A/N: Well fuck this took forever to get done. I want to formally apologize for being so late, I've had quite the past few months. I was evicted from my apartment and the whole building itself was condemned after it was discovered that an asbestos lining broke and worked its way into the building's ventilation system, fun for all people involved, and have spent the past several weeks A.) getting my stuff from the condemned apartment back, B.) working, C.) taking care of my dog, and D.) finding a new place to live.

So yeah, new chapter. Whoo!

"Our work unites us."
— Official Motto of the the Labor Union, Artisan and Merchant Guild Oversight Authority

=]**[=

The aged storehouse that served as the base for the Interstellar Law Marshals in the Four Deserts Region was never a very busy place. Roughly fifteen-hundred feet of space, made of plaster and rebarred concrete blocks filled with a high-density carbon foam that was purportedly blast resistant up to one megaton of composition plastic explosion, laminated, four-inch thick bulletproof windows, and an abundance of cells for holding any degree of criminal. It possessed its own water tanks, communications array, and a fusion power generator. The building was far from elegant, but served the purpose it was given well enough.

It had been a reluctant but eventual offering by the townsfolk. Meridian had been left well enough alone by the marauding gangs of outlaws, bandits and renegades of the region due to the budding city's isolation and lack of attractions. The civilian residency were not at all keen on the suggestion of hauling in the most dangerous and prolific of the Four Deserts' criminals into the limits of Meridian. To compromise, the Marshals maintained that the facility would be chiefly administrative, a glorified field office and listening post as opposed to a dedicated headquarters, the cells were to house convicted persons in a sort of layover; contained until they were either executed or moved to a more secure facility like Petterton or Anteburrow.

The decades that followed brought Meridian growth in commerce, population, and predictably an increase in crime and the criminal element. The years had seen to the building being retrofitted several times. But only when it was adamantly necessitated. For the most part people kept well away from it, save for the bounty hunters. Certainly the oblong drifter and occasional paid volunteer lingered about for a measly pay that kept them fed and roofed for the night, hoodlums brought in by the sheriff when the jail filled up, and mercenaries contracted to the Marshals looking for their pay. Sloan counted himself among the latter climbing the short steps of the front entrance and through the parted doors to the mostly empty lobby of the Marshals building. The lobby was occupied by Halvard, the sole bodyguard to the station's operator and administrator. The bulky, blue-gray skinned Osrin stood propped against a wall at the corner of a hallway that led deeper into the building with one foot over the other at the ankle, his thick arms cross over his even thicker chest. Halverd's rounded almond eyes retreated from whatever far away land his thoughts had sent them at the soft chime that went off when Sloan passed through the threshold indoors and snapped onto Sloan as he approached; leisurely turning his head to look at the bounty killer directly with an expectancy about his features.

"Mornin', Clay," Halvard said distantly, offering a slight nod in greeting.

"Hello, Hal," Sloan said as he crossed the lobby. "How's the shoulder?"

"Healed, mostly. Rotator cuff's still a bit sore but I'll live," the muscle bound alien flicked his crimson gaze at the bloody sacks the bounty killer clutched in his hand and back up. "Big haul today."

"It's been a good week, with a few strings attached," Sloan jerked his chin at the reception counter at the other end of the room. "The Marshal available?"

Halvard nodded. "In his office."

Sloan set the gruesome curios on the counter and tapped his finger on the call bell off center to the right. The sharp ringing sound echoed in the deep quiet of the lobby. Something rustled in one of the rooms beyond the group of empty half-walled cubicles. A moment later, Marshal Sergio Giuseppe emerged from his corner office on the other side of the service desk with an arm lingering on the doorframe, his aristocratic features and lanky frame, and his large, slender hands betrayed the lawman's deadly skills with the pistol he kept tucked under his shoulder. The marshal's grainy sand-colored eyes danced about as he searched for the source of his summons, and when they fell upon Sloan and the Marshal's features lit up with a jolly glee that neared childish joy.

"Master Sloan!" Giuseppe exclaimed, greeting the bounty killer with a vibrant smile like an old friend he had not seen in many years.

"Marshal."

