Familiarity brought Maine into the dojo. Not familiarity with the building, the owner, or — as far as he knew — any of the occupants. His familiarity was with the sound. Combat was like a siren's call to the space marine; Maine heard it, and he followed.

What he found wasn't combat. Not exactly. It was training. People he didn't know spread out on mats with a stern-looking man overseeing it all. Not like the training room back on the Mother of Invention, but still so familiar that the massive Freelancer felt something in his chest ache.

It might have been a private gathering. It might've been polite to leave, or at least to ask if he could stay. But Maine wasn't known for being particularly polite. And fuck, he'd missed this.

When the stern stranger addressed him, Maine's gruff answer was immediate: "Training."

It was no small thing to ask. Maine was seven-feet-tall, broad-shouldered, and built like he could easily run straight through a wall. Everything about him — from the way he held himself to the callouses on his hands and the scars marring his knuckles — spoke of restrained strength and experience with violence. And now, he wanted to train here.