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Quinlan was quietly slipping out of a service entrance to the Senate Apartment Complex when he heard an unusual sound.
He wasn’t doing anything wrong, you understand. His use of the well-concealed service entrance was strictly business this time: with the war just starting to escalate, several Senators had started dabbling in profiteering to line their already-bulging pockets. Quinlan had been tasked with sniffing them out, so he had positioned himself as a small-time arms dealer looking for investors to help him expand his market. The Senators in question were practically falling all over themselves in their eagerness to get a piece of the pie—Quinlan had gathered more than enough evidence that afternoon to get them all thrown in prison for the rest of their varying lifetimes.
And if he had already been familiar with this particularly discreet way to get up to a Senator’s private apartment, well. That was hardly the High Council’s business, was it?
Typically the service entrance was quiet, perhaps the occasional droid or service worker coming and going. Quinlan hadn’t seen anyone when he opened the door, but as he continued down the alley toward the street he heard the sound again.
Clang. A wooden-sounding snap. “Stars, that’s hideous,” someone muttered quietly. Then the unmistakable sound of glass shattering. A thunk as something heavy fell.
Quinlan slowed his steps and peered into an alcove off the alley occupied by a pair of large dumpsters. There was a pile of broken items on the ground between the two: smashed vases, a purple chair with a snapped leg, a painting with a rip down the center, an entire set of mostly-shattered dishware, and several other pieces that were buried at the bottom. As Quinlan watched, a heavy-looking synthwood jewelry box sailed out of the dumpster on the right and landed—with impressive accuracy—on the center of the pile, obliterating the single teacup from the dish set that had remained intact.
Amused, Quinlan crept closer. Had a clan of Ugnaughts moved in next door? Who was going through the Senators’ trash? As he approached, he could hear whoever it was inside the dumpster shuffling around and mumbling to themselves.
Suddenly, a large glass cake stand came soaring out of the dumpster. Quinlan deftly caught it before it could hit him in the face. He looked down at his prize: it was made of blue and green swirled glass, ruffled at the edges, with an illustration of a pair of beings etched into the center. He tilted it, trying to make sense of what the two Nautolan figures were depicted doing to each—oh. Quinlan smirked. An unusual choice for a dining room display, but who was he to judge?
The mysterious dumpster diver, probably alerted to the noticeable sound of the cake stand not shattering on the duracrete, made a series of shuffling, crunching noises and one short “ow!” before finally revealing themselves. A Human head and torso popped up out of the dumpster, a handsome young man with dark curls and brown skin. He draped his (very nicely muscled) arms over the side of the dumpster and looked over at Quinlan. There was a bit of fluff stuck in his hair and a dark smudge on his right cheek, just under the horizontal scar that crossed over his nose.
But what stood out most was that he had Jango Fett’s face.
“You’re a clone!” Quinlan blurted out.
The clone raised an eyebrow. “You’re a Kiffar,” he replied evenly. He gestured at the cake stand still in Quinlan’s hands. “I wouldn’t bother with that one, it’s a knock-off.”
Quinlan glanced down and spun the glass dish a little. “Trained for combat and for interior design, are you?” he asked sarcastically. He hadn’t met many clones yet, not being assigned to a battalion like so many of his fellow Jedi were. Most had shipped out on their new Venator-class ships only weeks ago, rows and rows of white-armored men ready to follow Quinlan’s friends and mentors into battle. The Temple was unusually empty these days.
“I heard Senator Dowmeia complaining about it,” the clone answered. If he was bothered by Quinlan’s snarky tone, he didn’t show it. “A cheap gift from an old flame, trying to rekindle something.”
Quinlan snorted. “Not exactly subtle,” he said. He tilted his head, watching the clone. “Anything good in there?”
The clone looked a little shifty. “It’s not illegal,” he insisted. “They already threw it out.”
“Just wondering,” Quinlan replied with a shrug. “One man’s trash and all that.”
The clone pursed his lips for a moment. “Senator Dowmeia has been redecorating,” he said slowly, “and the barracks are pretty… sparse.” He ducked down and disappeared for a moment before he returned with an armful of brightly colored fabrics—gauzy curtains, a woven blanket, some fringed throw pillows. “Thought I’d liven the place up a little bit,” the clone went on. “Never can have too many pillows.”