The wiry man moved to the counter in two swift strides, leaning his forearms on the vinyl panel surface. "Haul in another ruffian for us?"

"Yes and no," Sloan set a hand on the larger of the two bags, saying, "Gordon Thaleed and his accomplices. Courtesy of Samus Aran."

"Ah. Yes. I'll see that she's credited," Giuseppe stated assuredly working the keys on the terminal behind the counter.

Sloan grunted as he said, "She's gonna need it."

"So Dot's told me. Surgical procedures are expensive. I will admit that, yes, Samus has lost a bit of her grit. However I'd consider it a personal favor if you did try to go easy on her, Clay. The girl hasn't been home in a very long time."

"I noticed when she walked into a hotgate and had half her torso ripped open by a hand grenade."

"I said 'go easy', not 'don't be critical'," the Marshal glanced at the smaller of the two parcels and back up to the bounty killer. "Who's this?"

Sloan made quick work undoing the simple knot in the cinch cords on the smaller bag, quickly pulled open the mouth of the sack with a jerk, reached his hand in and seized the grisly remains of his own quarry by the scalp to set on the counter.

"Quinlun Gal'Ek, Gredoan mobster and former compatriot from the Mercenaries Guild."

Giuseppe raised a brow and his mouth thinned to a frown. "Yes, I remember him alright. Eight grand going either way, wasn't it?" Sloan nodded and the Marshal continued. "Indecent fellow even at his most charming, terrible shame he didn't live to see trial. I know at least six of your competitors would love to have a few choice words towards his conviction. Personally I'd like to thank you for closing his regrettable chapter in our city's story."

"Glad to have been a part of history, Sergio," Sloan glanced at a notice on his HUD that he had been credited for his service and the total of his reward would be added to his account after security clearing. Sloan eyed the CONFIRM button centered under the short paragraph and blinked to close the window. "Know anything about her?"

"Hmm?"

"Samus Aran, the girl I burned eight-and-a-half grand putting back together," Sloan said and caught the Marshal's interest with a surprised glance of his eyes, "what's her background?"

Giuseppe shrugged a shoulder. "Colonist kid, not surprising considering the Federation's hiccup with Earth. Her parents were killed when she was still a child, a Chozo friend of the family adopted her after that. The rest of her childhood is a question mark. I don't know if it's because something happened or if the Feds honestly don't know. Her files are surprisingly classified, even with my station."

"Let alone your reputation," Sloan offered, the aside earned him a grunt from the other man. "What's public record?"

"Samus enlisted into the Federal Navy right around the time she became eligible. Most of her activities after she completed basic training are covered over in black ink. From what I recall of her methods I'd guess she was either Intelligence Corps or special forces. Her term finished and she didn't re-enlist, got her own ship and her own suit from her adopted parents, and ventured out here to take up the craft. I still have her dossier here, I can send it to you. I imagine that if you're credentials are still active in the Dominion I bet you can get more out of it than I can."

"Log it with Dot," Sloan said affirmatively, sparing a glance at the mugshots on the posters of the bounty board. "Anything good on the wire?"

"A few come to mind," the Marshal said, stepping away from his terminal and crossing his arms over his chest. "Though for you? I have one in particular. Granted it's more rumor and hearsay."

Sloan glanced at the severed head sitting on the counter. "I've started with less."

"Eddie Manks, heard of him?" Sloan shook his head and Giuseppe punched few commands on his terminal. A projection of a man approximately in his late thirties appeared in the center of the lobby. He was of a course, withered complexion, with a long and ugly series of raking scars running down the right side of his face, likely he had been mauled by any of Valmora's native predatory fauna and survived. His thin hair was receding and colored an oily blonde and slicked back over his scalp. His beady yellow and bloodshot eyes were focused on the cigarette clutched in his cracked lips as it en was thrust into the pilot flame of a jury rigged flamethrower.

