A wavering hand, less confident the second time around, reached out and unmuted the communications.

"We would like to know why you decided to fire on us when we showed no signs of attack," Vatra said.

There was a slight crackle over the speaker, a moment of hesitation. "We didn't know how to get your attention without your communications."

"Well, you have our attention now," she growled.

Vatra sat up straight and leaned forward, her elbows pressing against the cool metal. Even through her jumpsuit, a black woven material, she could feel the iciness. Space had always been annoyingly cold to her.

Another pause was drawn out. "The crew of the Agkistrodon is well known. Our captain once hired you all to run a mission."

The memory of being spaced out of an airlock sent a shudder down Vatra's spine.

"I remember. The last captain of this ship was killed in that mission." Vatra only partially lied in her response. The captain had been killed, but was resurrected shortly after. Like she always did after dying. Only, no one else could become wise to her abilities.

So, she'd encouraged the start of a wide-spread legend about the Agkistrodon and its merciless crew. A lie she was able to upkeep with a fitting skillset, anonymous garb, and a rather gifted companion.

"No other mercenary would last so long without being the best. We are in desperate need of such a crew." The man on the other ship was nearly pleading. "We'll even forgive you for destroying our other vessel."

"I didn't destroy your vessel," Vatra spat. She curled her fist tightly, nails digging into her palms. "The idiots flew right into the wave."

"I'm sorry, you're right," the voice said hastily. "We can offer you a large reward. Times have been good lately with an influx of refugees using the Grey Belt for undetected travel. We-"

"If you're using your attack on refugees to try and convince me to accept, you're severely mistaken on my values," Vatra interrupted.

"Their ships are mostly damaged by the time they gambol here. It's not an attack when they strand themselves and die. We're scavengers, not murderers." He sounded almost defensive.

Vatra muted the communications again. She leaned back with a creak of the chair, spinning to face Spyro. Her knees brushed against the side of the co-pilot's seat.

The image of the crudely portrayed woman on the other ship stared at her from over Spyro's shoulder. Like a mocking image of a past that no longer existed. One she remembered herself, and those on the ship copied. She gritted her teeth at the mockery.

"Your blood pressure has increased significantly. You are either in pain, or experiencing some kind of stressor," Spyro said. He turned to Vatra, their knees touching.

"I regret letting you get an implant in your head. You're a eudaemon, not a cyborg." Vatra sighed.

"And you are a phoenix. I fail to see how us stating our supernatural qualities applies to this particular situation." Spyro folded his arms, drumming his finely trimmed nails against the black fabric of his jumpsuit. "I am not so sure we should accept. I do not think stealing from the dead shows a trusting side to these pirates. If I remember correctly, their past captain did not come to our aid when we were ambushed."

"We haven't had a job in ages," Vatra said. "This could bring in a big reward."

Softly shaking his head, Spyro maintained his frown. The dark curls framing his sharply angled face bounced from his disagreeing gesture. "We do not need more credits. I know for certain the exact amount we have amassed over the years, and we could have lived off on a world of our own many years ago. I also know that you know how much we have. Why you try and lie to me still is a mystery I will never understand."

A cunning smile crept over Vatra's lips. Taking jobs since escaping the decaying world of Earth was never about the reward. The excitement of working jobs brought meaning to a repetitive life. Retirement would mean settling for the same thing day after day, century after century.

Vatra pressed the button without another doubtful thought. "Before we accept, we'll need to meet in person. The only good rendezvous point for such an agreement will be on Pocarro."

"P-Pocarro?" the voice stuttered. "You're just as batshit as your last captain sounded from the stories I heard."

"I want to know that I'm working with people who mean business. I know you had three other ships in orbit. Make sure your entire Grease-knockoff clan is on Pocarro within twenty-four hours. We'll meet at Belltower. I'm sure you're familiar with the place."

"I am," the man replied simply. "It's not my ideal place for a first date, but we'll make it work."

Vatra refrained from smiling at the joke. "I hope you have a good pilot."

The communications flickered off and Vatra trailed her fingernail across the controls. Small buttons moved ever so slightly as she traced the maze-like board. Greens, reds, yellows, and blues lit up with every bump she made. Her thumb and forefinger rested on a switch toward the end, and with a grin, Vatra flipped it up.

Music blasted from the speakers. The song she'd uploaded as a joke so long ago brought forth a flood of memories she'd forgotten about. Earth music was irreplaceable. It was lively and real, without the screeching synth music had turned into.

Leaning back in her chair, Vatra folded her hands behind her head and propped the heels of her magnetic boots on to the control panel. She turned her gaze slightly to Spyro, who was tapping his foot along to the music. They both exchanged a look of remembrance.

Vatra mouthed the words to the song, bobbing her head along to the lyrics. The words she'd painstakingly memorized when the song first came out started to solidify in her mind. Within a few seconds, Vatra had hopped to her feet and was performing along to the song like she was on a stage.

Beyond the misted panes of the Agkistrodon, fire erupted in a loud crescendo as the pirate's ship burned its way back into the atmosphere.

If the gambol to Pocarro was anything like Vatra remembered it having been many times before, she would need every second of fun she could manage.