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“Right.” Thyrn lifted the claw of his index finger and started typing. “C. Hmm.” He paused and scratched his chin, flakes of shedding skin raining down. “Can you spell it?”

With each tap of the claw against the projected keyboard, Roy's pulse quickened. The same typing speed as in the barracks. The same drawn-out hissing noise whenever that reptilian stopped paying attention to his speech. For a moment, reality slipped out of Roy’s grip.

“We need more ammo. And body shields,” Milo pleaded, the scar on his cheek still puffy.

“No can do,” Thyrn quipped, tapping the down arrow. “Sssee? There are none in ssstock.”

‘Then order some!’ Roy barked, his helmet snug against his thigh.

“No pilot will tell me how to do my job!” Thyrn screeched, his forked tongue snapping against his snout. ‘Grab your navigator and go prepare for battle. You have everything you need.”

“But—“

“Do you want me to read you the guidelinesss again?!”

Roy snapped out of the memory and leaned forward. “Are you done?”

“Not quite.” The reptilian stilled; the sides of his neck inflating in a slow rhythm. His tongue lashed out again, whipping across his snout before he spoke. “I need a sssurname.”

Roy’s hand curled on his trousers; his mind spawned scenarios where he could take a chair and smash it against that reptilian’s head.

“Um.” Cal squirmed. “It’s Reyn. R⁠—.”

“Yesss, dear, but I can’t exactly write that. Ssso, how about we ussse Roy’s sssurname?”

“Why?” Roy frowned.

Thyrn’s claws tapped on the keyboard, his head bobbing. “A common sssurname. Eassy to blend in.”

Cal’s forefinger gently scratched the back of Roy’s hand. His violet eyes, intoxicatingly pleading, blinked. “Would you mind if we did that? Sounds like a good idea.”

A long time ago, Roy had promised to share his surname one day—he just didn’t expect it to come from such a deceitful but reasonable plan. “Of course not. Feel free to use it.”

“Good. What isss the purpossse of your stay?” Thyrn asked, gathering sheets of paper from various drawers.

“I’m expanding my business.” Roy cut in. “And Cal agreed to help me out.”

“And the sssiblings?” Thyrn kept typing, his pace picking up slightly.

“I have custody.”

“Where are the parentsss?”

“Dead,” Roy interjected before Cal could speak. He gently squeezed Cal's forearm. Though the lie might hurt, and he genuinely hoped it would never become true, it was easier than explaining the situation to that stuck-up reptilian.

“My condolencesss,” Thyrn muttered; his frill deflated. “All clear. Let me jussst laminate your permit.”

Roy always liked the bittersweet smell of spacecraft fuel. He took a deep breath, letting it swirl on his palate as he stepped into the second-hand dealership. He’d refused leasing offers for brand-new vessels, shocked by how inflation had ramped up the prices, and asked for used ones. The vendor led them all the way to the back and pointed at a caravan freighter—a flyvan, the kind that old married couples often bought for trips around their galaxy sector.

“This one's the best I can offer, really. Low light-year count. A few scratches and bumps, but nothing major.”

Roy's eyes flicked between the ship’s bright yellow colour and the price tag. Ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine koruns. That would deplete a large portion of his savings.

“It does have FTL, though, right?” Cal asked, his fingers ghosting around the chassis.

“It does!” the vendor blurted out.

“But?” Roy asked.