"Clay I'd like to introduce you to Edward Thompson Manks," Giuseppe continued with more than a little amusement in his voice. "Thirty-nine years old last May, height five-eleven, weight one-hundred-ninety pounds. A career stickup man, notorious around the Headlands and the Rusted Coast. Built quite the rep robbing every tin-roofed shack with something worth stealing, massed up a crew of forty until the locals in a township called Shott's Darrow anted up and gunned down a third of their number before chasing what was left to our neck of the woods. From what my contacts have gathered, he and whoever else is left is in town."

Sloan relented an irritated growl. If Manks was on the run, and if he was smart, he would be hunkered down somewhere he knew was safe. There had to be at least a dozen places hidden all over Meridian an outlaw could duck into hiding with little or no interference from the populace or law enforcement. That was just off the top of Sloan's head.

"Have an idea where I should look first?"

"Seebley's Point," Giuseppe flippantly gestured to his left, the general direction of the neighborhood in question. "I've had my contacts scouring the city since word was passed to me. There's a Boks-Suhr ganger-cum-gun merchant there by the name of Joram Fyl that Manks used to run with. For the right price or the correct squeeze he should be able to tell you anything you need."

"I'll look into it, let you know what I find." Sloan paused as he turned to leave. "And file her paperwork."

Giuseppe glanced up and grinned. "As you say, Guild Master."

Sloan left without another word and Giuseppe rapidly fired several commands into his terminal as the bounty killer turned to leave. Giuseppe sniffed and rubbed the underside of his nose with his forefinger before his gaze fell on the slacken expressions on the former bandits' heads. "Harlvard, when you have the moment, dump these in the incinerator for me before they get ripe would you?"

...

The more Samus saw and learned of the Cobalt, through the candid explanations of eager Dot as she led the way to the ship's armory, the more impressed she was by it.

The ship's official registry was the IVC-S 1113948-007983195 Cobalt. Her prefix abbreviated the vessel classification of Independent Venture Craft, Spacefaring and the first set of numbers indicated her radio code under the Interstellar Maritime Organization, owned and captained by Arcturan bounty hunter Clayton Sloan. The Cobalt was a Centurion-class heavy starship regularly in use by the Interstellar Marshals for deep space patrols and operations for TRU teams in problem systems. And it showed. Four centralized propulsion engines powered by their own cold fusion warp drives that could decouple in the even of an emergency, a hull comprised of ADAM-5 alloy plating colored in the crafts namesake blue, each wing of the ship harbored two missile pods loaded with eight Lancer missiles in each sleeve—with another three dozen in reserve—coupled with a pair of gun pods housing a Bofors 70mm rail cannon and two GAU/D–49 Matkovic Gatling rotary guns that could sling out thirty-two millimeter slugs at seven-thousand rounds a minute each, and dorsal and vestal M913 one-hundred-twenty-five millimeter point defense cannons housed in the hull until activated for piloted or automated gunning. The interior was designed to be as homey and comfortable as a paramilitary craft could for the sake of its future crew members. Lighting was mostly recessed LEDs that cannily imitated sunlight and reflected off the soft whites and dulcet blues of the bulkheads to provide a relaxing atmosphere during the long ventures in patrol routes.

She was a small ship, a crew of a dozen could fully staff operations aboard and at maximum capacity fifty humanoids of average size could fit comfortably, but the main hold could house an additional forty to fifty people in case of emergency. Her kitchen was fully stocked, capable of full automation, and adjoined to the small mess room by a wall partition. The sizable armory was stocked with an array of finely tuned weapons and brand new tactical gear wrapped in cellophane cases around a capable simulation range for practice and drills. The bridge, CIC, and flight deck were combined into a single space to preserve room for the crew quarters and separate housing for the tactical team if they were inclined. The med-bay, situated between the storage bay and the staff housing and separated by short passages on either side, was capable of a number of operations and treatments ranging from simple clinical diagnosis to complex medical surgeries. Samus knew that firsthand.

The Cobalt's construction occurred over the course of three months in the shipyards of Kynapis under the care of the Marshals' Space Corps' master artificers. A series of test flights and a wide array of performance calibrations followed, and many weeks later the Cobalt was cleared for active service and several teams were slotted to host her while the Marshals' livery was applied. Instead of uniformed service, however, the Cobalt and much of its furnishings had been one part payment, one part gift, and two-parts apology from the Marshals a few weeks after the Cobalt had been christened. The last starship Dot had been installed on had been emulsified when the confederates of a high-profile bounty had come to rescue their leader, and brought along enough ordinance to invade a small country. The bounty was several figures removed from being able to cover the cost to make the ship space worthy, let alone function a means of transit.

