Things You Shouldn’t Fall In Love With

The mood at the spaceport was, in a word, sullen. The kind of sullen that comes from limping out of a space battle with scorched plating, half the sensors blown out, and a ventral turret that now pointed at itself. The Morrigan was in drydock, nursing wounds from a spirited disagreement with three raider ships. Repairs would take “a while,” which was shipyard code for “we’ll see how much of your money we can burn before you complain.”

The crew was walking the outer edge of the spaceport’s drydock array, a quiet stretch lined with parked ships, half-powered lights, and one very bored guard asleep behind a terminal. That’s when Caitlin spotted it.

A gunship. Not just any gunship, but the kind of sleek, mean-looking vessel that made the hearts of pilots and troublemakers skip a beat. A Fiery-class Gunned Escort, all sharp angles, deadly weaponry, and a cockpit that practically whispered, Fly me, you magnificent bastard!

Caitlin stopped dead in her tracks. Maltz nearly walked into her and followed her gaze.

“Oh no,” he muttered. “I know that look.”

“That’s the look she had before she challenged an entire Aslan dueling circle to a drinking contest,” Scarred-Snout rumbled, absently rubbing the scar that still ached when he thought about Caitlin's idea of “good whiskey.”

“That’s the look,” Quinn noted, “that precedes very unsound decisions.”

Caitlin ignored them all. Her eyes were locked onto the Fiery like a hunter sizing up its prey. It was the kind of ship that made pilots dream stupid dreams and start fights they couldn’t win. Twin fusion guns in the dorsal turret, missile launchers on the chin, and triple laser turrets on the flanks. She could already see it dancing through a dogfight, vaporising anything foolish enough to get close. It wasn’t built for grand exploration or delicate diplomacy. This was a blunt instrument with engines.

It was not the Morrigan, not with her charm and scars and stubborn soul. But it had teeth. And she wanted it.

"You're thinking about stealing it," Maltz accused, his tail flicking anxiously.

"I’m thinking about liberating it," Caitlin corrected. "For the greater glory of King Oleb’s glorious, yet entirely hypothetical fleet."

The rest of the crew exchanged glances. This was going to be one of those weeks.

Caitlin ran a hand along the hull, fingers tracing the warning stripes and hazard markings like they were ancient runes promising untold adventure. The ship was a beast - all sharp lines, reinforced plating, and barely restrained violence.

“Oh yeah,” she murmured, “you’re a nasty girl, aren’t you?”

Maltz squinted at her. “You do realize it’s a ship and not something you can actually date?”

Caitlin ignored him. She had fallen in full-on pilot love, the kind that involved stroking the thruster intakes and whispering sweet nothings about acceleration curves. The Fiery wasn’t just a gunship. It was a declaration to the universe: sometimes diplomacy meant high-yield triple laser turrets.

Morwen just gave her that look - the one reserved for very bad impulsive decisions. “It's obviously not for sale.”

“Not for sale, not for lease, and definitely not meant to be parked somewhere civilians can ogle it,” Caitlin said. “Which is why I want it.”

She gave the hull a fond pat, like one might an especially murderous horse. "Imperial property or not, it’s just sitting here like a prize nobody’s claimed. Waste of good engines, really.”

Maltz tilted his head. “You could have it. There’d just be, you know… repercussions.”

“Like a fleet of Imperial pursuit ships?” Quinn asked.

“Like a fleet of Imperial pursuit ships,” Maltz agreed.

Scarred-Snout ran a claw along one of the hazard-marked panels. “With such a weapon I could boil my enemies to vapor."

Morwen pinched the bridge of her nose. “No. We are not stealing an Imperial warship.”

Caitlin took a step back, squinting at the insignia. “Technically, it’s a gunship,” she muttered, already running mental calculations on how long it would take to slice into the docking control system and… no. No, this was probably a bad idea. She could admit that.

Mostly.

“Look,” she said, turning back to the crew. “We don’t have to steal it. Just… borrow it indefinitely.”

Morwen stared at her. “Caitlin.”

“A victimless crime!”

“Caitlin.”

She sighed, throwing up her hands. “Fine. We won’t steal the incredibly well-armed Imperial gunship with a distinctive silhouette, active transponder codes, and a high probability of an onboard AI that would immediately snitch on us.”

She turned back to the ship. “But if I ever find an unregistered one sitting abandoned in a forgotten war zone, it’s mine.”

The Fiery-class gunship sat there in noble silence, utterly indifferent to her love and devotion.

“Let’s get a drink before I do something stupid.”

Maltz clapped her on the back. “A rare moment of self-awareness. I’m proud of you, boss.”

Caitlin sighed again, casting one last longing glance at the ship before following her crew back toward the bar. Her beloved Morrigan would fly again soon enough.

But damn if this wasn’t going to haunt her dreams.

You can read part 2 here: https://soren-boye-petersen.itch.io/how-to-commit-grand-theft-gunship-with-just-...