Lyrics: "Hercules," performed by Aaron Neville, on Make Me Strong.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Like a bird on the wing,

I just wanna be free enough to do my thing.

I can feel the pressure from every side.

If you're not gonna help, don't hurt,

Just pass me by.

Much to Weave's relief, General Tallis emerged only about a quarter of an hour after she'd brought Kalinda to a cabin. Weave, who'd been seated beside Crest on the lounge sofa, looked up as the copper-haired Jedi slipped into the room, alone.

"How is she?" he asked.

Trax had been pacing, naturally, but paused at this. Tabora had been seated at the small dining table, back to the wall, eyes flickering between the clones as they'd discussed the situation, but not offering his own commentary. At Tallis' entrance, he, too, regarded the female Jedi.

Tallis' face revealed nothing as she crossed the room and took a seat at the table with Tabora. "She's fine, as I said she was. She's sleeping now. Zara's with her."

The knot of anxiety that had formed in Weave's solar plexus loosened a bit, and he glanced over at Crest, who looked visibly relieved. Trax leaned against the bulkhead, arms crossed before his chest, and studied the Jedi. "Your Padawan can handle it?"

Tallis' brow furrowed as if something had confused her, but the expression only lasted a moment before she nodded slowly. "Your general is in capable hands, Traxis. Zara will alert me if there are any complications, but I think Kalinda will be fine."

"What happened?" Weave asked, sitting up. "Is she in any danger? Is the child?"

All of the clones regarded Tallis, though she did not flinch beneath their scrutiny. "Until she has a full-body scan, I can say nothing for certain. However, all evidence suggests her current health is satisfactory."

"But she was...hurting," Crest said softly. "That can't be good, right?"

"The pain she felt was likely a result of stress." Tallis paused, and Weave caught a glimpse of the worried young woman behind the Jedi's cool exterior. "She is under a great deal of emotional strain."

"But she's okay, now?" Traxis asked.

The copper-haired Jedi exhaled and slanted him a sharp look. "As I have said repeatedly: yes, she is 'okay.' For the moment, at any rate, though I want to get her to a true medical center as soon as we've finished your business on Kamino."

Weave exchanged looks with his brothers; he could tell that neither was quite convinced, but there wasn't much any of them could do for their Jedi right now. Right. Now that the health of his team was stable, it was time to turn his mind to other matters.

"Thank you for taking care of her," he said to Tallis, inclining his head. "Now, what's our plan for when we reach Kamino?"

"I said not to worry about the blockade," she replied stiffly.

"Kriffing hell, woman, we heard you," Traxis shot back. "But it's a fardling big planet; do we even know where Milo is? And how the fek is it going to look if we pop out of hyperspace in this shabla vessel?"

Tabora's chin jerked at this, and the tips of his lekku flushed almost crimson as he frowned at Traxis. His voice, though, was calm. "Word on the hyperlanes is that many Jedi have been forced to contract with independent pilots. Not everyone can cruise the galaxy on a Star Destroyer. And I have, ah, ways of adding to the Raven's legitimacy."

Everyone regarded the Twi'lek, but it was Crest who spoke. "How's that?"

"Transponder codes can be altered to suit one's needs," Tabora replied easily. "Just say the word."

General Tallis frowned, but said nothing. Weave wasn't too keen on such a thing either – transponder codes were assigned by the Bureau of Ships and Services, and it was illegal to tamper with them – but as an outlaw, he figured he didn't have much room to argue the fact.

"My other concern, which Traxis pointed out," Tabora continued, "is exactly how we will locate your friend once we are through the blockade."

"Maybe Kali could...sense him?" Crest asked, looking at the copper-haired Jedi. "She said she could feel him a minute ago. I mean, we all kind of sensed him, I guess." He grimaced. "Or something. I don't really want to think about it too hard, honestly."

Tallis considered, her fingertips drumming lightly upon the table's surface. "Perhaps Kalinda could try to track Milo's presence in the Force; she was always adept at that sort of thing. It is a common ability among Jedi, especially if one is close to the person they're attempting to locate. I will ask her when she wakes."

In all likelihood, it would work out, but Weave was loathe to enter into any mission with only the Force to rely upon. Yes, it'd served him well in the past, but now was not the time to get complacent.

"But if the Force fails us, we need to have a backup plan," Weave said.

