Hunk Garrett took pride in his lounge.

The place had a certain charm to it. The dim but still perceptible lighting, the neon that ran under the counters and around nooks in the wall, the long couches and tables… it was as much home to him as his own apartment was.

The patrons were a part of why he enjoyed it so much, of course. He was proud to say that no Galra ever stepped through his doors. Every member was human, and the only requirement they had to stay was to be respectful. All patrons knew that they could be evicted at a moment's notice by the plenty of employees Hunk had on hand.

He nodded towards a young woman—a regular customer, who always had gossip to share—lounged on one of the couches. She smiled at him and went back to talking to the group she sat with.

Hunk turned towards the long wall of bottles behind him. Rows and rows of drinks wrapped around a cylinder in the middle of the bar, his counter wrapped around with it. It glowed softly behind the drinks, colors fading into others every few moments. He eyed a bottle on the top shelf, one that was only opened when a certain customer came in, and smiled at the memory. Lance McClain, paying for his entire crews' drinks after a successful raid, talking loudly with the widest grin Hunk had ever seen on a person.

The space pirate was charming, Hunk had to admit. A dangerous, cunning, and bloodthirsty criminal, but charming, nonetheless. And, as long as he put good coin into Hunk's pockets, Hunk wouldn't tell a soul he was there.

McClain hadn't been around in a while, though, and the last Hunk heard he was looting his way through the far side of the Milky Way, taking out Galra ship after Galra ship. Another reason Hunk never reported him to the authorities when he came by. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Hunk continued to serve drinks as the night wound down and patrons flitted in and out. It was late at night—or early in the morning, rather—when the buzz of the lounge finally died down to just a few people. He contemplated closing for the night when a thump sounded at the counter behind him.

Confused, he turned around. Usually people sat on the side nearest to the door, and he was around the other side of the large cylinder, out of sight from the other customers. A hooded figure sat hunched over the bar, small and lithe under the cloak. He was about to ask what they wanted when he noticed their gloved hand tapping away on the counter. He sighed. "Pidge, you really should come by after I close shop."

She lifted her head and pulled the hood back. "Couldn't wait. Give me something to drink."

Hunk poured her a drink and passed it to her. "You're going to pay me this time, right?"

She waved her hand. "Yeah, yeah."

He sighed. Pidge only came by when she was frustrated or upset, and often times it was about her… work. Work that Hunk couldn't discuss with her out in the open. He wanted to ask what was wrong, but… "I'll close up soon, and then we can talk."

She mumbled in reply. He walked to the other side of the wraparound counter and served his last few drinks before announcing closing. Once everyone had left (some walking, some stumbling), he locked the door and closed the curtains.

Pidge sat on one of the couches now, holding a refilled glass. Hunk grabbed his own drink and sat down across from her. "Okay, what's wrong."

She shook her head and took a drink. After a bit of silence, she said, "I got a new job yesterday."

Hunk quirked an eyebrow. So this was about work. Good thing he'd closed up. "And?"

She went silent again, staring into her glass. He was about to ask again when she said, "I've been hired to kill Lance McClain."

Hunk almost choked. He began coughing and she looked up, alarmed. He held up a finger. Finally, the coughing ceased, and he looked up at her with watery eyes. "You're joking."

She shook her head.

A million thoughts raced through his mind at once. McClain was unkillable, his ship unsinkable. Everyone who had tried to take him out so far was dead. "Katie that's suicide!"

She cringed. "Don't call me that."

"You're going to your death if you go after him," Hunk continued, ignoring her discomfort. "What the hell could've possibly convinced you to take the job?"

She looked at him with burning eyes. "The client has information on Matt."

Hunk stopped short. What?

Matt Holt, missing for almost two years and presumed dead, buried away in some Galra prison camp. Hunk had long since given up hope of finding him after his capture, and he assumed Pidge had too. How long had she held onto hope?

Matt and Katie Holt were once names that were well known by all. The Holt siblings, two of the deadliest assassins out there. They almost always worked together, were formidable in a fight, and no one knew what they looked like save the people they killed and the very select few they interacted with. They weren't the most wanted by any means—other, more experienced hitmen held much higher spots on the most wanted list—but they worked fast and charged less.

But when Matt Holt was caught in a solo job, arrested, and thrown in prison, Katie Holt disappeared. Very few knew what happened to her; now that he thought about it, Hunk might be the only one. Rumors flew, but no one could find her. As the manhunt for Katie Holt ensued, a new name, Pidge Gunderson, rocketed to the top of the most wanted list. The Holt siblings were lost to memory.

"Matt?" Hunk spluttered. "How would he have information on Matt?"

Pidge fidgeted with her hands, pulling at the gloves. "He was Galra."

Hunk froze. "Pidge-"

"I know, I know, okay?" She ground out. "Matt would kill me if he was here, I know the drill, but can you say he wouldn't do the same for me?"

Hunk opened his mouth, but nothing came out. She was right, Matt would've done anything to get her back if she was missing, even if it meant his own death.

She finally met his eyes, and they were filled with a spark he hadn't seen since Matt was captured. "I don't like it either, Hunk, but I have to."

He sighed. She always won him over in the end. "Okay, but at least let me help somehow."

"I'm not sure you can."

He eyed her right hand. "I can at least take a look at that, see if it needs any tune-ups."

Pidge pulled the glove off, revealing the shiny metal hand underneath. She studied it, opening and closing her fist and flexing her fingers. The prosthetic still looked fairly new, with only a few scratches here and there. Pretty good for over a year of constant use. "Is it responding okay? No random spasms?"

