[INTRO — LOW, INVESTIGATIVE] Four weeks. That matters. Somebody still remembers a face, an old Fraction flight jacket through a private docking bay. A face becomes a name. A name becomes a ship. A ship becomes a buyer. Then— a reclamation facility. Of course it fucking is. [VERSE 1] Gun-runners talking in Bosboger, dockhands paid to look away, false manifests and missing cargo, human inventory changing hands each day. Pirate brokers, labour contracts, Amarrian money moving clean, different names for selling people so respectable people needn’t see. Then one partial intake record. Fifty-nine names. Read it once. Read it twice. Alive four weeks ago. That will do. [PRE-CHORUS] I don’t need vengeance. I need extraction. I don’t need anger. I need professionals. And apparently the answer lives in Amamake. [VERSE 2] KINETIC MEDIATION AND CRISIS RECURSION Black stone. Glass walls. Actual fucking plants. An orbital office designed to tell wealthy clients violence is respectable when invoiced correctly. Then— Lucy Corvassier. Older. Sharper. Dark suit. Perfect posture. “Bonjour, Jacqueline.” “You’re alive.” “Yes.” “You run mercenaries.” “I run interventions.” “I have fifty-nine comrades in a slave-processing compound.” Lucy glances down once. “How many guards?” “I don’t know.” “Then you don’t yet have an operation.” [CHORUS] Find them. Count them. Bring them home. No slogans. No glorious war. No righteous fire. Just find them. Count them. Bring them home. Fifty-nine names. Fifty-nine people. Bring them home. [VERSE 3] Two days later. Cloaked command cruiser. Compound below us. Hundreds waiting to become somebody else’s property. I expected maps, weapons, tactical speeches. Lucy hands me tea. Then a croissant. “Sit.” “I can assist.” “No.” “I have considerable operational—” “I know.” “With ground—” “No.” She points at the chair. “You are the client.” Four minutes later— sixty mercenaries descend. [ATTACK — HARD, PRECISE] Six teams. Three axes. No warning. Sonic mortars hit the perimeter. Meson beam rifles answer. Attack drones enter the corridors and interrogate pirate IFF. Positive return? Target. Command authentication? Target. Pirate tactical network? Thank you. Weaponised viral-shard nanotech enters through their own systems. Doors unlock for prisoners. Armouries lock against guards. Sensors lie. Comms betray them. Every machine answering pirate command becomes a map of where to shoot. Lucy drinks her tea. “Team Three. Western stairwell.” Gunfire. “Resolved.” “Team Five. Processing hall. Twelve hostile.” Pause. “Seven.” Pause. “Two.” Pause. “Clear.” [PRE-CHORUS] No fury. No speeches. No revenge. That is almost the frightening part. This is contract fulfilment. The prisoners must survive. Everything else— logistics. [CHORUS] Find them. Count them. Bring them home. No slogans. No glorious war. No righteous fire. Just find them. Count them. Bring them home. Fifty-nine names. Fifty-nine people. Bring them home. [VERSE 4] Processing floor secure. Doors open. Kidnap victims. Debtors. Political prisoners. Labour stock. Human beings whose names became numbers because numbers are easier to sell. Then— Fraction jackets. Faces I last saw as escape-pod signals leaving Sparrow in the dark. Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight. Hold— “Fifty-nine confirmed.” For five seconds I forget the tea. Lucy does not. “Transport wave inbound.” [BUILD] Local haulers dropping from orbit. Ugly ships. Practical ships. Beautiful because today they are carrying people away. Medics first. Prisoners moving. Old crew helping strangers aboard. One transport lifts. Then another. Then another. Hundreds leaving. Nobody going to market. Nobody going to Amarrian buyers. Nobody staying behind. Last transport clears. Lucy looks at the board. “Life-sign sweep.” Negative. “Secondary.” Negative. “Good.” [BREAK — VERY DRY] Two low-yield atomics release. White. White again. The compound disappears. I raise one eyebrow. Lucy doesn’t look at me. “Don’t even start.” [FINAL CHORUS] Found them. Counted them. Brought them home. Fifty-nine from Sparrow. Hundreds more besides. No chains. No buyers. No reclamation facility. No fucking facility at all. Found them. Counted them. Brought them home. And somewhere behind us two small artificial suns finish the paperwork. [OUTRO — DEADPAN] On the flight back to Amamake I finally ask— “How much?” “Five hundred million.” “ISK?” Lucy looks offended. “What else?” She takes another croissant. “There is one further matter.” “Oh God.” “My company page.” I look at her. She smiles. “Five stars, please.” A beat. “Merci.” [FINAL REFRAIN] Five stars. Kinetic Mediation and Crisis Recursion. Five stars. Would absolutely recommend. Fifty-nine comrades home. Tea excellent. Croissants excellent. Intervention— flawless. Merci