"So since Serg doesn't do much in the way of patrols and he had this beauty just sitting in back, he gave it to us," Dot concluded cheerily before adding, "He makes us pay for gas and oil changes, though. Cheap bastard."

Samus guffawed. "I'd say you made it out on top."

"We've come out worse."

"I can imagine," Samus mused. She had lost count of the times she had been jilted by a skeezy employer looking to save as much money as they could. Samus could also count with her fist the number of the niggardly assholes that were still alive. "So you and Clay run shop on her?"

"Mhmm!" Dot nodded. "Officially, Clay and I live and conduct business aboard this ship."

"And unofficially?"

"It's the headquarters of the Bounty Hunters' Guild."

Samus blinked and stopped dead in her tracks while Dot continued ahead. "I—Sorry. What?"

Dot turned around, head tilted curiously at the bounty hunter. "The Bounty Hunter's Guild. After the Marshals—and Clay—broke up Mercenaries' Guild, Clay chartered the Bounty Hunters' Guild while all of the merc teams that were left formed up the Freelancers or stayed independent."

Samus' shock must have been evident on her face, because the next moment Dot's head perked up in realization. "You didn't hear about that."

"No." Samus shook her head. She clenched her jaw and clamped her hands around her head. "No! Jesus, that was twelve years ago! How many people are in it?"

"Right now it's me and Clay," Dot answered before adding, "Pluuuus a few other applicants that we haven't been able to bring in. The Guild's Charter has been finalized but Clay hasn't enacted it officially. Yet."

Samus sighed with relief. "Well l, Christ, why the hell not?"

Dot shrugged. "'The world is quiet here.'"

The bounty hunter's frown did not do her confusion justice. "What?"

"It's what Clay tells me whenever I ask if he's going to open the guild," Dot explained. "He just says, 'the world is quiet here' and thhhhbbpppt," Dot demonstrated by jerking a thumb down. "Conversation over. On to next contract."

Samus squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head incredulously. "And the Oversight Authority is alright with it?"

Dot nodded. "We followed the OA's guidelines to the letter. At least three founders, an elected Guild Master positioned with two-thirds vote from all other members. Right now we just need to register our charter and viola! Valmora's first bounty hunters guild will be founded."

Samus' expression soured and she clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth. "Who are the founders?"

"All information regarding Guild personnel, past or present, is strictly confidential and only available to accepted Guild members or to be granted at the discretion of the Guild Master."

Samus rolled her eyes and tisked. She had expected that answer, standard personal information disclosure clause. On paper it was meant to protect the identities of members of guilds with hazardous or grudge-rearing professions, but in practice it often made it easy for members to escape criminal charges under plausible deniability. All too often, in Samus' opinion. Still, a guild that wasn't officially chartered had no reason to restrict the access to their roster. There was only one member of a founded guild that was open for public knowledge. And while Samus could guess what the answer would be, she went ahead and asked anyway.

"Let me guess, Clayton Sloan is the Guild Master."

Dot made a face like Samus had said a bad joke. "Well, yeah, obviously."

...

A wide and thick window looked into the Cobalt's armory and offered a quick glimpse of what lay beyond the labeled door before Dot commanded it open. Weapons of an immense variety rested on racks and caged cabinets against the walls and in column rows, grouped together based on type, configuration, and caliber, at the ready whenever they were needed. An emptied area of the room offered what Samus assumed was space for a simulated firing range. Two island counters resided in the otherwise empty space on the floor where guns in different states of stripping where set alongside cleaning and maintenance supplies. In one corner was a set of counters alongside what looked like five-foot pneumatic transition tubes. Dot made a bee line for the tub in the middle of the row after the door cleared. She turned on her heel and beamed a wide smile to Samus when they reached them.

