They sit across from one another in silence.

Paul-Paul Atreides—ysoki, impeccably groomed, posture straight despite the utilitarian restraints—watches everything. The ship. The readouts. The other passenger. Zen-Dal Divin, taller, still, with the calm bearing of someone trained to wait for the right moment rather than rush toward it.

Neither speaks at first. Both assess.

Paul has already done his homework. Before ever stepping aboard the Okimoro, he researched Duravor Kreel—mechanic, dwarf, Starfinder Society affiliate. Reputable. Solvent. Current on taxes. A clean operation with a 4.4/5 public review score, a legitimate storefront, and an active social media presence. Paul even saved the image.

Eventually, Zen breaks the silence.

“Duravor Kreel?” he asks evenly. “I assume you’re hired by him as well.”

Paul nods, relieved the conversation has finally begun. Confirmations are comforting.

Zen asks the obvious question.
“What do you know about the job?”

Paul launches confidently into his research—Kreel’s history, the organization, the paper trail, the credibility. He even pulls up Kreel’s social media image to emphasize the point.

Then there’s a pause.

Paul blinks.

“…The job itself?” he says, sheepish now. “That part was… not included in the available documentation.”

Paul stiffens. He nods emphatically. “We will follow those instructions precisely.”

Zen sits.

Outside the shuttle’s forward viewport, Absalom Station grows larger—vast, impossible, alive with motion. The heart of the Pact Worlds looms closer with every second.

The ship’s AI speaks at last.
“Approaching Absalom Station. Docking clearance granted. Bay 94. Please remain seated until the hatch opens and green indicators are visible.”

Paul stiffens. He nods emphatically. “We will follow those instructions precisely.”

Zen sits.

The Okimoro docks with a dull mechanical thud. Zen rises to look around.

Paul shoots him a stern glance.

Zen raises an eyebrow. “What?”

Paul repeats the instructions—verbatim.

Zen stares blankly for a long moment... then sits back down.

Paul stands immediately.

They exchange a look—an unspoken acknowledgment—and Paul steps out first. Zen follows.

The party can see a tall and lanky dwarf with bristly, iron-gray beard and deep-set eyes beneath bushy eyebrows.

Looking up form his computer, the dwarf’s face lights up, and he waves enthusiastically toward the two.

Zen surges forward, adrenaline overriding pain. He tackles the fleeing figure to the deck just as security alarms blare.

Paul finishes typing.

He straightens his jacket, grips his datapad, and marches directly to the Stewards. With absolute confidence, he details the incident, the timing, the actions taken—and presents the already-filed documentation.

Form P-AS-0801. Submitted. Verified. Timestamped.

Paul goes over to check on Duravor. His suspicions are confirmed ... he was killed instantly in the exchange. Paul sadden by this heads back to Zen to inform him.

Zen stares at Paul for a little while. “So, when did you fill out the form?”

Paul blinks. “...During the firefight.”