Quinlan had to laugh. “I guess not,” he replied. Who knew the clones had a penchant for creature comforts? All the ones he had seen had seemed even more ascetic than most Jedi, and that was really saying something.
“Well, best of luck,” Quinlan told the clone as he set down the naughty Nautolan cake stand. “You might want to clear out of there before the security patrols come by at 1600.”
The clone huffed a laugh. “You sneak out of this place often enough to know the security schedule?”
Quinlan smiled and turned away. “Just some friendly advice,” he said over his shoulder. “No sense getting caught over some pillows.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” the clone called as Quinlan walked away. A moment later he heard something shatter—that was probably the end of Senator Dowmeia’s cake stand.
One week later, Quinlan was tearing down an alleyway in the middle of the night on Level 3487, trying to keep ahead of a pair of very angry bodyguards who hadn’t appreciated Quinlan’s attempt to shake down their boss. He gasped, his lungs heaving as he rounded a corner and pelted down the wet street. “Jedi don’t run,” one of his crechemasters used to say, just after she cracked his shins with a cane when she caught him running in the halls, ”we move with purpose.”
Quinlan was going to have to move with purpose a little faster if he wanted to get away from these two. They may have looked big and slow back in the casino but it turned out they were big and fast, and being undercover Quinlan hadn’t brought his lightsaber with him. Dodging blaster fire was a lot less fun when you couldn’t deflect any of it back.
A bolt scorched the ground next to his feet, forcing Quinlan to stutter-step a little as he dodged sideways. Another hissed against the wall to his left. Thinking quickly, he ran around the first corner he saw, then the next, his pursuers right on his tail. At the third corner, he jumped high with the Force, grabbing onto a protruding window ledge far above the alley and holding very still. Below him, the two bodyguards came running around the corner and continued past, yelling at each other about losing him.
When they had rounded another corner and were out of sight, Quinlan let go of the ledge and dropped into a dumpster at the bottom of the wall, hoping that whatever he landed on wasn’t sharp. Or sticky, sticky would be bad.
It wasn’t either of those things. Whatever he landed on was soft and warm and said “oof!” very loudly.
Quinlan immediately rolled off to one side, onto some garbage that definitely was a little sticky, and turned to look behind him. It should have been pitch black inside the dumpster, but instead it was lit up by a little yellow lantern; by its light he could make out the identity of his unusual landing pad. It was a clone, the same clone from last week judging by the scar.
“Wow,” Quinlan whispered. “You sure like dumpsters.”
The clone looked pretty angry, but getting landed on by a Jedi would do that. Quinlan could speak from experience there—Obi-Wan was a lot bonier than he looked.
“What the kriff!” the clone yelled. He sat up from where Quinlan had knocked him over.
Quinlan quickly crowded close and slapped his hand across the clone’s mouth, shushing him. “Shut up, they might double back,” he whispered.
The clone stared back at him, eyes wrathful, but stayed mercifully quiet. Quinlan was leaning over him, on his knees and hovering a bit but not so much that their chests didn’t touch when he breathed in and out, still panting from his running. They sat there, pressed together in the dim lantern light, for a solid 90 seconds while Quinlan used all his senses to monitor for the two bodyguards. When he was sure they wouldn’t be back, he relaxed and pulled away from the clone.
“Sorry about that,” he said in a normal tone of voice. “And for falling on you. Wasn’t expecting anyone to be in here, this being a dumpster and all. But I guess I didn’t account for your, uh, hobby.”
The clone just sneered at him and began climbing out of the dumpster, taking his lantern with him.
Quinlan shrugged and hopped out after him, landing lightly on his feet on the duracrete of the alley. “No pillows today?” he asked cheerfully.
“This time I’m on the hunt for good cookware,” the clone muttered as he looked down and dusted himself off. “A few of the boys scrounged up a hotplate for the common room but we don’t have any pots and pans. I figured some of the restaurants around here might throw some out, but no luck.” He grimaced at a dark, greasy stain on his shirt. “And restaurant dumpsters are pretty slimy.”
Quinlan hummed contemplatively. “You should try some of the fancy upper-level places,” he suggested. “The kind with arrogant chefs who’ll throw out a whole pan if one of their underlings burns something too badly.”
The clone raised an eyebrow and looked Quinlan up and down. “Know a lot about fancy upper-level restaurants, do you?” he asked skeptically.