"And here we are," Dot declared. "You're suit's just this way."

"Are these your fabricators?"

"Nano foundries, technically," Dot jerked a shoulder up, halfheartedly insisting the terminology. "We use them when we need more...delicate repairs done. Your suit classifies as biotech so it was a little out of my league."

The silver casket gave a whir and opened with a sharp popping sound. The door disappeared on a circuit path and Samus beheld the base of her Fusion Suit. An accordion arm reach out and presented Samus with her fully repaired Zero Suit. The bounty hunter drew her brows together as she lifted the blue article and began inspecting it. It was seamless, or very nearly. The only glaring one Samus could find was the break in the lining that served as the zipper that let Samus actually put on and take off her suit, and that was only done by memory.

"I'd say it paid off," Samus said and Dot gave a loud tisk and threw her head back. Samus went to undo the clasps of the gown but stopped and asked, "It alright if I just change here?"

"I certainly won't stop you," the AI said and her expression blanked for a moment before returning to her regular jovial gleam. "And hey! Clay's cleared the cargo bay and on his way up to meet us."

Samus nodded absently, shrugging off the shirt and letting the patient's gown fall and puddle around her feet. While she had some time Samus took to inspecting what would become her newest series of scars. It didn't look too bad, actually, there was a slight discoloration around her rib cage and a faint redness that peeked out of the medical gauze that were placed over the points of incision, at least Samus' best guess at where they were, alongside some nasty looking bruises that were starting to thin out. They didn't cause any pain so she didn't pay them any attention.

"Your boss, Clay," the bounty hunter started. "He's...alright, right? Like in the head?"

Dot gave an exasperated snort. "Clay's the most obstinate, bull-headed contractor this side of the Wall and doesn't like being told he 'can't' at anything. But while I'd hardly call him a saint, he's not a twisted sadist either. The OA cleared him for GM service so I'll say that he's pretty good upstairs. Other than that, Clay doesn't emote much, but I think that's more of an Arcturan thing than a psychological issue."

Samus smirked. "And that thing with the heads is?"

Dot shrugged. "His calling card? Clay's done it since before I met him."

Samus stood up and rolled her shoulders, comforted by the familiar sensation of the Zero Suit flexing against her skin and the feint straining noises it made. "Alright," she said and clapped her hands and rubbed her palms against each other. "Let's go meet the Captain."

Dot nodded mirthfully and turned on her heel. "Right this way, then."

Samus followed swiftly after the AI concierge and caught up to her pace in a few quick strides. "So how did you and Clay 'meet'?"

"Long story short?" Dot countered with a wink. "I came under his care as he was collecting everything above my designer's neck. If he hadn't snagged me when the Marshals' TRU guys caught up with him, I'd be nothing more than chaff-fried motherboards. "

"Not a pleasant thought?" Samus barbed when the AI's dollus shivered.

"Let's just say I don't dedicate a lot of my processors on it," Dot retorted. "Any, as a matter of fact."

Dot stopped before a set of doors that came off the wall halfway down the hall. It occurred to Samus that she and the AI hadn't actually used the Cobalt's lift during Dot's impromptu tour. But it looked like any other vertical lift found across the galaxy, save for a red control yoke centered were the doors met in the middle.

"It means it's in use," Dot said. "Security feature, doors lock with the elevator's in transit."

A soft chime sounded as the elevator came to a stop. Dot lit up excitedly. The doors whisked open and Samus stared at the barrel chest of a towering black colossus before she took a step back and tipped her head up.

By the way the figure was dressed, Samus suspected he was either readied for a full blown war, or returning from it. His frame was hugged by a design of armor Samus was unfamiliar with. It encased his body from his boots to the tips of his fingers and carried many marks of abuse; dented by bullets, warped by plasma, scratched by blades, charred by flame, and God knew what else. There was an aura of presence about it that commanded the eye's attention and cast both fear and awe into the observer. Weapons dripped from his frame like venom from an adder's fangs and further enforced his martial bent.

