Chapter The First: In which Armstrong Huston reminisces about Samus Aran, and is shocked by the discovery of her deviant behavior

"Hey there, Huston? We have a problem..."

"Go ahead, Bill," Armstrong Huston, debonair businessman, said with a yawn, leaning back in his desk chair.

"Well, sir, it's just that... well, I was sorting through the files, like I usually do, the late a's, a-m through a-z, and all, and included in that range is a-r. Of course. But you knew that."

"Yes, Bill. Yes, I did know that. Just tell me what the problem is," he said, smoothly, hiding his irritation behind a plastered on grin. He remembered what his parents always told him about speaking with others: always smile, even if–no, especially if–you aren't face to face with them, because the warmth and genuine interest would show through, even if–no, especially if–you didn't feel warm, or particularly genuine.

"Well, sir, in those I came across Samus Aran's tax return forms."

This made Armstrong sit up straighter. His interest level, nanoseconds before in the red zone, had now piqued off the charts. He tried to sound casual, though. His parents had also always told him never to give away just how important or interesting information was. "It gives the opposing party the upper hand," Armstrong Sr. said. Armstrong Jr. cleared his throat imperceptibly. "Of course you found Samus Aran's return forms," he said sensibly. "A-r is included in the range of your assigned files. And Aran's a tax-paying Federation citizen. I think somebody's a little star-struck," he added, hoping he came off as teasing, rather than as sarcastic and cross as he was now feeling.

Bill's voice cracked on the other end of the com link, and Armstrong could almost see the intern's face flush. "No, I know that, those facts. I know that," he repeated weakly. "It's just that... well... She did something odd that I noticed... I thought you'd be interested..."

"What did she do? Just spit it out," Armstrong finally snapped, losing his cool, and not particularly caring if he sounded irritated.

"She... she claimed a dependent."

It was the human equivalent of Zebes exploding again. Or, it would have been, if Armstrong Huston wasn't so carefully coached in the exact art and subtle science of keeping his composure, regardless of the information imparted to him. "Well then, Bill, thank you for that interesting piece of information," he said genially. "Why don't you bring the file up to me right now; this is interesting news."

"I can put it on the next batch up–"

"No no no," Armstrong replied, adding a pleasant laugh for good measure. "I'd like you to personally hand-deliver it to me. After all, Samus Aran is a galactic hero; I wouldn't want anything happening to her tax return. Just think of it as you doing your part to help out the one who saved your galaxy," he finished smoothly. He then snapped off his end of the com link before Bill could argue, or ramble on obsequiously.

He sat still for a moment, elbows resting on his glass-topped desk, tenting his fingers. He did not know how to categorize his feelings at this moment in time. He knew he also had a few more moments in time before Bill came up to his office; the sorting facility was a good distance from the executives' offices, and as an intern who hadn't seen anything other than the bottom rungs of the Federation's Fiscal Facility, or FFF, he would be nearly clueless as to how to get to Mr. Huston's office.

This normally would have annoyed Armstrong, but for once he was glad for this breach in the normal efficiency that ruled his life.

The truth was, while he had been born for this career, bred for this career, and now excelled in this career, it had never made him happy. He'd realized early on that it would never make him happy. Fortunately this was during the early days of bounty hunting, after Samus Aran's first Zebes mission. When her ship's signal had been lost in the Talon system and it looked like she'd fail to deliver on her bounty, it had briefly opened a window of opportunity for other bounty hunters: aged and young... old and new... and after her dramatic reveal, male and female alike. Armstrong had been a bright and headstrong lad of twenty-two, nearly finished at Galactic University's Fiscal School (or, the GUFS). When financial study failed to satisfy his typical wanderlust, he decided to try his hand at bounty hunting. He would join the hunt, be a pioneer, help bring peace to the galaxy! He would attain lofty ideals!

He would ultimately fail, but not before he had met Samus Aran face to face on the Ceres Station a few short years ago. He'd wanted to cash in on the bounty; he thought he was pretty brilliant, ambushing her. He tried to bargain with her, persuade her to work with him, because, as his parents had taught him, two heads were better than one—and in bounty hunting, two guns were better than one. And space did get so lonely...

They spent a beautiful night together in orbit of Ceres, serenaded by the melodious whistles of an energy sucking alien life form Samus seemed unnaturally attached to. The equivalent of morning came, at which point she kicked his ass, and he'd traded in his sleek gunship for tuition for a final semester at GUFS, thus ending a less than illustrious career as a bounty hunter, if it could even be called a career at all.

So now he sat at a glass-topped desk in a corner office overlooking the FFF's compound, slapping the Galactic Federation stamp of approval on tax forms that had been flagged for suspicion at some point in the processing... well, process. Occasionally he had a hand in tax reform discussions, but only when his father, sitting comfortably atop the corporate ladder, pulled the strings to allow it. In fact, the corner office was simply the result of pulled strings as well. It was a small concession Armstrong Sr. had made, which let Armstrong Jr. know that at least he hadn't been disowned (and his trust fund was still safe). Mostly they kept on separate paths, because it was no secret how Armstrong Sr. felt about Armstrong Jr.'s stint as a bounty hunter (who had never hunted anything, if we are being perfectly honest here).

A sharp rap sounded at the door, and Armstrong straightened his tie, ran his tongue over his teeth to check for any lodged lunch left there, and when satisfied, pasted on a bright smile and proceeded confidently to the door. Sure enough, Bill the Intern stood there, practically trembling. Silly Bill. All he knew was that he was standing at the door to a corner office, handing a personally requested file to Mr. Huston! Armstrong had to remind himself that it was the illusion that mattered, sort of like with Samus Aran. In suit and gunship she was an indomitable force of nature, to the point of being supernatural, as if she were the offspring of space itself. For Armstrong, his sleek three-piece suit and silk tie were his space suit, and his office was his gunship, making him appear indomitable.

"Thank you, Bill," he finally said, after enjoying a moment of watching Bill the Intern squirm and tremble, from the top of his wiry yellow hair to the laces of his practical boots, to the file folder in his hand, complete with bitten nails. Armstrong extended a perfectly manicured and moisturized hand and plucked the folder away from his foil. "Thank you, Bill," he repeated, this time his inflection making it clear that he wanted him to leave, a taciturn order with which Bill complied, leaving Armstrong to settle at his desk and look over the forms for himself.

Sure enough, the "dependent" box was checked off in Samus Aran's bold handwriting. He frowned and tapped the desk thoughtfully. Their brief affair... alright, their one-night-stand, had been two, almost three years ago, and this was the first time her tax return forms had been flagged for the dependent issue. So there was a good chance the dependent was not his, and he could therefore remain independent (he allowed himself a brief chuckle at his cleverness). He wanted to sigh with relief, but controlled himself. He would have to await the results and findings of an audit to confirm that.

And now there was no question in his mind: an audit was absolutely mandatory in this case. Samus Aran was a lovely young lady, no doubt, and in many ways. But she had never struck him as the motherly type, even with that creepy Metroid thing hovering around her like those lost puppies he'd heard about in Earth Studies his first year at GFUS.

He stared at the dependent box on the forms until the boxes and lines and handwriting all started to blur into one fiscal fiasco. There had to be a good explanation, he reasoned. There always was. And since there would be, he had no reason to feel guilty about setting up the paperwork for an audit. As far as bounty hunters went, Samus was as clean as they came; well, as clean as a person can be who is paid to kill, and all. He doubted she'd have anything to hide.

And besides, he thought, settling back, and again tenting his fingers, it would be sweet payback for the way she'd thrown him out after that night back on Ceres.