The Gunner Stripes bar was empty. The lights were dimmed, the music off, the usual hum of conversation absent. Only the glow of the wall sconces and the faint scent of synthehol lingered.

Captain Mike Ayres stood behind the long counter, pouring two glasses from a bottle he had coaxed out of the replicator. A dark, amber liquid. He had ordered the room cleared, made sure no one else would wander in.

The doors parted. Elkader stepped in, shoulders squared, expression somewhere between wary and defiant. Her jaw still carried the faint yellow bloom of a fading bruise. “Sir,” she said, half-grin in place like armour. “Didn’t think you’d invite me back to the scene of the crime.”

Ayres gestured toward a table in the corner. “Sit.”

Kasrin tilted her head, grin sharpening, but she obeyed. She slouched into the chair with a fighter pilot’s swagger.

Ayres set the glass in front of her, then took his own seat opposite. Then Ayres leaned forward, folding his hands. “You’ll retain command of the squadron.”

Kasrin blinked once. Her grin faltered, then snapped back into place. “Huh. Didn’t think I’d hear that.”

“You’ll also take a disciplinary notice on your record,” Ayres continued evenly, “and effective immediately, you’re reduced to lieutenant junior grade.”

The grin vanished. Kasrin’s face soured, but she did not speak. She picked up the glass, rolled it between her hands, then tossed back a swallow. Ayres watched her carefully. “You’re good, Kasrin. Your past reports are some of the best I’ve seen in years. And right now, we’re operating near two borders where any day could be the one that tips into a skirmish with the Sheliak, the Tholians. I need your skill. More importantly, your squadron needs your leadership.”

She set the glass down hard enough to make it thud against the table. “Leadership. That what you call it?”

“It’s what they call it,” Ayres countered. His voice was calm but firm, that unyielding steadiness that came from decades of perspective. “They’ll follow. But right now, they don’t know if you’re dragging them there for a fight or for duty. That ends today.”

Kasrin leaned back, arms folded, studying him. Her defiance wavered just enough to show the pilot beneath the swagger, the one still carrying ghosts of the Vaadwaur. “Demotion stings,” she muttered finally.

“It should,” Ayres said. “That’s the point. You’re not untouchable. You’re accountable. But don’t mistake consequence for exile. You still have your squadron. You still have your seat in the cockpit. And that means you still have a chance to prove you can be the leader they need, not the one you’ve been.”

She just stared at him. Then, slowly, she nodded. “Alright, captain. Message received.”

Ayres raised his glass. “Good. Because I don’t have time to babysit you. I don’t have the patience.”

Kasrin hesitated, then lifted her own glass and clinked it against his. “Cheers.”

The two of them drank in silence. The bar was quiet, stripped of its chaos, leaving only the captain and the pilot.