“I get around,” Quinlan said airily. Of course, the clone had no idea who he really was, but even his current false identity rubbed shoulders with some of Coruscant’s elite. At least for the next couple of weeks until he got them thrown in prison. But for today he had been blending in here in the mid-levels, meeting a contact who had a penchant for seedy gambling establishments, and he certainly looked the part.
“Sure,” the clone said doubtfully. He started walking away, then paused and turned back. “You, uh—you need a lift?” he asked, awkwardly jerking his thumb over his shoulder. “My speeder is parked around the corner.”
Quinlan pursed his lips and slowly tapped his finger against his chin. It would certainly be faster than leaving here on foot and he had been planning to catch a cab back to his nearby safehouse anyway. His now-ex-client’s goons might still be lurking around this sector and there was nowhere safer on Coruscant than being guarded by one of the GAR’s finest. They were a stiff-backed, noble sort of bunch, occasional dumpster excursions notwithstanding.
“I’d love one,” Quinlan told the clone with a little smile. “My place is only two sectors over, H-74, if that’s not too far out of your way.”
The clone shrugged. “I’m headed up to the surface anyway, it hardly makes a difference.” He started walking down the alleyway and Quinlan followed him. They followed the alley back to the more open walkways and over onto the next block, where a brand new speeder with a brand new, gleaming coat of red and white paint was parked.
Quinlan raised his eyebrows. “Very… official,” he said.
The clone raised his shoulders uncomfortably as he opened the driver’s side door. “All the undercover vehicles were in use. And anyway, it’s perfectly above board. Nothing I was doing was—”
“Illegal,” Quinlan cut in as he climbed inside the speeder, “I remember.” He leaned closer to the clone as he started the vehicle. “I promise not to tattle on you to the Jedi,” he stage-whispered.
The clone snorted as he turned the wheel and pulled out into traffic. “You couldn’t if you tried,” he said sullenly. “The Coruscant Guard doesn’t have a Jedi.”
“Oh?” Quinlan frowned. He had just assumed someone was overseeing the small legion of clones who were permanently dirtside. After all, the Temple was a little emptier than normal but it was hardly deserted.
“We report directly to the Chancellor himself,” the clone explained. “In theory, anyway. There’s a lot of bureaucratic nonsense to filter through. Mostly it’s his secretaries. Or his secretaries’ secretaries.” He rolled his eyes.
“Sounds like the government,” Quinlan said sympathetically. “Always saying they’re going to do something and then finding the worst possible way to go about it.”
The clone chuckled, a deep, throaty sound. “Ain’t that the truth,” he muttered agreeably.
Quinlan looked at him from the side. The passing lights illuminated his scarred face in flashes, softening the edges, but Quinlan could make out the expected features. A hard jawline, wide nose, thick eyebrows. A handsome face, even if it was hardly unique. This clone wore his dark curls a little long on top, a couple of them falling across his forehead.
A little defiance to regulation, Quinlan supposed. He decided he liked this one—he was unusual and a little sarcastic, which was a lot more personality than Quinlan had seen out of most of the other clones. Maybe the ones in the Guard were a little more fun than the goose-steppers in the battalions.
“I’m Niko, by the way,” Quinlan introduced himself. “Since we keep running into one another.”
The clone glanced over at him, then back at the skylane. “I’m… Kit,” he replied slowly.
Quinlan smiled. He would bet ten thousand credits that that was not this man’s name, but he hadn’t been expecting that sort of savvy out of a clone. Clever boy.
“Nice to meet you, Kit,” Quinlan said pleasantly.
“Likewise,” Kit replied gruffly.
“So what do you do with the Guard, Kit?” Quinlan inquired casually as he relaxed into his seat. “Escort beautiful diplomats on your arm?”
Kit rolled his eyes, but he smiled a little as he kept looking forward. “I work at the prison, mostly,” he replied. “What about you?”
“Ah, well,” Quinlan shrugged. “I’m in the import business.”
“Yeah?” Kit asked, glancing at him quickly. “What do you import?”
“A little of this, a little of that,” Quinlan hedged airily. “I follow where the market takes me.”
Kit hummed knowingly. “The market ever make you any friends that I might know at the prison?” he asked.
“I never kiss and tell,” Quinlan teased. “Besides, I’d hate to ruin our evening together by making you arrest me.”
“Don’t you think the part where you tried to crush me into a heap of trash already ruined it?” Kit asked playfully.