Traxis shrugged. "You got any bright ideas?"

The lounge was silent for a moment before Weave inhaled deeply and shook his head. "No."

To his surprise, General Tallis sat upright and lifted her chin, passing her eyes over the others in turn, though they landed on Weave, and stayed there as she spoke. "You have placed your trust in your Jedi; by extension, you have placed your trust in the Force. Whether you like it or not, it is a reality you must accept."

Anxiety coiled in Weave's chest, but he tried to ignore the feeling. Trusting the Force was all well and good, but Weave would have felt better with even the most meager intel. Still, they had plenty of time until they reached their destination, and he figured he could discuss all of this with Kalinda when she woke up. It was probably for the best that she get some sleep now.

Crest and Traxis watched him, silently waiting for his cue. Weave was a sergeant, but being in command was a strange feeling; though neither clone was known for being "obedient," Weave thought they'd reverted somewhat to old behavior in the wake of recent events. After Stonewall, he was slotted for leadership of the squad. If the captain never returned, Weave would be the leader of Shadow Squad – or what remained of them.

It was an unsettling realization.

But he could not afford to hesitate, nor offer needless dissent. Now, more than ever, he had to be certain of his path. So he nodded once. "As you say, General Tallis."

About twenty minutes later, Crest was at something of a loss as to what to do with himself.

Weave and General Tallis were deep in discussion, and though he was interested in the mission and Kalinda's health – their two main topics of conversation – Crest found he was too keyed up to add much of substance. When the talk turned to the weirdness of all the clones somehow sensing Milo, he got even more uncomfortable.

"But how?" Weave kept asking.

General Tallis shook her head. Some of the pins that held up her hair had come loose, allowing strands of coppery hair to fall around her face. "I don't know."

"Did we all...simultaneously hallucinate? Is it some sort of...stress-induced psychosis?" Frustration coated the medic's words, and he rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Again, the Jedi's reply was calm, but no more informative. "I don't–"

"Right, I know." Weave sighed. "It's just..."

He trailed off, but the Jedi, to Crest's surprise, gave him a faint, half-smile as she began to take out the rest of the pins. "It is. But as you said before, we have other matters to focus upon."

She paused to shake her hair free; it was pretty long, falling almost to her mid-back, and Crest watched his brother try not to watch the Jedi as she smoothed it out and began to pin it back up. "The most pressing concern is the extraction of your brother. Perhaps he can answer these questions."

Weave nodded slowly and toyed with his ubiquitous datapad. "Maybe."

It wasn't exactly a private conversation, but Crest still felt a bit like he was eavesdropping, so he tried to look like he wasn't listening and turned his mind to other things. Really, he'd think about anything if it meant he didn't have to mull over what the kriff had happened to Stonewall and Milo.

Tabora had slipped off to the helm again; Traxis had gone with him. Actually, the scarred clone hadn't really left the Twi'lek's side since he'd set foot on the ship.

Trax has himself a crush, Crest thought, chuckling to himself. Good for him. He always likes the bad boys.

Someone's throat cleared. He glanced up to see Tallis giving him a disapproving look; enough training sergeants and officers had bestowed similar ones upon him, so he recognized the kind. Weave's expression veered more toward exasperation, which made Crest's ears get hot. It wasn't his fault that he found something to smile at, even in the worst of times. Kriff; he was legitimately happy for Trax, and if his own mind was taken off of their current, sorry predicament, then all the better.

But he knew when he was about to get a talking-to, so he made a show of getting to his feet. "Think I'll brew some caf. Either of you want any?"

Neither one did. Crest made his way to the helm, pausing to activate the door chime that would signal his presence. The door slid open and he watched Traxis and Tabora turn his way, one at the helm, the other standing with his back to the bulkhead.

"Hey, Ares," Crest said, thumbing toward the galley. "Mind if I make some caf?"

"Help yourself, my friend."

"Want any?"

The Twi'lek nodded. "Lots of cream and sugar, please."

"Gotcha. Trax?"

Traxis considered, his jaw working like he was chewing the inside of his cheek, as was his custom when he was agitated but trying not to show it. At last he nodded as well. "Sure. Thanks, vod."

Crest tried to hide his exhale of relief as he turned back for the door. At last, something to do. "Coming right up."

