Finding a team of toughs capable of handling their own is fairly easy. Convincing them to wear regulation armor is a different matter.

"But skulls is scary," stubbornly repeats the gray furred Tserri known as Skint.

Dunc Wollen nods wearily. "Yeah, but that doesn't represent the station very well. Besides, we want the drunks to look at you and know that you're security. If they have to take time to remember which color means who, that's time you could be getting shot or stabbed by their pals."

Skint scowls before he starts over. "But skulls is-"

A slap on the back from a different member of the eight person squad interrupts Skints repetition.

"Yeah. That they are, Skint," the midnight furred female beside him says, agreeably. "What I think he's trying to say, here, is that we need a squad pattern. Colors that'll let these strays know when they need to behave extra good like."

Dunc's team are standing outside one of the small shops that have sprung up around the station. With a salvaged display screen over the door advertising custom armor mods, this cramped garage drew their attention easily. The only shop on the strip with neon lights, it was rather hard to miss.

"I don't know what's so hard to understand," says the only other Selber of the group. Spen looks at the gray furred recruit before pulling out his hand stunner and twirling it around his finger. Returning it to its holster in a single motion, the Operative smiles. "It's easy. You want to get paid to hurt people? Wear what we tell you."

An older model tablet expertly wired into the wall is programmed with examples of modifications the owner of the shop, Glian, has done for other customers.

The options are overwhelming. Glian has been busy in the short time since building the shop. With programmable presses, he's able to sculpt different parts of the vacuum armor. Helmets shaped like skulls or predatory beasts, spikes or scales added to pauldrons and greaves, or just a simple stamped image.

Also on offer are a choice of colors and finishes. Paint with microstructures designed to break up laser bursts, or with interlocking lattices meant to resist blunt force.

Eight sets of armor are piled up against one wall inside, taking up most of the available space. Glian's assistant can be seen climbing over them inside. Their fur matches, both in shades of orange with white faces, though the assistant is only half his height. His daughter perhaps?

Fidgeting nervously in the neon glare cast by the door, Glian's attention is split between his small assistant and the goons outside his illicit shop.

"You've got some nice equipment here," Dunc says appreciatively, gesturing toward the cramped interior.

"All honestly acquired," the orange Tserri says smoothly. "Have you decided what kind of help I can provide you?" He takes a step to place himself between the security squad and his tiny holdings.

Spen closes the distance between himself and the mechanic quickly and looms over the much shorter alien menacingly. With a predatory grin he puts one hand on Glian's shoulder, the mechanic too intimidated to resist.

"Yeah," says Spen, looking down at his captive. "You're gonna answer any questions my buddy asks. After that, if you can still walk, we'll let you paint our kits. That sound good?"

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Dunc shrugs and laughs like Dondrik had said something funny. He turns to the Tserri behind him, as if expecting them to share the joke. When they remain silent his laughter cuts off suddenly and he drives his fist into Glian's gut, all the force of his bodyweight behind it.

"All these machines you have, that's fine," Dunc says calmly, a pleasant smile once more on his gray face. "I don't think it's a problem, really. If you can get this stuff it just means you're the furball we want to talk to."

Glian climbs back to his feet, one claw against the doorframe to help him. "I'm listening," he coughs out. His lower arms are crossed protectively around his belly.

Nodding earnestly Dunc says, "Sure. You aren't the only furball with equipment they shouldn't have. You're being useful, we can look past any mistakes you might have made." He shrugs broadly before continuing. "Not everyone's being as helpful to the community as you are, however. Don, go get us some drinks, huh? And don't forget the kid."

The large male Dunc addressed as Don, properly Donan, scowls at his chief but walks down the broad avenue, his sister Donna going with him to help carry them back. The pair had been captured by Tollek and held prisoner during the reconstruction efforts in Centra City.

Now that the city has started to recover they had time to ship the war prisoners up. Donna and Donan were among over a hundred shipped to the station by convoy.

"I'm thinking we stick to Imperium colors. Black and gold. We'll take the refracting paint, that sound good so far?" He turns and looks around him. Glian is nodding, hoping to escape the situation with his livelihood intact. None of the security detail want to risk the ire of their unpredictable leader. "Triangle pattern, not too many of those around, with the relief of course. I like the sculpting set up you've got. Any suggestions?"

"Oh, yes! I do," exclaims the mechanic, a bit too quickly. Dunc fixes his cold gaze on the orange furred shopkeeper, false smile never slipping. "That is, you'll like the design I've been working on. If you'll let me access the terminal," he says in more subdued tones, sidling through the doorway.

Scrolling quickly through the options, Glian activates a hidden executable function while pulling up the design he wishes to show Dunc Wollen. Tracing the pathway it was on when I cancel the function, I realize he was trying to call for help.

The helmet design he shows Dunc is well suited for the kinds of situation the security squad will find themselves in. Rounded and solid, with no place to get an easy grip, the design features reinforcement to protect against blows from behind. While they watch, Glian adds high-powered spotlights beside the darkened visor.

Donna and Donan return and hand out the dark purple juice to the squad. The young assistant happily drinks hers in a corner, keeping wide eyes glued to the strangers wandering around her home.

Warily sipping from his disposable cup, Glian waits for Dunc to cast judgement.

Taking his with a grateful nod from Donna, Dunc accepts the juice before turning back to the cowed mechanic before him.

"We'll swing back around before our shift ends. There's anyone else here, best send them away before we get back. Think about what you want to tell us."

Leaving confusion in his wake, Operative Wollen gathers his squad and walks down the avenue. He waves to an elderly Tserri, tending vines growing down from the ceiling, strolling as if carefree.

Once out of earshot of the ramshackle garage, I activate the speakers closest to the security team.

"He tried to send out a call for help," I explain quietly. "It didn't get through, but I know who he was trying to contact."

Dunc nods but keeps walking casually. Other members of his team jump upon hearing my voice, not yet used to my unseen presence. He leads his team to a street vendor, selling of all things, deep fried wrigglers dug from the rich soil composting far below us.

Handing the young refugee a few translucent chits, he receives two large disposable bowls, dripping with grease. He hands one bowl to Skint before grabbing a handful and crunching happily. The rest of his group join him, snacking in the busy street.

After their meal, the team is lead to a grooming parlor, where the two Selber stand outside. The rest are inside, Dunc declaring that they needed to look less wild if they were going to work for him.

"Good work, Mos. Let Yosip know when we plan to return to the shop," Dunc says softly. "They've got our armor, so I want some support. They'll be waiting for us, expecting soft bodies."

Calling the Supply-Master, I serve as go between while the two officers hash out a plan.