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VARNOK

G as’s voice crackles over the comms as we break through the atmosphere. “Uh, boss? We’ve got company. Two Armstrong starfighters just locked onto our position. They’re flanking us like we’re about to pull a heist.”

I lean forward in my seat, my scales itching with irritation. “Tell them to back off. We’re not here to start a war.”

“Already tried. They’re not budging. Guess they don’t trust a Trident Alliance gunship dropping into their backyard unannounced.”

Quinn steps onto the bridge, her heels clicking against the metal floor. She’s got that look on her face—the one that says she’s about to take charge whether I like it or not. “Let me handle this.”

She grabs the comms before I can protest. “This is Ambassador Quinn Gellar of the Intergalactic Exchange Commission. We’re here on official diplomatic business. Stand down and let us land.”

There’s a pause, then a crisp voice responds. “Ambassador Gellar, we were expecting you on the Triumphant . This is… unexpected. Please proceed to the Christmasville starport. We’ll escort you in.”

Quinn shoots me a look that’s equal parts smug and exasperated. “See? Easy.”

“Easy for you,” I grumble. “I don’t like being babysat by a couple of tin cans with wings.”

She rolls her eyes. “They’re starfighters, Varnok. Not tin cans. And they’re just doing their job.”

“Their job is to make me feel like a criminal.”

“Maybe if you didn’t fly around in a ship that looks like it belongs to a warlord, they’d be less suspicious.”

I cross my arms, my tailbone twitching in annoyance. “Sweet Charity is a perfectly respectable vessel.”

“It’s a nine-pointed death machine with enough firepower to level a city.”

“Exactly. Respectable.”

She shakes her head, muttering something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like “insufferable.”

The starfighters stay glued to our sides all the way down, their sleek, angular frames glinting in the sunlight.

Christmasville sprawls below us, a glittering mosaic of towering spires, holographic displays, and winding streets.

Even from this high up, I can see the city’s festive energy—holographic snowflakes drifting through the air, twinkling lights tracing the outlines of buildings, and the occasional oversized Santa Claus waving from a rooftop.

“It’s beautiful,” Quinn says, her voice softening.

I grunt in agreement. “For a city built on peace, it’s got a lot of sparkle.”

She glances at me, a small smile playing on her lips. “You’re not entirely immune to charm, are you?”

“Don’t push it, Ambassador.”

We touch down at the starport, the gangplank hissing as it lowers. Quinn turns to me, her expression serious. “Listen, Varnok. These negotiations are delicate. The wrong word, even the wrong facial expression, could reignite the war. So just stay out of my way and try to be invisible.”

I bristle, my scales rippling with irritation. “And as your bodyguard, if it pertains to your safety, I’m in charge. If I say duck, you duck. If I say we move, we move.”

She opens her mouth to argue, then visibly reins it in. “Fine. But don’t make me regret this.”

We step onto the gangplank, the crisp Armstrong air hitting me like a slap. A contingent of officials waits for us, led by a tall, statuesque woman with deep lavender eyes. Prime Minister Serenity Garsdotter. She’s every bit as imposing as her reputation suggests.

“Ambassador Gellar,” she says, her voice smooth and measured. “Welcome to Armstrong. We’re relieved to see you safe.”

Quinn steps forward, her posture perfect, her smile diplomatic. “Thank you, Prime Minister. It’s good to be here.”

Serenity’s gaze shifts to me, her expression unreadable. “And you must be Varnok the Annihilator.”

I nod, my chest puffing out a little. “That’s me.”

Her lips twitch, almost like she’s suppressing a smile. “I’ve heard… quite a lot about you.”

“All good things, I hope.”

“Let’s just say you’re exactly as advertised.”

Quinn shoots me a look that screams behave . I smirk. This is going to be fun.

The Prime Minister gestures to a sleek shuttle waiting on the tarmac, flanked by a squadron of Armstrong starfighters. Their pilots stand at attention, their helmets gleaming under the city’s artificial sunlight. I raise a brow, my scales rippling with skepticism.

“Armstrong security, huh?” I grunt, crossing my arms. “You sure they’re up for the job? I’ve seen better defenses on a cargo barge.”

Quinn’s heel connects with my shin, sharp enough to make me flinch. I glare down at her, but she’s already turned to Serenity with a diplomatic smile plastered on her face.

“Ignore him, Prime Minister,” Quinn says smoothly. “He’s just… protective.”

Serenity doesn’t even blink. If anything, she looks amused. “I appreciate your concerns, Varnok. But the Armstrong Militia is more than capable of ensuring Ambassador Gellar’s safety.”

“Militia?” I snort, stepping closer to tower over her. “Those are full-blown soldiers. Call it what it is—an army. And I’ve seen plenty of armies fail.”

Serenity’s smile doesn’t waver. If anything, it deepens, like she’s enjoying this little sparring match. “Semantics, Mr. Annihilator. We’re a planet of peace, but we’re not naive. We’ve learned to protect what matters.”

Quinn cuts in before I can retort, her voice tight with irritation. “Enough, Varnok. Prime Minister, when can we begin the negotiations?”

Serenity gestures toward the shuttle, her movements as graceful as a dancer’s.

“The formal talks will begin tomorrow. But tonight, I’m hosting a reception in your honor.