The moment he entered the galley, he swore. Loudly and violently, though luckily no one else was within earshot. Ground caf speckled the floor and counter, reminding him that he'd barreled out of here without cleaning up his mess from earlier.

Well, he'd wanted something to do.

With a sigh, Crest began to poke around cabinets until he found a dustpan and brush, and bent to sweep up the spilled grounds. Once the area was adequately clean, he filled the percolator – still on from his earlier foray – and set it to brew. As he did, something in his belt began to vibrate.

For a moment he was confused, then he remembered that Kalinda had given him her comlink, which meant that whoever was calling was either Ro or...

Ah, fek.

The Stark Raven was in hyperspace, but apparently the little comlink was retrofitted to receive and make transmissions even then, so he had no excuse not to answer. Stomach suddenly in knots, Crest withdrew the device from his belt and activated it.

Except, he had no clue what he was supposed to say. After a frantic moment of debate, he settled on, "Hello?"

Usually a safe bet.

A woman's voice, one he recognized all-too-well, replied. "Crest?"

Shab. How did she know it was him? His throat was tight and his stomach flipped like an ill-fated airspeeder in Coruscanti rush-hour. "Sita. I mean," he winced, "yes, Your Majesty. It's me."

There was a pause, then the queen of Aruna spoke again, her voice wavering and uncertain, more so than he remembered. "Is...is Kalinda there? I wanted to check in, to make sure she was well."

"She's...resting," Crest replied, glancing at the galley door. "I can wake her up if you like..."

"No, that's not necessary, thank you, but please let her know I called." Sita paused. "It is good to hear your voice, Crest. How...how are you?"

He leaned back against the counter, hoping his words didn't give away the fact that his heart was racing. "Oh, you know. On a desperate, last-ditch effort to rescue my brother from the clutches of the long-necks. Business as usual."

To his surprise, she gave a light chuckle, though her next words were serious. "Your...brother? Just the one? I thought two of Kali's men had been abducted?"

Crest took a deep breath. "Um...yeah, that's true. But..." His voice cracked and he had to grind his teeth to get the kriffing words out. "Stonewall's...dead. We're just hoping to extract Milo at this point."

Silence.

Then her voice again, soft as wind on water. "Oh, Crest. I am so sorry..."

He squeezed his eyes shut, suddenly no longer able to even pretend he was anything other than devastated. "Me too."

Shab. His eyes burned and his throat was tight, like he'd tried to swallow his fardling gauntlet. He tried to take a few deep breaths to calm down, but only managed a weak sort of hiccuping sound. The kicker? He was too effing miserable to care that he sounded like an utter di'kut to the woman who occupied each thought, every dream, ever since that evening almost a year ago. There were times when he could still feel her lips on his, still smell the jasmine that clung to her pale hair.

For all of his attempts at flirtation with other fems, in his heart of hearts, there would only ever be one woman for him. Silly as it was, impossible as it would ever be, he knew it as surely as he knew his own name.

But even that knowledge was not enough to bring him comfort, now. Stonewall was dead, and Milo was probably on his way; at best, the kid was lost and scared, and alone. He needed his brothers, but they were half a galaxy away.

"Crest?" Her lilting, Arunai accent drew him out of the darkness.

Pull yourself together, man. "Yeah?"

"Listen to me."

Oddly, he felt a smile tug at his mouth. "No promises."

"I cannot help you rescue Milo," she said quietly. "But you have my word that once you reach Aruna, you and those who travel with you will be safe. This, I can do for you. Do you understand?"

"You make it sound so easy," he replied wryly, swiping at his eyes.

"Perhaps that's because it is."

"I'd like to believe that, Sita." He winced again. "Sorry. Your Majesty."

There was affection in her next words. "I do believe we're past such formalities, Crest."

His cheeks heated but he kept his reply as light as he could. "Glad to hear it."

Meanwhile...

The door to the cockpit slid shut, and Ares looked back at the blue streak of hyperspace. His silent companion remained just that – silent. It was starting to wear on his nerves.

Which could be said for this journey so far, though it'd barely begun. Though the Raven was outfitted to carry passengers, Ares was not accustomed to being around so many others, and had grown rather fond of flying solo, lonely though it was at times. And this group, while kind enough, seemed to come with a myriad of troubles, which boded ill for an already troubled bounty hunter.

Both of his lekku itched at the bases, and he frowned against the familiar craving. Did he even have a cigarra on board? He thought he'd gotten rid of them the last time he'd quit...

