Life under blockade was much different than life under quarantine. Buster didn't even notice that half a year had passed, there was so much to do and he was having so much fun doing it.

He started his day putting on a fresh pair of pink scrubs. A student nurse named Ella made them especially for him after he saved Zed Steadman from Tartarus Squadron. They even made the neck hole extra wide so he could comfortably pull it on over his tracking collar. If he continued losing weight, they were going to have to make him some new smaller ones before long.

Then he took the medications that his doctor was in the process of fine-tuning. He had been mostly honest with them, and the results had been mostly successful. In Nakuna they had only cared about him as a worker, here they cared about him as a person. Instead of just getting him functional enough to get to work, they were really helping him.

First he visited Petro, a pale man with sandy brown hair and a motorized wheelchair. Not an impersonal hospital wheelchair, but a heavily-modified personal one covered in colorful stickers to hide the dings and nicks on its chassis (which was green, his favorite color). Due to his brittle bones, Petro struggled with operating a coffee maker on his own. So every morning, Buster would stop by and make it just like how he liked it: a transparent cup so he can see inside, fill up to the second line with creamer, three scoops of nutrient powder, six scoops of sugar, blended in the cup and lovingly topped with cream from a can.

"Mornin' Buster! How's your day going?" Petro greeted his friend warmly.

"Oh, you know. One step closer to paradise!" he grinned a sweet and caring grin.

After cooking and sharing breakfast together, he drove out to the farm. The natural subterranean cave system that Zed Steadman had been built out of was vast enough for the undeveloped pockets to be littered with enough hydroponic stations to be self-sufficient. With solar sailer supply drops sneaking in under the radar, it was like Nakuna wasn't even there.

None of the stations were due for harvesting, so Buster acted as a gofer while Farmer Carbuncle worked on a tractor that was giving them trouble. The panda was enjoying learning more about how machines worked after the primer he had been given to disarm the Komodos. It was a lot like biology: it looked distressingly complicated, but once you broke it down into systems and understood how each system worked you had a framework and it started to make sense how everything fit together.

After working on the tractors together, Carbuncle and Buster relaxed with some of their home-grown weed over lunch. The panda had long since tossed the vaporizer he used at Martenwol into the incinerator, and his new one was also wrapped in pink electrical tape. Carbuncle favored a pipe. They had spent many afternoons relaxing after harvest, getting giggly on a couch in the maintenance shed together; at first Carbuncle rode the armrest sidesaddle, but now Buster had lost enough weight that the modestly-sized human could squeeze comfortably beside their friend.

When he returned to Zed Steadman, people smiled and waved and greeted him by name. Many had understandably been suspicious at first, but he had become a member of the community. He had demonstrated kindness and compassion and honesty, and when they made fun of him for messing up he was able to laugh harder than anyone. In turn, Buster felt more at home among the humans than he ever had among Nakunans.

Stolen novel; please report.

He ducked into the science wing to check in on Arca, their lead biochemist. Only recently had the panda earned enough goodwill to be allowed into the laboratory. But this was a time of war and hardship, and they needed help. Buster was always happy to help. Compared to telomerics, he found brewing hormones and antibiotics to be much more fulfilling. It was very humbling to start over, and he was happy that he was willing to try.

Since he had worked hard at the farm, he skipped the gym and took a breather in his room. Back at Ryzeen his walls had been bare, but here they were covered in mementos and gifts from his stay. He still thought of his ex-wife every day, but as he formed new friendships and connections and memories she was finally starting to fade into history. When he did think of her, he wasn't as afraid as he used to be.

You're just a fat old man. Without me you'd be all alone.

Back when she used to say that to him, it had hurt because it was true. Now? He might be an old man. He might still be pretty fat. But he wasn't alone. He had never felt more loved than at Zed Steadman.

He visited Petro for dinner. He cut his food up into small pieces to help with his teeth, and they had a wonderful conversation about the awful coworkers they had had over the years.

The enormous panda stooped down and hugged the small man goodbye. Quarantine might not have been so bad if he could have spent it with a friend like this.

As Buster left Petro's room and started the walk back to his own, he passed Dr. Calvini in the hallway. They didn't see each other that often anymore, and he nodded in recognition as they passed. Maybe one day he wouldn't have to wear this collar, but until then he was happy to. It's not like he didn't deserve it.

Just like how he knew he would have to answer for his crimes on Martenwol one day. If this war ever ended, whichever side won he knew they would hate him just as much as he had hated Lance. He could only hope that they would be better people than he had been.

As he entered his room and the light turned on, he noticed something on his desk that hadn't been there before: A memory stick. One that had been decorated in a loud floral print. Tropical red flowers on a swirling black and white background.

Buster's heart sank.

Mercenaries like Tartarus Squadron were Squaddies, government employees: they had uniforms, they had clearances, they had contracts. But there was another kind of mercenary: Freelancers. They were the real wild cards.

Since they didn't have uniforms, they self-identified by wearing bright floral-patterned shirts because there was an urban legend that they disguised concealed weapons. It became a sort of a calling card: if you saw a floral shirt raised on a flagpole that meant that the Freelancers had left no survivors, and they wanted you to know it.

Buster didn't have a choice. If something was coming, he needed to know. For the sake of the humans, if not himself.

He plugged the memory stick into his console and the screen lit up with a video. It was the view from inside Lance's cockpit that fateful day in the tunnel leading to Zed Steadman.

Looking at himself with that sadistic little grin frozen on his face, Buster felt disgust. Instinctual revulsion. Like bugs were crawling under his fur. He hated what he had been. It was one of the few things he still hated anymore.

In a panic, Buster mashed the button to skip forward through the video. It was all there. At the very end, it cut to a grizzly bear looking down the camera accusingly. Buster didn't recognize his face or his voice, but he was wearing a loud floral print in black and white and red. This was his memory stick. He was a Freelancer.

"I saw what you did, Buster. And I'm going to make sure that everybody knows. You're not going to get away this time."