Ben followed Thimble down a corridor that smelled of ozone and machine oil, though the surfaces gleamed with the shine of recent scrubbing. The Drifting Ember's interior reminded Ben of a well-maintained but cosmetically neglected municipal vehicle—repairs visible but sound, unpainted patch plates securing bulkheads, junction boxes neatly packed with functional, if inelegant, wiring.

  Thimble's stride was brisk, determined, and completely out of sync with the size of her legs, which forced Ben to half-jog just to keep up.

  They stopped at a pressure door painted with a mural of a kraken getting handsy with what Ben assumed was a battleship. Thimble palmed a rune-panel and the seals popped with a mechanical sigh, revealing the ship’s armory.

  Ben’s first thought: this place had a smell all its own. Not clean, not dirty, just… dense. Gun oil and incense, leather and smoke, with something sweet and chemical. Weapons hung from wall racks in neat rows—pistols, rifles, swords, knives, axes, and things that probably required appendages to that Ben lacked. Three workbenches sat banked with magitech gear in various stages of undress. At the far side, a hulking orc, dark green hair pulled back into a high pony, long leather apron with a million pockets, and hunched over a vise, welding something that spat blue-white sparks.

  Pain lanced through his shoulder. Thorn had dug his little talons into his skin. What the hell?! Ease up, buddy! He barely remembered not to speak out loud.

  The orc looked up, lifting the welding goggles to perch on her brow revealing eyes of pale gold.

  “Thimble! And… this the new soul warrior, yeah?” Her voice had the warm, throaty quality of a baritone sax run through a distortion pedal. She wiped her hands on a rag and strode over, boots clunking on the steel decking.

  She's the most beautiful creature I have ever seen. That shade of green is mesmerizing. Benjamin! I require you to discover if she is currently taking part in any mating rituals and what type of sacrifices she prefers to be performed in her name.

  Rolling his eyes, he didn't bother to answer.

  “Ben, meet our quartermaster. Queenie, our new project.” Thimble stepped aside, as if worried about catch radius.

  Ben looked at Thimble, “Is every person I'm going to meet be taller than me? I haven't said anything yet out of respect for you, but come on, this is getting ridiculous.”

  He felt a smack on the back of his head. Don't criticize what you should be in awe of human. Now, see if she likes smaller fellows or should I conjure up a growth spell?

  The orc’s face cracked into a wide, fangy smile. It was not a gentle smile, but it was honest. “Sisters of iron, you’re even scrawnier than they said.” She circled him once, head cocked, appraising. She gave his arm a squeeze that Ben had to pretend didn't hurt. “But you got good bones. I can work with this.” She nodded, as if she’d just resolved an internal debate about whether Ben could be turned into a person or not.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Her hand engulfed Ben’s, her grip both careful and absolute. “Griska Bloodhammer. Call me Queenie. I run the armory and supply. You need gear, you come to me. You break gear, you pay me to fix it if and when I get around to it. You try to steal gear, I break you. I take crypto, artifacts, ore, and metals for credit on anything I make or improve for you.” She said this with the easy joviality of someone who had, at some point, actually broken a person in half.

  “Noted,” Ben said, trying not to wince as her handshake ground his knuckles together.

  Queenie gestured him to a bench. “Strip. Down to the basics. We’ll size you for a proper kit.” Her gaze flicked to the ragged jumpsuit they’d issued him. “That's hideous and doesn't flatter your body at all,”

  Ben shucked the jumpsuit, skin prickling in the chill of the armory. For a moment he wondered if this was some elaborate hazing, but Queenie just eyed his frame, then started pulling clothing off racks.

  She handed him a set of boots and fatigue pants with reinforced knees and a black utility shirt, both of which fit disturbingly well. Then a heavy leather jacket, battered but soft, with a high collar and a lining that itched with the faint residue of magic.

  “Kevra fiber. Stops a knife, slows a bullet, eats most low-grade hexes,” Queenie said, sounding almost maternal. She riffled through a cabinet and produced a battered leather belt with a holster, gun, and several pouches. “I hear you're decent with a mana pistol.”

  Ben flexed his hand, recalling the familiar weight of the weapon burned into his muscle memory. He adjusted the belt to fit comfortably, cleared the pistol, checked the front and rear sight posts, and slid it back into the holster.

  Ask her for a dagger. I really like having a blade.

  Queenie grunted approval. “You get six magazines: three pure, one freeze, one fire, and one shock. Everyone on board loads, even the captain. You do it in your downtime. There’s a rotating quota depending on stock. Check the notice screen in the mess hall.”

  She also handed him a wrist sheath for his wand. Strapping it to him with a practiced efficiency, she explained that it was enchanted to never let it go without his intent.

  Thorn thumped him on the head again, Ask her, please.

  You could ask her yourself, you know.

  I need to research before I speak to her.

  Ben rolled his eyes again and did as he was asked and received a small blade.

  Thimble, meanwhile, had set herself up at one of the workbenches and was assembling something tiny that Ben couldn't see. He watched her fingers, the speed and precision, the tiny tics of satisfaction when things fit together.

  Thimble finished with a flourish while the doting orc was tugging the jacket straight and dusting Ben’s shoulders like she was prepping a prizefighter. “There. You look almost respectable.” She stepped back. “You get it banged up, come see me. You get dead, I’ll cannibalize what’s left for the next guy. Please don't die though.”

  “Not planning on dying. At least not today.”

  Queenie’s laugh rattled the racks. “Nobody ever does, sweetie.”

  Thimble hopped down from the workbench and tossed Ben a wrist-holo and what looked to be a metal bean. “Commlink. Standard team issue. It’s a direct line, short-range mesh, plus upgradable if you don’t mind a little cranial surgery.” She pointed at the spot just behind her ear. “You want it embedded, or you want to wear it like a dork?”

  Ben blinked. “Is embedded actually safer?”

  Thimble shrugged. “Gonna tell the bad guys not to hit you in the head?”

  Queenie grinned, taking the bean and loading it into a jet injector from her toolbelt. “Hold still, handsome.”

  Ben opened his mouth to object, but the injector hissed and snapped behind his ear, cold and then hot, the commlink’s interface blooming in his vision like a third eye. He staggered, hand clapping to the side of his head, but Queenie just patted his other cheek. “Attaboy. Welcome to the team.”

  He checked himself in a mirrored surface, now looking like the world’s greenest mercenary. Then he looked at Thimble, who was already halfway out the door, and Queenie, who had gone back to her welding, humming some song Ben didn’t recognize.