"How long?"

Traxis' voice was sullen, as it had been the last four times he'd asked the same question. Aside from his answer to Crest's caf question, these words were all Trax had said since they'd entered the cockpit. Ares sighed as he glanced at the nav; he'd tried to keep his answers civil – he was a professional, after all – but this was a bit excessive. "We should reach Kamino in about eight hours."

He glanced over at the clone, whose light brown eyes flickered his way, but ultimately remained fixed on hyperspace. The blue glow normally cast beings in a cool, pleasant light that softened edges and smoothed harsh features.

Not so, on Traxis. The scar that ribboned down the left side of his face was thrown into stark relief, and from this angle, Ares could see that it reached beneath the black body-glove he wore. How far down did it go? Was it joined by others, hidden out of sight?

"And those effing transponder codes of yours will work?"

A new question, at least. Ares wrinkled his nose at the disdain in Traxis' voice, but again, tried to keep his patience. The soldier was worried for his friends, and probably not in the best of emotional states, given the interaction in the lounge not long ago.

His lekku itched a little more. Come to think of it, he remembered losing a pack of cigarras in the engine room. But that was a few years ago. Odds were not good it would still be there.

"To the best of my knowledge," he replied. "Though none of us can predict what the future holds."

"Oh, that's reassuring."

"It's not meant to be."

Traxis scowled. "We're putting a lot of effing trust in you, chakaar, not to mention the hefty payment you're getting out of all this. So why don't you dial back the milking 'tude and get us where we need to go?"

The final, fraying threads of Ares' patience snapped.

"Very well." He flicked on the autopilot and stood up, offering his best glare to the scarred clone, who watched his movements with interest. "Would you like to see for yourself where all of this trust of yours is being placed?"

"What the fek are you talking about?"

"I can show you how the transponder codes work, if it will set your mind at ease."

Traxis glanced between the helm and the Twi'lek, seemingly at a loss. "Everything will be...okay up here?"

Despite his annoyance, Ares was able to offer a wry smile. "It has been every other time I've stepped away, has it not?"

Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but Ares swore a flush crept up Traxis' neck, though the clone merely gave a curt nod and followed Ares out of the cockpit. They crossed the cargo bay in silence, pausing before the engine access hatch. This was sealed with a lock-code, which Ares keyed in quickly. The hatch slid open to reveal the innermost workings of his beloved Raven, and he couldn't suppress a sigh of satisfaction at the sight.

Though it filled the bulk of the space, the sublight engine was an unremarkable fixture. Boxy and utilitarian, the engine had several sensor panels affixed to the front, along with quite a few ports through which one could manually align the firing cells or examine the ion-collector pods for buildup. But it was the device's simplicity that housed its genius.

Ares glanced at his companion, who examined the sublight engine like it was an unfamiliar type of food he wasn't sure he wanted to taste. "Have you ever worked with a Hoersch-Kessel ion drive?"

Traxis shook his head. "Engines are Weave's thing."

Most of Ares' agitation melted away when he'd set eyes on his engine, so he ducked his head beneath an overhanging lip that contained the collector coils, and made his way further into the room. After a beat, Traxis followed.

"The particulars of each engine vary, but most sublight engines are manufactured from one design: the Hoersch-Kessel ion drive. The design is such that it can be modified to suit almost any need, from a speeder-bike to a Star Destroyer."

Ares had to pitch his voice a little louder than normal to rise above the hum of the hyperdrive, hard at work in the corner of the engine room. The sublights were on standby now, so that they could immediately take over piloting the ship once the Raven came out of hyperspace.

"There are few moving parts, as you can see, which cuts down on maintenance; those parts the engine does use can be found almost everywhere."

He glanced at the clone, who stood a little less than an arm's length away, eying the sublight drive with trepidation. At Ares' pause, Traxis glanced his way, seeming to have to search for words. "Uh...that's good."

Ares smiled. Traxis was remarkably handsome, even more so when he wasn't being a pain in the choobies. "Indeed it is. This model can run on nearly any type of fuel."

"Great."

"You see that panel there?"

Traxis' gaze followed Ares' pointing finger, to a blinking panel affixed to the upper right corner of the drive. A series of numbers and letters glowed softly at the panel's center. "What about it?"

