BBQs, Bikinis, and Buzzcuts

Somewhere in the middle of the Trojan Reach, the Morrigan squatted awkwardly on the hot tarmac of Intelia’s class C starport, radiating the quiet indignity of a recent pulse laser negotiation gone badly. One of the landing struts leaned, only half-convinced it should stay upright. Minor repairs were in order. Minor, in this case, meaning expensive and inconvenient.

Out front, the crew had set up a barbecue, wafting the unmistakable aroma of charred protein and bad decisions. Caitlin lounged in a folding chair, bikini-clad, radiating the kind of trouble that knew exactly where the line was and dared it to step closer.

Morwen sat nearby, rifle across her lap, wearing even less, though the sheer amount of firepower within reach suggested she could still win a small war without standing up.

Maltz flipped something suspiciously charred on the grill. Scarred-Snout lay sprawled in the dirt, tail twitching contentedly, eyes closed behind cheap sunglasses. Quinn, sitting primly in his plastic chair, sipped something that could legally be called tea but wasn’t.

It was, by all accounts, a perfectly peaceful day.

Until he arrived.

Across the baked expanse of the landing pad strode Joe Bloggs, former Imperial Marine, face like carved granite, regulation-issue scar down one cheek, buzzcut to match, and camo duffel slung over one shoulder, clanking ominously with every step. The bag sagged under the weight of enough weapons, grenades, and tactical nonsense to start a small war.

He stopped at the edge of the barbecue, all polished armour and rigid formality, saluted like he was at a parade ground inspection, and barked, “Gunnery Sergeant Joe Bloggs. Ex-military. Multiple tours. I’d like to speak with the captain.” 

Caitlin, a plate of cheese balanced precariously on one tanned knee, glanced up from her wine. ‘Aye, that’d be me.’”

Bloggs did a visible double take - the kind that stuttered halfway through and had to be rebooted. His eyes flicked to Quinn, to Scarred-Snout, then back to Caitlin. 

“You? The captain?” 

She lifted an eyebrow, slow as a sunrise. “That’s right. The captain. You want a sausage?”

“No thanks,” Bloggs said stiffly. “I want a job. I’ve heard about your ship. You need proper tactical support. Discipline.” 

Maltz snorted, flipping the mystery meat again. "You’re serious?" 

Bloggs squared his shoulders. "I was a marine. Ground assault specialist. Served in some of the worst hot zones this side of the Reach. Mentioned in Dispatches!"

He set down the duffel with a heavy clunk. “I’ve got skills in heavy weapons, vacc suit, blades, and recon. I’ve drawn up a chain of command proposal.”

Caitlin leaned back, her voice all lazy amusement. “Chain of command? Out here?”

Scarred-Snout cracked one eye open. "Chain of command is overrated. A true warrior just screams and leaps."

Maltz flipped a puck of mystery meat, smoke curling lazily. “We don’t do ranks here. Or rules. Or buzzcuts.”

Bloggs tried again, gesturing grandly at the Morrigan. “Your ship’s in shambles. I could help whip this crew into shape.”

Caitlin took a long, thoughtful sip from her drink. “We like our shape.”

Maltz waved the spatula at him. “Besides, you're sweating in that armour. Bad sign.”

Bloggs frowned, straightening his armour. “I don’t sweat. I maintain readiness.”

Caitlin raised her glass. “Well, cheers to your readiness.”

Scarred-Snout lazily flicked his tail. "You reek of lost battles and regret. We’re not hiring.”

Bloggs , visibly deflated, tried one last time. "But I’ve got demolitions training!"

Caitlin shrugged. "So does Maltz. He makes better sausages."

Maltz gave Bloggs a slow once-over, then tapped the tongs against the grill. "And these sausages aren’t even that great."

Gunnery Sergeant Bloggs sighed, turned on his heel and marched back across the hot tarmac, the weapons in his bag clanking like a disappointed brass band.

Caitlin squinted at the departing soldier. “Swear I’ve seen that guy before.”

Morwen nodded, not looking up from her rifle. “Yeah. In every dive bar from here to the Hinterworlds.”

Maltz called after him, voice loud and cheerfully innocent, “So that was a no on the sausage, then?”