Quinlan just smiled. “You can pull off up there,” he said, pointing at the turn-off up ahead. “Then it’s two blocks over and down a level.”
Kit followed his directions and pulled up outside the building where Quinlan maintained a safehouse in this area. One of his seedier locations, unfortunately, but it was appropriate for Niko’s status.
Quinlan disengaged his safety restraint and twisted to look over at Kit. His evening plans had been cut short by the angry bodyguards and he had nothing to look forward to other than rinsing off the dumpster and spending the night in the lumpy safehouse bed before he headed back to the Temple. It sounded altogether boring and, more importantly, lonely.
Perhaps he could make some new evening plans with Kit. If he was going to start the thrusters, he might as well jump to hyperspace.
“Care for a nightcap?” Quinlan asked. He gave Kit a quick up-and-down look. “I can apologize properly for landing on top of you.”
He was amazed to watch Kit flush at the suggestion, his cheeks filling with color as he gaped at Quinlan.
“Oh, no, I—” Kit stammered. “Thank you, but I—I have an early shift, so I—”
“No worries,” Quinlan said with a smirk, waving him off. “I can handle a no.”
Kit bit his lip, uncertain. “Really, I—it’s just a bad time for it, I don’t—”
Quinlan chuckled as he opened his door and climbed out. “Don’t sweat it.” He leaned over the door. “See you around, handsome.”
Kit flexed his hands on the steering wheel and nodded at him. Quinlan winked, then thumped his fist twice against the side of the door and walked off.
So it would be a night alone after all. Maybe it was for the best. Kit might be a little more fun than his brothers, but it was probably better not to tangle with any of the clones. In Quinlan’s experience, things like that had a tendency to get… complicated.
Quinlan continued to work his case against the profiteering Senators. He was close to wrapping things up, actually—he was just sniffing out the last two, a couple of Chancellor Palpatine’s cronies who seemed to think their relationship with His Excellency would shield them from any consequences. Quinlan was more than happy to prove them wrong.
He had arranged a meeting between the two of them and “Niko” the arms dealer at a pretentious little restaurant where diplomats liked to show off their arm candy. Armed with a private dining room, a couple of recording devices disguised as signal jammers, and an offer that was a little too good to be true, Quinlan had easily wheedled a nice confession out of each of his targets. It helped that, in his professional opinion, Senators were a profoundly stupid lot.
Having made his excuses and left his new “clients” to enjoy their overpriced desserts, Quinlan ducked into the alley behind the restaurant to comm the Temple for a pick-up. But before he could contact anyone, he accidentally kicked something on the ground in front of him. It was a slim metal wine glass, just like the kind he had left behind on the table containing a very dry Alderaanian white; it skittered away from him and rolled under a dumpster.
Quinlan raised an eyebrow. Besides the wine glass, there was a small pile of other goods on the ground in front of the dumpster: a tablecloth, a stack of sodden menus, some kind of serving tray, and a broken hand mixer. There was no sign of anyone nearby, but Quinlan had the sudden suspicion that he was not alone.
“You know,” he said loudly, “this is starting to get a little absurd. If I didn’t know better, I might say you were following me.”
There was a scuffling noise inside the dumpster before Kit popped out. He rested his arms on the side of the dumpster and leaned forward; standing on top of the trash inside gave him a few centimeters on Quinlan.
“You were the one who told me to try out one of these fancy restaurants, Niko,” Kit said with a smirk. “I’m just following your advice.”
“So I did,” Quinlan replied. “Any luck?”
Kit reached down and pulled up a large frying pan, some kind of charred mass stuck inside of it. “You were right,” he explained. “Look at this thing, practically brand new! A little elbow grease and it’ll be perfect again.”
“Very nice,” Quinlan complimented him.
“What are you doing back here?” Kit asked. He made a show out of looking up and down the alleyway. “I don’t see any thugs chasing you this time.”
Quinlan snorted. “I was having dinner with some clients, and then I came out here to catch a cab,” he explained.
Kit pushed up off the edge of the dumpster, swung his legs over the side, and landed on his feet in front of Quinlan. “Calling it a night already?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I finished my business,” Quinlan shrugged.
Kit crossed his arms and thoughtfully looked Quinlan over, his eyes trailing slowly up and down his body. “Business, sure. But what about pleasure? You got all spiffed up and the night is young.”