"That's where the transponder codes are burned into each engine, courtesy of the Bureau of Ships and Services. The codes are associated with a serial number stored in the Bureau's information banks. The idea is that no matter how many times a vessel changes hands, the codes will remain the same, thus always identifying the ship. But," he flipped open the panel and withdrew a series of sheets of metal, so thin they were nearly flimsi in his hands, "there are ways around such a thing."

Traxis' brows lifted, and he looked between Ares and the false codes, clearly at a loss for words. "Those come standard?" he asked at last.

Ares laughed outright and began to thumb through the codes, carefully, so as not to leave any smudges that might tamper with the sensors. "Not quite, my friend."

It took him a moment to find the one he wanted; a Republic-friendly code that had served him well on a job he'd done a few months after the Wars had started. As he replaced the current code with the new one, he noticed his clone companion's shifting boots and clenching jaw, which broadcast the Human's agitation as surely as if he'd announced his feelings outright.

Ares looked back at the casing that housed the thin sheets of metal, ensuring it was fastened securely. "I do not know you or your friends very well," he said quietly. "But from what I have seen, any Jedi who is willing to go to these lengths to rescue men like your brothers is a force to be reckoned with. You have my word that I will do what I can to help."

"Men like what?"

There was an edge to Traxis' voice that Ares had not heard before. Transponder code secure, he straightened and met Traxis' eyes. "You said yourself that clones are considered slaves by most."

Traxis' eyes narrowed and his hands clenched into fists at his sides, and Ares was suddenly acutely aware that this man wore full body armor, and he only a flimsy nerf-leather jacket. He was no slouch when it came to physical combat, but he had a feeling he would not walk away from a fight with Traxis without a few bruises and possibly a broken bone or two.

Indeed, Traxis took a step closer and met Ares' eyes in a silent challenge that underwrote his words. "Is that what you think of me? A shabla slave? Cannon-fodder, flesh-droid?"

Amidst the hum of the engines, Traxis' voice was a low growl that shot directly through Ares' lekku, straight to other parts of his anatomy. They were close enough now that he could feel the heat of Traxis' skin, even through the armored plating, and he was hard-pressed to speak normally. "No..."

"Then what am I?"

Ares swallowed, fighting to gain control of himself. "You're a man."

"You're damn right I am," Traxis said, and sealed the gap between them.

It was a deep kiss, a bruising kiss, and Ares relished every part of it, but briefly. He allowed himself one moment of pure, sweet weakness before he broke away and stepped past Traxis, toward the front of the engine room, hoping that with a little distance he could find his own composure. He leaned his hand against the sublight engine's smooth side and regarded the clone. "We've discussed this."

Traxis followed a beat later, though he kept himself at arm's length. "Yeah. But I thought..."

He trailed off and Ares sighed. "You 'thought?' With which head?"

A half-smile slid to the clone's face, and his eyes gleamed. "Was I wrong?"

Ares sighed again, and rubbed his left lek absently as he glanced around the engine room, searching for a nook where his past self might've shoved a cigarra pack. "That is not the point."

"What the fek does that mean?" Traxis rested his hands on his hips and regarded Ares with a knowing – a far too knowing – look. "A kiss like that doesn't lie. We've got means, motive and opportunity. What more do we need?"

"You're not in your right mind."

Traxis smirked. "You don't know me well enough to make that call."

Ares spotted a vaguely familiar-looking crevasse near the base of the hyperdrive and all but dove for it, silently thanking the Force when his fingers touched the crumpled cigarra pack. Only one stick left; he withdrew it with a faintly trembling hand, and began to fumble through his coat.

No lighter. He may have had one in his cabin, but it was a long way from here. Ares sighed again and looked at the armored man beside him. "As you say. But the fact remains that I do not wish to be a," he frowned, "means to an end."

"With me?"

Ares studied the cigarra in his fingers; it was a few years old, and the flimsi coating was peeling away. "With anyone."

Traxis was silent, and for a moment, so was Ares. He considered rushing out to find his lighter, but remained in place and looked at the other male once more. "There was a time, not too long ago, when I would have been glad of such an...arrangement. When I might have even sought it out on my own. But that time is past.

"No, Traxis, you are not wrong about me. Nor are you incorrect when you say I do not know you very well. But I know enough of you to understand that you consider yourself a tool, and any," his mouth quirked, "recreation we could enjoy now would only be one of two things in your mind. A payment for services rendered, or..."