She shook her head. "It works fine." She flexed her fingers again before pulling the glove back on.

When she lost her hand, Pidge was furious. The only way to get reliable prosthetics was by paying a ton of money—more than she could afford—and now she would have a distinct feature that could easily identify her in a crowd. She had come to Hunk to vent, but it didn't take him long to realize he could make her a prosthetic. It wasn't his area of expertise by any means, but he had to admit that he was proud of it.

Hunk wasn't satisfied with her response. "I'm going to check it up anyways. Come by tomorrow morning."

She rolled her eyes at his concern, but he knew she was secretly grateful for it.

They talked for a bit, but it didn't take long for Pidge's eyes to start drooping. When Hunk brought it up, she denied it, but not even two minutes later she was drifting in and out of consciousness. When she finally fell asleep, Hunk lifted her too-tiny body and carried her up the stairs into his home that rested above the lounge. As gently as he could he set her on the couch and pulled a blanket over her.

Watching her chest rise and fall, he sighed. Pidge was far too young for the life she led, and he told her this often. 18 was not the age to take murder contracts, nor was any age for that matter. He'd offered her a place to stay and a steady job working with him once she turned 18 multiple times, but every time she turned him down, even after she came of age.

They were both too young for any of the garbage they went through, he supposed. He was only 21, supplying illegal weaponry to rebel groups and running a bar as a front. But the Galra had forced them into their situations, and the only way to change it was to fight back.

Hunk lied awake for a long while, worried for life of the young girl asleep on his couch.

"There," Hunk backed away from the computer wired into Pidge's hand. "That should be it."

"Cool," she detached the wires and hopped off the table. She approached the computer, reading the lines of numbers and words on the screen. "I could've done some of it myself, y'know." Her eyes met his. "Let you work on more important things."

He waved his hand. "You're important."

Pidge felt her face heat up. "Whatever."

Hunk laughed and handed her the glasses resting on the table. She put them on, thankful for the familiarity. "Those are really cool. How'd you make them?"

"A magician never reveals her secrets." She wiggled her fingers.

Hunk rolled his eyes. "Tell me another time then."

Pidge nodded, and Hunk returned to his computer.

Hunk's workshop was well lit despite it being underground. Lights ran all along the ceiling, and even more were strung up along the walls in places where he needed extra lighting. Some worktables had lamps as well. Parts, wires, and scrap metal littered the tables, mixed in with his tools. One wall housed a long shelf filled with various gadgets and instruments that Pidge often found herself ogling. Usually she wanted nothing more than to stay here and help Hunk build, but she almost never had the time.

Pidge picked up a half-finished gun resting on a table. It looked a little like her own blaster, except longer and thinner. "What's this for?"

Hunk glanced over his shoulder. "Oh. Takashi Shirogane ordered it."

"Huh." Pidge set the gun back down.

Takashi Shirogane. Another name everybody knew. Leader of the rebellion and number two on the most-wanted list. Pidge had never met him personally—Matt had, once—but she knew enough about him to know that she would be stupid to get on his bad side. There was a reason she never accepted any contracts concerning his rebels.

For the longest time after he began his group, Pidge thought him an idiot. Every rebel group before his was crushed, and to form a new one was certain death. But as the years went on and the Galra still had not caught him, nor had any idea what he even looked like, Pidge came to respect him.

"So," Pidge turned around and leaned against the table. "How should I get to McClain?"

"Don't ask me," Hunk replied, not looking up from his work. "I'm not getting involved. McClain is dangerous."

Pidge crossed her arms. "So am I."

"Another reason I'm not getting involved, then," Hunk said. He turned and pointed a screwdriver at her. "Two dangerous people don't make a safe environment."

Pidge rolled her eyes, but she couldn't stop the smile that broke out on her face. Damn Hunk and his ability to make her smile.

"I know I can't change your mind," Hunk said, turning back around to his worktable. "But please, Pidge. Please be safe."

Pidge glanced down at her hand and sighed. "I'll do my best."

Hunk sighed but said nothing.

Lying on her bed in her run-down apartment, Pidge wanted nothing more than to pass out right then and there, but she needed to plan. Her mind ran at 90 miles an hour, going through idea after idea on how to get to McClain, the sneaky bastard.

She played with her blaster, swirling it around her fingers. It kept her body from completely giving into exhaustion while she thought. At least McClain had a recognizable face; she couldn't say the same for some of the other notorious pirates out there.

Pidge sighed and rolled over to face her laptop. "Show me cargo routes for this week."

Her computer beeped and the projector clicked on, showing a detailed map of Galra cargo ships across the galaxy. She scanned the map, swiping her hand across the floating blue projection to change the view.

C'mon, c'mon…

There!

A tiny little cargo ship, checking in in four days before getting back on its route to the other side of the galaxy, near McClain's last sighted position. Its cargo was "classified," which made it the perfect target for McClain. Its size would make it difficult for her to stow away, but it was her best shot at reaching the pirate. She hoped that he had the same trade map as her.

Pidge shut off the projector and set her blaster on the bedside table. She could continue planning in the morning. Already, sleep clawed at the edges of her vision. With a yawn, she shut off her lamp and snuggled into the blankets. Sleep took her within five minutes.

Sorry it's been so long since the last update. Things got a little crazy. I was halfway across the country when the travel bans started going up, and my sister was overseas, so between getting myself and her home, things have been pretty chaotic. I hope this chapter makes up for my absence.

I hope everyone is doing okay in this time of crisis 3