Quinlan glanced down at his outfit. He had carefully crafted it to give the right impression, that of someone who was capable of fitting in at a fancy establishment but not wealthy enough to be flashy about it. The “one good suit,” so to speak. It was, he thought, very flattering in all the right places. How interesting that Kit had noticed.
Looking back up at Kit, Quinlan kept his lashes lowered coyly. “You offering to take me out on the town?” he asked, voice dipping low.
Kit cocked his head to one side and absently spun the frying pan by its handle, the muscles in his forearm flexing as he gripped and rotated it. After a moment he shrugged casually. “I just crawled out of a dumpster. Not sure there’s anywhere I could take you that would be classy enough.” He raised his eyebrows at Quinlan suggestively.
Quinlan smirked. He thought rapidly about the safehouses he kept scattered around the planet. “A buddy of mine has a place in this sector, not too far away. He’s off-planet, but I’ve got the codes to his place. Want to have another go at that nightcap?”
Kit’s grin was a slow, considering thing. Something about it sent a delightful little shiver up Quinlan’s spine. “I would love to,” Kit replied.
Quinlan had heard that the clones were supposedly designed with the Jedi in mind, modified to be able to keep up with them on the battlefield. Later that night he was happy to report, if the Council ever asked, that they were apparently also very well suited to keeping up with a Jedi in the bedroom.
In the end, Quinlan made a stupid mistake.
It was nothing to do with the case. That wrapped up very nicely after another two weeks with a staggering fifteen arrests and convictions—all of them in spite of some token protests around the Senate dome, particularly up at the top. It was probably Quinlan’s most successful case in a few years.
No, the mistake came after he had presented his final report to the Council and received his (very reserved and formal) commendations. Quinlan was speaking to Master Windu and Master Gallia when he foolishly mentioned his surprise at learning that the Coruscant Guard had no assigned Jedi. He didn’t mean anything by it, it was just unusual: if the Jedi were meant to lead the GAR then why was there a legion here on Coruscant, where the Jedi themselves were based, that was leaderless? It was a stray thought, a passing curiosity.
It was not supposed to kick off four hours of debate that culminated in Quinlan being the one assigned to the Guard.
But the Force moved in mysterious ways, especially when the High Council got their teeth into an idea, so one week later Quinlan found himself following behind a surprisingly chatty Coruscant Guard sergeant named Bindle (of all things) who was leading him through the Guard’s warren of offices in the back of the Senate complex. Bindle kept up an enthusiastic monologue about the Guard’s operations which Quinlan was half-listening to as he took careful note of his new workplace.
It was busy, that much was clear—they passed dozens of red-painted troopers in a hurry to get somewhere, and every open door revealed another office crammed with too many desks for the space and a slew of harried-looking clones on datapads and comm-calls. Mostly it was a shabby-looking office building that had clearly been hastily repurposed for the unexpected arrival of its current occupants, but Quinlan was surprised to see a variety of unusual touches amongst the typical bland decor. An ugly beige office with a brightly-colored beaded lamp taking up one corner. A caf station with more than a dozen novelty mugs shaped like different fish. A break room’s sad, sagging brown couch covered in jewel-toned throw pillows with gold fringe.
When he and Bindle passed a workstation with a large pink statue of a grinning Mikkian harvest god sitting on top of it, Quinlan felt compelled to interrupt his guide and ask.
“Oh, that’s all the commander!” Bindle explained enthusiastically. “He’s got connections all over the planet, people who sell lots of kinds of things. He drives a hard bargain, from what I hear. Really helps spruce the place up, don’t you think?”
Quinlan raised a skeptical eyebrow but nodded. He was unable to find out more, though, because they had arrived at the door of the commander himself.
Bindle knocked; when a gruff voice inside called “Enter” he obeyed and ushered Quinlan after him. The commander’s office was more spacious than the others they’d passed on the way through the building, but the effect was diminished by the sheer amount of stuff in the room. There were two green, high-backed chairs in front of the desk that looked like they belonged in someone’s dining room. There was a loveseat in the corner with a meter-high stack of blankets on one side. The shelves behind the desk, probably intended for files or datapads, were instead absolutely crammed with all sorts of tchotchkes. Quinlan spotted novelty souvenir caf mugs, little glass statues, sports memorabilia, brightly-painted children’s toys, and all sorts of cheap colorful plastoid garbage that was sold to tourists at every kiosk in the city. The walls were covered in framed paintings and holographs, all hung practically on top of one another.