A lengthy marksman's rifle and a configured assault rifle were slung over his back, held in place by magnetic straps no doubt. A bandoleer stuffed to burst with bullets, shot-shells and a sinister-looking knife crossed his chest, pouches for magazines were clustered on his abdomen in a military-style rig, a belt circled his waist where more mags were tucked into clip-slots and a silvery tomahawk dangled from a loop next to a dented canteen coated with beads of perspiration from the chill of its contents. Two side arms were on his person, one a silvery revolver finely polished to an impeccable shine that rested midpoint of his thigh in a short holster, the other a tan-colored semi-automatic tucked under his left arm.

Most outstanding of this immense figure's attire was the grim helmet that enclosed the entirety of his head. Jet black and as abused as the rest of his armor. A promise of certain but swift doom stared down at him from pitiless red slits of light that started just below where the nose should be, went up, and slanted slightly to the end of the helmet's brow.

"Samus Aran," Dot smiled, "allow me to introduce you to Clayton Sloan."

...

"Dot," Sloan said as he observed the young woman before him with a decidedly deer in the headlights aura about her, from her posture to the overwhelmed expression. In hindsight, Sloan supposed he could have better coordinated their first meeting with slightly more tact.

"Samus Aran," he said and tipped his head respectively. "Good to see you back on your feet in one piece."

"Ah, yeah. Thank you, good to still be in one piece," Samus said. "I appreciate you pulling my boots out of the fire, Guild Master."

Sloan turned his eyes back to Dot with a raised and curious eyebrow.

"She asked and I answered," Dot shrugged. "It's not like you weren't gong to tell her."

"Uh-huh," Sloan said and looked back at Samus. The young woman stood a little straighter and Sloan stepped to his left and jerked his head indicatively. "Get in."

She obliged and stepped into the elevator as Sloan punched the button for the cargo bay level. The doors closed and the elevator began its descent with a mechanical whir. Most of the ride was passed in silence as Sloan was still formulating how he wanted to approach this next phase, but midway through the second deck Samus cleared her throat.

"I wanted to ask…how much of Thaleed's lecture did you catch back there?"

"Most of it," Sloan answered, honestly. Underlying implications aside, he didn't see any point in lying to Samus. If he was going to be working with the young woman, Sloan was going to open and honest with her as he could be. Anything less would not do either of them any good.

It didn't make Samus' reflexive wince any less amusing, however.

"Gordon Thaleed was a thief, a brute, and a killer. He'd have said anything to get into your head. How long have you been active? A little over three weeks and in that time, you took on and completed eight commissions, testing the waters. So you went for a job with a little more in the pot and wound up biting off more than you could chew. It happens."

"Still would've liked to pop that son of a bitch," Samus sighed and crossed her arms. She leaned against the side of the elevator, facing him fully. "Anyway, thanks for the pep talk. With the day I've had I half expected a lecture."

Sloan shook his head. "Sergio reinstated you himself. He's a good man, and a close friend. I trust his judgement, but I wish he'd at least have given me a call after he finalized your return to duty."

Samus smirked and said, "To make a personal assessment of my abilities?"

"More or less," the bounty killer nodded.

The elevator came to a comfortable stop and buzzed as the doors opened out to the Cobalt's spacious cargo hold. Aside from the typical supply crates, a vehicle dock, and a small armory station just ahead of where Samus and Sloan stepped off the elevator, and a raised platform directly in the middle with a series of terminals that popped to life when it registered that there were occupants in the bay. Sloan immediately made his way to a row of lockers that had a stock image of a body armor under a combat helmet on the doors. Sloan tapped in a code on one the doors and pulled it open, and took a sealed cellophane bag off the rack inside. He turned to face his new protege's inquisitive look.

"Put this on," Sloan said, handing her the bag. "And don't ever take it off outside the ship."

"A bullet vest?"

Sloan grunted affirmatively. "Specialized polycarbonate counter-ballistics vest, Grade IV. The SRT guys I taxi wear these when they go on raids. Lightweight and flexible, but you can take an eight gauge slug to the sternum and not get so much as a bruise."

A brow raised on the young bounty hunter as she opened the bag and held the graphite gray article in front of her at arm's length. "You did see my armored suit, right? Big and orange, kinda hard to miss?"

