The ‘Gunner Stripes’ was lively and the poker table was the centre of the energy, lit by the amber glow of overhanging lights and accentuated by the wooden panels bolted to the walls. Kasrin Elkader sat at the table, slouching on her chair, watching the chips slide across the felt. She was not smiling.

Not as she watched Jalen Thorne scoop up the proceeds from another winning hand. She set her glass down with a deliberate clink. “That’s what? Six hands in a row?” Her tone was amused, but the edge underneath it was razor-sharp. “Hell of a streak, Thorne.”

The petty officer did not look up from his winnings. “Some of us have skill outside the cockpit, lieutenant.”

Elkader’s eyes narrowed. “Some of us rely on skill. Others rely on sticky fingers.”

The table went still. One of the junior pilots coughed nervously, then pretended to study his cards. Thorne’s head snapped up, eyes blazing. “Excuse me?”

Elkader leaned forward. “You heard me. You’re playing like you’ve got half the deck tucked up your sleeve. You think I wouldn’t notice?”

The air tightened around them. Thorne’s voice dropped, low and dangerous. “That’s a serious accusation, lieutenant.”

Elkader grinned, wide and reckless. “Not an accusation. A fact. You’re a cheat. And cheats don’t belong in a cockpit. Not on my ship.” The words hung in the air.

Thorne shoved his chair back and stood, fists flexing at his sides. Elkader rose too, closing the distance until she was nose to nose with him, her voice dropping to a growl only he could hear. “A cheater is a coward and I don’t fly with cowards.”

The bar held its breath. Every pair of eyes was locked on them now. Thorne’s lip curled. “We all make exceptions for you, Kasrin. Your attitude stinks. Because you’ve got shiny rank pips? Because you used to be a good pilot?”

Elkader’s grin faltered, just for a second. Then her eyes hardened. “Don’t let my rank stop you.”

Thorne did not blink. He wanted to take it further, everyone could sense the anger and frustration, but he stood his ground, jaw tight. He was not going to swing first. And that silence, that refusal, stoked Elkader’s fury hotter than any insult.

Her hand clenched before she even knew it. And then crack. Her fist connected with his jaw, snapping his head sideways and sending him sprawling into the table.

Cards and chips went flying in a shower of plastic and felt. The bar erupted. Shouts, scrambling chairs, as people surged back or forward, no-one sure if they were breaking it up or egging it on. Thorne pushed himself up, blood bright on his lip, eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re insane,” he spat.

Elkader flexed her bruised knuckles and grinned, feral and wild, her breath ragged with adrenaline. “No. I’m right. You cheat. And everyone here knows it.”

Elkader did not back down, she charged. They collided with a crash. His fist caught her shoulder; her knee drove up into his gut. He doubled forward, gagging, but slammed her against the table edge with enough force to rattle teeth.

Some of the crew tried half-heartedly to intervene, but no one was stupid enough to step directly between them. Elkader shoved him off, spun, and threw another punch, wild, unrestrained. It caught his cheek, splitting skin. He staggered, blood flying.

Thorne spat blood, then head-butted her. Pain lanced across her forehead, but Elkader only laughed, sharp, unhinged. “You’ll have to do better than that!”

She drove him back into the bar counter. Glasses shattered. Synthehol sprayed across the floor. The two of them rolled across the counter. Thorne managed to pin her for a second, his forearm pressed against her throat, but Elkader kneed him hard enough to send him tumbling off.

She vaulted down after him, landing in a crouch, knuckles dripping blood, some his, some hers. Elkader stalked forward, chest heaving, eyes blazing. “Come on, Thorne. Show me you can actually throw a punch!”

Thorne pushed himself to his knees, trembling, blood on his teeth. He looked up at her, not beaten, not yet, but rattled. “Lieutenant,” he panted, voice raw. “You’re out of control.”

Elkader bared her teeth in a grin, the kind that promised she would swing again no matter what he said. “Damn right I am.” She raised her fists and dived back in, ready to tear the whole bar apart if she had to.

The door to the bar hissed open. Captain Ayres stepped in first, tall and broad. Parr, the executive officer, was at his shoulder, mid-sentence about a readiness report, and a crewman, knocked sideways in the melee, slammed bodily into Ayres.

The captain went down hard, sprawling backward into Parr.

The impact snapped loudly. Parr cried out, her arm twisting at a sickening angle as the two of them hit the deck in a tangle of limbs. The fight did not stop. Not at first. Elkader had Thorne by the collar, fist raised for another swing. She froze only when the crowd’s shouts shifted into a shocked silence.

Heads turned toward the crumpled forms of the captain and executive officer on the floor. Ayres shoved the crewman off, teeth bared in fury as he pushed himself upright. His uniform was scuffed, blood streaked across his brow.

Parr tried to sit up, cradling her arm, pale with pain. “Fuck” she hissed, her voice sharp, ragged.

Ayres’ voice cut through the chaos with a roar of rage. “Stand down!” The size of him, the tension in his powerful body had an instant affect. “What the fuck is going on in here?”

Silence crashed down. All of it froze in the shadow of the captain’s rage.

Elkader’s chest heaved, eyes still blazing, caught between the high of the fight and the dawning realization of just how far this had gone.

Ayres’ glare locked on her. “Lieutenant.”

For a long, taut moment, she did not move. Then, slowly, Elkader’s fingers uncurled. Thorne looked visibly relieved, standing at attention and wincing with pain.

The captain stepped forward, his face dark with fury, Parr groaning at his side with a broken arm. His voice was low, dangerous, controlled only by effort. “You want to explain to me why my flight control officer just turned the bar into a war zone? I have been on this ship for minutes – not even an hour! What. The. Fuck.” Ayres’ voice was a controlled snarl. “Lieutenant Elkader. Start talking. Now.”

Elkader exhaled, slow. She forced her mouth into something resembling a grin, though the adrenaline still jittered through her veins. “Captain,” she said, raising her hands slightly, palms open. “What you walked into was just squadron morale. Bit of roughhousing. Pilots blowing off steam.”

Ayres’ eyes narrowed. “I was a pilot. This is. Impossible”. The captain was finding it hard to find the words to describe how incomprehensible this situation was.

Elkader gestured around the wrecked bar, splintered tables, glass shards, a few bloodied faces staring back at her. “Sure, it got lively.”

Parr hissed as she shifted, her broken arm held tight. “This” she spat through clenched teeth “is not lively.”

Elkader winced, just slightly, then forced the smile wider. A bloody sight. She angled her chin toward Thorne, who was still struggling to stand at attention, lip swollen, blood down his chin. “Ask him. He’ll tell you, he got to test his reflexes tonight. He’ll be sharper in the cockpit for it.”

Thorne shot her a murderous glare but stayed silent, jaw tight.

Elkader spread her arms, as if the destruction around her proved her point. “You want pilots who can handle pressure, captain? You’re looking at them.”

The room was dead quiet, the crew caught between awe, guilt, and fear. Ayres’ stare bored into her, dark and unblinking. He looked from Elkader, to the wrecked bar, to Parr, still holding her arm in agony. Elkader held his gaze, chin high, refusing to flinch.

Ayres tapped his combadge. “Security to Gunner Stripes.”