The guard hesitated like he wanted to argue on principle, then complied. Keys clicked. Metal shifted. Elias's wrists were free.
He rolled one wrist once, slow, testing the joint. No dramatics. No anger. Just checking.
A guard placed a sealed weapons case on the table. Another slid his personal effects on a tray. Knife. Wrist terminal. Tags. As well as his clothes and jacket.
The liaison watched his hands with a focus she didn't mean to show, then snapped her gaze back to his face as if she'd been caught.
Elias stood, donned the heavy field jacket, and began gathering his things with the same economy he'd flown with. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
The liaison hovered a step too long, tablet held tight to her chest like it could keep her heart from showing.
"Mr. Journeyman," she said.
Elias paused, eyes on her.
"There are some registration forms for Hangman that aren't urgant" she said, " I'll need a direct contact for you. For follow-up."
Elias's tone stayed neutral. Not rude. Not warm either.
"The Guild already has my contact information," he said. "If they need something, they'll reach out."
A closed door, delivered politely.
Her ears went a shade darker.
Too late to turn back now, she thought.
"I may yet… have need of it," she said, and pushed her personal terminal forward before she could talk herself out of it.
Elias looked at the terminal like it was something he hadn't been paid to read. Then he tapped his own wrist terminal against it.
~ping~
[contact added: Sarah Gatewell]
Her shoulders jumped like the sound hit her spine.
He turned back to his things.
A silence followed that she didn't plan on.
"… thank you, Mr. Journeyman."
Elias paused just a moment, then, calm as ever:
"You're welcome."
She recovered fast because her job demanded it. The softness vanished behind a new screen on her tablet.
"Before you leave," she said, voice steadier now, "there are compliance actions attached to this arrival."
Elias didn't sigh. Didn't complain.
"Say it."
She scrolled.
"Docking fees assessed at hazard rate," she read. "Four times standard. 40,000 credits."
A flick of her finger.
"Fine issued for operating an unregistered war-frame in a controlled zone. 900,000 credits."
Another flick.
"Bounty payout is delayed due to the loss of Judge's black box. A warp drone will be dispatched to confirm job completion. Drone use will take 25% of the listed bounty…"
Elias'sface didn't change.
Her voice tightened slightly on the next line, like she didn't enjoy saying it to him specifically.
"Your craft is under sortie and transfer hold until registration is completed," she said. "You cannot launch, sell, part out, or transfer title."
Elias waited.
"Registration cost," he said.
She swallowed.
"2,000,000 credits."
Silence.
Elias blinked slowly, like confirming a number in his head.
"The assessed value," he said.
Her voice tighted stayed steady, but a little quieter. "One point five million. It's outdated tech."
Elias nodded once.
"Understood."
That word hit her harder than the fees did.
Because he wasn't bargaining. Not pleading. Not angry.
Just taking it.
Sarah's throat moved, then she added.
"I'm willing to help you with the registration process. So reach out when you are available. "
"And I'm sorry," she said anyway.
Elias looked at her. Not warm. Not cold. Simply present.
"It's not personal," he said.
Then, like a courtesy, he offered because it cost him nothing:
"Thank you for verifying. I can pay the fines today. When the bounty comes in, I'll complete the ship registration."
Her cheeks warmed again. She dropped her gaze to her tablet, as if it could hide her.
Elias paid the fines and left with his weapon case in hand.
The door sealed behind him with a soft hiss.
The guard still lingered by the wall, watching the liaison stare at her terminal like it owed her answers.
"You know he's chemed," the guard said, low.
"I have his file," Sarah replied without looking up. "I'm aware."
The guard's mouth curled.
"Then you know what that means," he said. "Nothing, but tactical firmware behind that face."
Sarah's thumb stopped mid-scroll.
She lifted her eyes, and whatever warmth had been in her cheeks went cold.
"Not in my notes," she said.
The guard blinked, caught off-balance.
Her tablet filled her vision again. Safe and official.
But the guard's line lingered anyway.
Not because she believed the insult.
Because she'd seen the file.
The calm voice. The flat affect. The way he took bad news as if it were the weather. The way he never reached for comfort, even when it was offered.
A shell, she thought, and hated herself for it.
Not born that way.
Made.
And the worst part was knowing exactly who had done the making.
Not pirates. Not the void. Not fate.
Institutions. Forms. Protocols. Approved dosages and tidy phrases that sounded like safety and felt like ownership.
She swallowed, thumb hovering over his profile entry.
She'd shut the guard down out loud.
But in the quiet behind her ribs, the guilt settled anyway.
Not in my notes, she'd said.
And then, softer, where nobody could hear:
Not supposed to be.