The bounty killer grunted but ignored Samus' jab. "Your power suit alone won't cut it on this side of the Wall, we don't have a reliance on energy weapons like in Civ Space. Chozo build to last, but as it is now your armor defends best against direct- or projected-energy weapons; a rare sight out here," Sloan informed, moving over to a weapons cabinet and opened it up after punching in a code and pulled one of the SRT's PDWs off the wrack. He pulled the charging handle back to inspect the chamber for a moment, and then set it into the cradle of the workbench to his right. Looking back into the cabinet he flicked his eyes about for the cases of assemblage he deemed appropriate, grabbed them from their shelves, and set them on the workbench too.

"The average person in the Border Clusters doesn't have the scratch to get a man-portable plasma cutter, let alone a direct energy weapon. Not any more," Sloan clarified, keeping his tone light. Conversational. Almost like he was giving a briefing back in the Dominion. "The immense majority of people you'll be meeting carry mass driver kinetic weapons; civilian populace, common bandits, even the Marshals. All someone with the intent would have to do is get the drop in me and rob me with business end of a zip gun and you are back on that table. Permanently."

"Well…" Samus shrugged conceitedly. "Fair point."

Sloan cast a look over his shoulder at Samus before chuckling under his breath. "I'll have Dot draw up a Chobham weave or a hydrostatic gel mod for your suit," he said with assurance. "Besides, this isn't an evaluation of your combat abilities."

"I'm...sorry, what?" Samus deadpanned. That caught her off guard.

"As mobile as you are at the moment, Samus, I want your injuries to get further healed before we get you back out into the field of fire," Sloan explained. "Until then, I want to see your reconnaissance and information gathering skills at work."

"You got a commission lined up already?"

"Edward 'Eddie' Mansk from the Rusted Coast," Sloan said as he set a mounted micro sight onto the gun's top rail and tightened the fastening bolts to keep it in place. "Career bank robber, various assault and murder charges that come with it."

"Something simple, okay, I'll play this game," Samus sucked in and let out a breath. "We got an idea on his whereabouts?"

"According to a few CIs there's a man in Seebley's Point that can point us to his direction. 'Retired' outlaw by the name of Joram Fyl, runs a gunshop off the market."

"So we go ask Joram a few questions about his former comrade and get a fix on Manks," Samus concluded with a breath. "How hard do you plan on asking him?"

"As hard as I need to."

"Right. I don't suppose I could borrow one of those?" Samus indicated the squat weapon Sloan held.

"This is yours, actually," Sloan said and lifted the weapon from the cradle to hold out for her after adding a suppressor and box-framed projection circle-dot optical gunsight. "Standard issue for SRT, Sigerson Arms PDW with back-folding integrated foregrip and retractable stock."

Samus grabbed the gun in a way that it set in her arm and pulled the sliding stock out. Her eye down the sight, a contemplative look on her face as she swept the weapon around the room to get a feel for the weight.

"Okay," Samus looped the sling over her shoulder and let the micro weapon hang at her hip. "That it?"

Sloan nodded. "We're going in light. I don't expect too much resistance."

"What's she shoot like?"

"Fair once you get a hang for it. Her ballistic profile is equivalent to a four-point-six millimeter cartridge, with an output going a little under forty kilowatts. Great against soft targets and light armor. The thermal sinks the Marshals use let up to forty shots before they need to be swapped," Sloan set down a magazine rig with a number of long, thin, crescent shaped clips stuffed into them. "You'll be carrying six."

"More than enough," Samus lifted the rig and clipped ito onto her torso. Sloan picked up his rifle and and slung his over his back.

"Ready?"

Samus nodded. "Ready."

A/N: Whenever I'm writing for Dot I always picture Anne Hathaway; don't know why. Maybe it's her hurried and excited charisma that I pick up from her interviews that I've tried to imbue Dot with at least on some level but idk. And yes, I'm blatantly robbing the mass driver tech from Mass Effect for the guns in and around the BC. Kinetic weapons are just better suited to the fragile stability of the sector.

Be sure to review, I love hearing what you guys think!