At the center of it all, rising from behind a desk covered in datapads and flimsi, was Kit. In red and white armor, the Senate seal prominently splashed across his chest—a far cry from dumpster-stained civvies.
“Commander,” Bindle saluted smartly. “Sir, this is General Quinlan Vos, our newly assigned Jedi. General, this is Commander Fox.”
Fox, as he was apparently called, didn’t hesitate for a moment. He saluted Quinlan and stood at attention, though Quinlan could practically feel the reach of his peripheral vision, cataloging the Jedi robes and the lightsaber hanging at his belt all while maintaining eye contact.
Quinlan smiled just a little and returned the most casual salute he could. Fox (that name would take some getting used to) took it in stride.
“Thank you, Bindle,” he said. He cleared his throat as Bindle saluted Quinlan and left the room. “Have a seat, General,” Fox offered, gesturing to the dining table chairs.
Apparently, he was going to soldier on, as it were, and try to keep up the polite, professional fiction that Quinlan hadn’t sucked bruises into the insides of his thighs last month.
Well. Quinlan had no such compunctions.
“Kit,” he said warmly as he took a seat, “fancy meeting you here. I suppose it isn’t too much of a shock, the Senate Building is the biggest dumpster in the city.”
Fox pinched his lips together tightly. “I’m as surprised as you are, sir,” he replied, sounding annoyed. “You’re not a scummy arms dealer.”
“And you’re not a prison grunt,” Quinlan replied with a shrug. “We were both protecting our identities.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. “Of course, I was actually working a high-stakes undercover case, risking my life and limbs for justice. You were… sourcing new office decor?” he asked, looking pointedly around the room.
Fox’s lips pinched even tighter. “I apologize for my unprofessional behavior, sir,” he said through gritted teeth. “If I had known—”
“Oh, relax!” Quinlan cut in. He rolled his eyes. “I don’t care what you do with your free time and Force knows this place needs all the life you can inject into it.” He waved his hands dismissively. “Your throw-pillows-for-morale campaign is of no concern to me.”
“Thank you, sir,” Fox said with a little sigh. “I know it may seem… frivolous, but I find that the men really appreciate the chance to make the space their own.”
Quinlan grinned. “Stars forbid I come between your men and their knick-knacks. Sergeant Bindle seems to think you’re driving a ‘hard bargain’ for all these goodies.” He leaned forward in his seat. “Does that mean they don’t know where they really come from?”
“No,” Fox said firmly, folding his arms. “And I’d prefer if they didn’t find out, sir.”
“Like I told you before,” Quinlan told him with a wink, “I don’t kiss and tell.” He inched a little further forward, leaning his forearms on the desk. “Were you planning another dumpster excursion?”
Oddly, Fox blushed. “I was, uh—I was going to go tonight, actually.” He bit his lip. “I was… hoping to run into you again. Or, well—run into Niko again.”
Quinlan cocked his head to the side, considering. “Well, Commander Fox, you understand that I’m your superior officer now,” he said slowly. “As such, any after-hours liaisons between us would be highly unprofessional.”
Fox’s eyes immediately dropped to his lap. “Of course, sir, I’m sorry, I didn’t—”
“Totally out of the question,” Quinlan continued over him. “Commander Fox and Jedi Master Quinlan Vos only ever keep things entirely above board.” He shrugged slowly, grinning like a predator. “But Kit and Niko are free men, unbothered by the constraints of military protocol. If they happen to run into each other out in the city, they are free to do as they please.” He raised his eyebrows expectantly.
Fox, clever as his namesake, understood immediately. “Of course, sir,” he said with a sly little smile. “That makes perfect sense.” He unfolded his arms and drummed his fingers on the desk. “Rumor has it that Kit is going to be looking for a new break room couch tonight in the Sector 82 commercial district.”
“A popular area,” Quinlan commented casually, nodding his head. “Seems likely he’d run into a friend who happens to be doing some shopping.”
“Seems likely,” Fox agreed just as casually. “Is there anything else I can do for you today, sir?” he asked.
Quinlan stood up. “No, Commander, I just wanted to introduce myself. We’ll be working together quite a bit from now on, after all.”
“I look forward to it, sir,” Fox replied with a polite nod.
Quinlan threw him a wink and made his exit. As he headed back out of the building, he was already thinking ahead to tonight. What did one wear, he wondered, to a dumpster diving date?