He paused, and Traxis' eyes narrowed. "Or what?"

Ares looked into those light brown eyes that almost looked gold in the dim light of the engine room. "A distraction."

"Nothing wrong with a distraction, under the right circumstances."

"Perhaps not, for most." Ares sighed again and pocketed his cigarra. "But I've had enough distractions in my life, enough so that it's been a challenge to keep to the right path. I find I do not want any more distractions, now. I am sorry," he finished, looking at Traxis once more. "Believe me, it is not easy to turn you down, when you so easily, ah, corrode my resolve."

Confusion crossed Traxis' face, along with a deep flush, but both faded after a moment, and he nodded briskly. "I can live with a rejection like that."

"I am glad to hear it."

Ares indicated the hatch, but Traxis didn't move. Instead, the armored man looked down at his boots while his gloved fingertips toyed with his cheek, where the most pitted portions of the scar lived. "I don't mean to be so..."

"Persistent?"

A smile ghosted across the soldier's face. "I was going to say karking annoying. But 'persistent' sounds nicer."

Ares shrugged, mostly to conceal the tell-tale twitch of tchun, his left lek. "Persistence is an admirable trait – under the right circumstances."

He'd hoped to coax another smile from the clone, but Traxis nodded absently, eyes distant. "You're right. I'm not...at my best, right now."

A few words came to Ares, but he held them firmly behind his teeth. It was one of his better qualities, he'd been told: knowing what to say and when not to say it.

Sure enough, after a few moments, the scarred soldier's head dipped again. "What Kali said...I didn't want to believe it."

His voice was quiet and heavy, and Ares didn't have to ask what he spoke of. He'd seen all the clones' faces when the dark-haired Jedi had broken the news about their dead brother. As to the sensing of the other clone in the Force – it seemed no one was discussing that for now. One problem at a time, perhaps.

Ares placed a hand on Traxis' forearm; the plastoid was cool beneath his glove, a marked contrast from the man it shielded. "I am sorry for what you have lost, Traxis."

The scarred man looked away, eyes closing briefly. "It's my fault."

"It is common to blame oneself when a tragedy occurs, especially when–"

"No," Traxis growled, jerking his arm away from Ares and jabbing his chestplate with his thumb. "You don't kriffing understand. I wished he would be killed, not reconditioned. It's my fekking fault."

Ares turned over the words, but didn't quite suss out their meaning. "What does it mean, 'reconditioned?'"

"It's a term the long-necks – the Kaminoans who created us clones – came up with. Sort of like a 'factory reset.' It means..." Traxis inhaled deeply. "It means they fekking...erase your memories, everything about you that makes you, you. All the experience a clone gains, his fardling identity...it's gone. He has to start over."

It was too horrific for words. Ares was at a loss for a moment before he was able to speak. "The Kaminoans truly have this...ability?"

Traxis gave a bitter laugh. "Yeah. That's the fekking joke of it all. We clones are tools, Ares. We can be modified or disposed of, whichever suits their needs – same as your transponder codes."

A chill swept over Ares as he looked back at his beloved engine, humming diligently. He heard a soft thud and thought Traxis had opened the hatch to leave, but when he looked back at the clone, he saw that Traxis had merely leaned his shoulder against the bulkhead. His eyes were closed and his face was twisted with grief, though the moment he realized he was being watched, he straightened. The grief retreated, replaced with a scowl.

"All a clone has are his memories. Without them, he really is just cannon-fodder."

Ares nodded slowly, all thoughts of the cigarra firmly pushed out of his mind. He was starting to understand, though he wished he didn't. "In your mind, then, death is preferable to reconditioning?"

Traxis sighed again. "Yeah. Fekking twisted osik, isn't it?"

Neither spoke for a few moments while Ares processed all he'd just learned. At last, he shook his head, his lekku swaying against his shoulders. "That is, without a doubt, the most depressing thing I have heard in a long while."

To his surprise – and pleasure – Traxis gave a grim smile. "Stellar. Do I get a prize?"

"A prize? You are incorrigible."

Traxis rolled his eyes, though Ares did not miss the faint smirk he was trying to hide. "That's not what I meant. Get your effing mind out of the gutter."

Ares allowed himself a grin in return as he activated the hatch so they could leave the engine room. "You first, my friend."