing to do with you,” –Weaver licked his lips and surveyed the situation– “which is why we’re going to leave you to your, whatever it is you’re doing.”

“That’d be great,” Cole said.

Weaver and his cronies backed out into the middle of the street. Cole turned to head into the store. 

“Sorry about your wife,” Weaver called out, “I’ll really miss her.”

It turned out to be eight words, but the situation did indeed escalate. Rather quickly.

Within seconds Cole was on Weaver. Cole smashed his fist squarely into Weaver’s slightly crooked nose. He felt the bone shatter underneath, and when he pulled back for another strike Weaver’s nose was more of a weirdly deflated blob. In a few swift movements Cole had struck him in the throat, knocked him from his feet, and drawn his blade. 

Ram had reacted just as quickly whipping out his sidearm and holding it to Jaraks head. Jarak returned the favour. The Goons grabbed their rifles and pointed them at Cole.

Gregor didn’t even know where to look, let alone who to shoot, he’d pulled out his sidearm and was sort of loosely pointing it the direction of the fracas.

Cole breathed heavily as he held the blade to Weaver’s throat, pressing in ever so slightly. “One. More. Word,” Cole said, watching Weaver’s face frantically twitch from the electric shocks, “one more word and you won’t like how this ends.”

Weaver tried to say something, but no sound escaped his lips.

Gregor watched as Cole leaned in closer to the younger man’s face.

“We’re going to go now,” Cole said, “You’re, going to go.” Cole released the pressure on the Weaver’s throat and stood up, backing away off the street.

“If we see you again,” Cole said, collapsing the blade and returning it to his belt, “we’ll have to finish this discussion.”

Ram and Jarak still held their pistols to each other’s heads. Neither wanted to be the first to withdraw.

“Ram,” Cole said, “it’s not worth it. We have to go.”

“Lower you weapons,” Weaver said, his voice a raspy whisper, “damn it, lower them!”

All parties lowered their weapons and returned to their respective sides. The tension was still thick in the air, but by now a crowd had gathered and were taking in every action. The authorities wouldn’t be far behind. Weaver backed away, wiping the blood from his face, before turning and disappearing into the crowd, his squad following closely behind him. Seeing that the show was over the gathering crowd quickly dispersed.

Gregor was still vaguely pointing his gun at the place where Cole had been holding Weaver down. He quickly lowered it hoping that no one had noticed. The street was quiet now, save for a few vendors shouting at passing potential customers. 

“I’m sensing a history,” Gregor said. He then realised he’d said it out loud.

Cole and Ram both ignored him as they brushed past and entered the shop.

“Right,” Gregor said to himself, hurrying after them.

Inside Salvage BaZarr they found something a bit unusual. There, in the middle of an aisle filled with what appeared to be salvaged food processors, was a man. The man was on his knees, staring at the floor and shaking from head to toe. Cole and Ram looked at each other and realised that he must have seen what had just transpired out the front of his store.

“Beren Zarr?” Cole asked quietly, not wanting to scare the poor guy.

“Whatever you want, you take!” Beren shouted, fear present in every word, “no trouble!”

“We’re not here to hurt you Mister Zarr,” Gregor said trying to reassure him.

Beren looked up at the three of them, his face was pale and sweating.

“You took something from our friend Kag Darka recently,” Cole said, “he’d like it back.”

“Out back,” Beren said, still shouting, but more in earnest to get rid of his burly visitors, “I show you.”

As Beren scurried out into the back room, Ram laughed. “Maybe we should ask nicely more often?”

They followed him in only to find him staring at his desk, the top of which was completely bare. He started looking around frantically.

“Where is it?” Cole asked.

“Was here,” Beren said, severely flustered, “now it’s gone.”

“Are you sure you put it there?” Ram asked.

“Well, no,” Beren said, stammering, “but it’s gone.”

“Well shit,” Ram said.

As Cole, Ram and Beren proceeded to tear the room apart looking for the lock box, Gregor decided to take a look for it in some of the boxes near the back door. He was halfway through a box filled with broken data pads when he heard a metallic banging. It wasn’t coming from inside the room. Easing the back door open he peeked out and then looked back towards the search on the other side of the room.

“What is it we’re looking for again?”

“Small lock box,” Cole said amidst a whirl of papers.

“Oh right. Well in that case you might want to come out here,” Gregor said as he disappeared through the back door.

The flurry of papers and boxes came to a halt as they watched Gregor leave. Confused, Cole, Ram and Beren followed him out the door. The four of them stood together outside Beren’s shop in the narrow alley, and together they stared.

“Is that it?” Gregor asked, pointing.

A short way down the alley was a young girl, looked to be no more than sixteen, her clothes were ragged and her bare feet were covered in dirt. She was bashing the lock box against a ventilation duct, again and again, hoping it would break open. Hearing voices she turned and saw four men staring at her, and at the lock box. The youngest of them locked eyes with her and without saying a word, somewhat awkwardly, raised his hand and waved. She found herself, just as awkwardly, returning the gesture.

She recognised Beren as she had been a frequenter of his store in recent weeks. It seemed that Beren recognised her as well.

“Thief!” Beren shouted, angrily waving his hands in the air.

The girl grabbed the lock box, and ran.

Next Chapter: Chapter 7