It’ll be an informal setting where you can assess the…

dynamics of our guests. Both Kallus Bruw and Speaker Zantress will be in attendance. ”

My jaw tightens at the mention of Kallus. That slimy, scale-covered snake. Hiring Reapers to take out Quinn? That’s a level of cowardice even I can’t stomach.

“A reception?” I growl, my voice low and dangerous. “You’re inviting the man who might’ve tried to have her killed to a party?”

Quinn steps between Serenity and me, her glare sharp enough to cut through steel. “Varnok, stop it. This is political, not personal.”

“It’s personal now,” I snap, my claws flexing.

“Then keep it to yourself,” Quinn fires back, her tone icy. “I don’t need you making this harder than it already is.”

Serenity watches us like we’re some kind of entertainment. “I assure you, Mr. Bruw will be on his best behavior. And if he’s not, well, we’ll deal with it.”

I clench my fists, my scales shimmering with barely contained rage. “I’d love to deal with it.”

Quinn grabs my arm, her grip surprisingly strong for someone so small. “You’re not dealing with anything. You’re here to protect me, not start a war. Understood?”

I glance down at her, her blue eyes blazing with determination. She’s got a fire in her, I’ll give her that.

“Fine,” I grumble. “But if he so much as looks at you wrong…”

She releases my arm, smoothing out her jacket. “I’ll handle it. Now, can we get to the shuttle without any more… commentary?”

I don’t answer, just follow her toward the shuttle, my gaze scanning the perimeter. Those starfighters might look fancy, but they’re not stopping me if Kallus tries something.

As we board, I catch Serenity’s eye. She gives me a knowing look, like she’s already two steps ahead. I don’t trust her. I don’t trust any of them.

But Quinn does, and for some reason, that makes it even worse.

The shuttle glides through Christmasville's skyline, weaving between holographic displays of snowflakes and prancing reindeer. I keep my trap shut, focusing instead on scanning every face, every corner, every shadow. Old habits die hard.

Armstrong Peacekeepers line our route—a mishmash of former Alliance and Coalition troops standing shoulder to shoulder. I catch sight of their weapons—top-grade plasma rifles with enhanced targeting systems. Not bad. Some of them even have the stance of veterans, alert without being twitchy.

"Impressed?" Quinn asks, noticing my appraisal.

I grunt. "They'll do. Kallus would be stupid to try anything with this much firepower around."

"That's... almost a compliment."

"Don't get used to it."

The shuttle touches down at Superior Gardens, a horseshoe-shaped monstrosity of a hotel that screams "more money than sense." We disembark into a lobby that could swallow a small starship, all gleaming marble and floating light sculptures.

I lean closer to Quinn, keeping my voice low. "Kallus probably didn't expect you to survive Reku's crew. He won't have a backup plan ready."

She nods slightly, her expression unchanged. "Then we have a small window of advantage."

"Exactly. But don't think for a second he won't come up with something new. These corporate types always have contingencies for their contingencies."

"Then it's a good thing I have you, isn't it?" There's a hint of teasing in her voice that makes my scales warm.

The Prime Minister guides us through the lobby toward a grand reception hall.

The doors slide open to reveal a scene that's trying way too hard to be elegant—a string quartet of mixed species sawing away at Vivaldi, waiters gliding between clusters of well-dressed dignitaries, and enough food to feed a small army laid out on gleaming tables.

"Subtle," I mutter.

Quinn elbows me. "Be nice."

My eyes immediately lock onto two figures standing at opposite ends of the room—Kallus Bruw and Speaker Zantress. If looks could kill, the entire room would be a smoking crater from the glares they're shooting at each other.

Kallus stands tall and imposing, his light red scales catching the light as he gestures dramatically to a group of admirers. He's dressed in what I assume is the height of galactic fashion—all sharp angles and metallic accents that probably cost more than Sweet Charity.

Zantress, by contrast, looks like she'd rather be anywhere else. The female grolgath's dour expression is fixed in a permanent scowl as she nods curtly to anyone who approaches.

"Those two look ready to tear each other apart," I observe.

Quinn sighs. "And I'm supposed to get them to agree on something. Fantastic."

"Good luck with that."

As we move through the reception, Quinn is immediately swarmed by diplomats, politicians, and various hangers-on. Everyone wants a piece of her—to hear about her abduction, to get her take on the Jwoon Incident, to curry favor with the woman who might prevent another interstellar conflict.

I stay close, my hand never straying far from my blaster. A few of the dignitaries eye me nervously, which gives me a small satisfaction. Good. They should be nervous.

"Ambassador Gellar, your thoughts on mineral rights in disputed territories?" asks a thin human with spectacles.

"Minister Yularen, what a pleasure to see the Odexian delegation here!" Quinn deflects smoothly.

"Is it true you fought a Reaper captain?" a young aide whispers excitedly.

Through it all, Quinn navigates with the precision of a starfighter pilot, never revealing too much, never committing to anything. It's impressive, in its way.

What a time to be stuck in a historical moment, I think glumly to myself. All things considered, I preferred the War. At least you knew who was trying to kill you, and when. This smiling-while-plotting-your-demise business gives me a headache.

But watching Quinn work the room, her small frame somehow commanding the attention of beings twice her size, I can't help but feel a grudging admiration. She might not fight with plasma blasters, but she's a warrior in her own arena.

And I'm starting to think that arena might be more dangerous than any battlefield I've faced.