Energy carbines hummed, their muzzles tracking the cluster around Mei-Ying’s stall. The squad commander, a scarred enforcer with a crimson optic implant, nudged his barrel forward. “Hands where I can see them, junk-picker. And you, Ambassador Vur-Tash. The Hegemony has a vested interest in your… *assets*.”
Raelar shifted his stance. His fingers caught the hilt at his hip, unsheathing a thermal-blade with a sharp hiss. A sapphire edge ignited, throwing hard blue light across his cheekbones. “You stand in violation of Ascendancy sovereign space and diplomatic protocol,” he said. “Stand down, or face summary execution.”
The raider scoffed, static grating through his vox-caster. “Summary execution? We outnumber your detail ten to one, Commander. We take the Skarn, and you can explain to central command how simple junk-pickers lost an interplanetary dignitary.” He jerked his chin toward the stall. “Sweep the perimeter. Bag the targets. Clear any resistance.”
Mei-Ying had not budged. Ladle raised, her gaze remained glued not to the encroaching hitmen, but to the glazed clay jar holding her Azure Coast stamens, teetering near the edge of the sheet-metal counter. Pulverized ceiling plaster already salted her cast-iron wok, a sacrilege demanding immediate retribution.
“Junk-pickers?” Jaxen muttered, shifting behind a rusted pillar, his gaze flicking across the armored gunmen. He ducked under a matted clump of hair, hunching his shoulders. “Commander, maybe we just hand over whatever they want? It’s just scrap, right?”
Vur-Tash scrambled up from the gravel, scales flushing dull violet. “Idiots! You have no concept of what you touch! The Hegemony will flay your… your entire brood for this!”
A raider sidestepping Raelar slipped on a chunk of ferrocrete. His rifle discharged. The superheated bolt shrieked past Raelar’s ear and struck Mei-Ying’s wooden shelf. Timber exploded in splinters. Stoneware pots blew apart, showering star anise, ground ginger root, crushed red pods, and dried gold stamens into the greasy station grime.
Silence dropped over the stall. Mei-Ying let the metal spoon drop, ringing against the deck. Her jaw tightened into iron. “My… my golden threads,” she whispered. She turned on the perimeter squad, steps rigid, her stare forcing the point man back half a pace.
Jaxen closed the distance without a sound. He blurred across five paces, fingers catching the three nearest gunners by the collar plates. Cartilage popped in three clean, synchronized cracks. The men collapsed like empty canvas rigs, carbines clattering against the metal decking. Jaxen stood motionless above them, his pupils pinpricks of pure calculation, before instantly rounding his back and stumbling backward like an awkward drunk.
The remaining raiders froze, gun barrels dropping. Raelar kept his blue blade humming, tracking the corpses with narrowed pupils. Vur-Tash let out a throttled croak.
Mei-Ying did not glance at Jaxen. She kept marching, stepping straight across a fallen body toward the squad leader, her finger extended like an iron spike.
“Look at this floor!” she barked, pointing at the powdered crimson and gold scattered across the plate. “Three years searching cargo holds for genuine bark and star pods! Spilled! You track slag-boots through my prep station, shatter my stock, and ruin the service!”
The squad leader stepped back another inch, his optic flickering green to orange. “We… we have a contract,” he stammered through the vox grill.
“A contract to starve?” Mei-Ying scooped a clay shard from the deck. “Look at your grey skin! You’ve chewed ration paste and chemical tallow for six months straight! No balance in your blood, no aim in your wrists!” She pointed a wooden spoon at the vat of simmering rice porridge. “Sit on those crates. Now.”
The surviving gunmen looked between her spoon and their dead comrades. Raelar lowered his blue weapon an inch, evaluating her. Jaxen nudged a loose carbine under a counter with his boot heel.
“Sit!” she snapped. “Break my kitchen, you eat what is served.” She grabbed four earthenware bowls from the wash tub. “Hot rice and ginger. It settles the bile and fixes your shameful manners.”
Slowly, rifles slid onto slings. The raiders sank onto dented ammunition tins and overturned scrap tubs. They took the steaming earthenware bowls with stiff, calloused hands, flinching whenever Mei-Ying slapped a soup spoon into their palms.
As the point man shoveled the first scalding mouthful past his lips, a hum buzzed through the alley. A blue-tinted light column flickered above the scrap heaps, resolving into a figure draped in synth-silk robes. Boss Vexel’s volumetric transmission cast long teal shadows over the slurping squad.
“Report,” Vexel’s transmission boomed, bouncing off the scrap walls. “Have you secured the Skarn diplomat and neutralized the anomalous power core?”
The squad leader wiped white starch from his chin. “Boss… we’re currently… assessing tactical positions.”
Vexel’s projected face twisted. “Assessing? The Skarn Hegemony prepares orbital bombardment while you idle! They believe this market harbors Ascendancy conspirators. We trigger the skirmish, they burn the station, and we scavenge the wreckage. Take the diplomat. Silence the woman with the ladle.”
The projection turned its glare upon the stove. “Snipers on the catwalks, terminate her.”
A red targeting dot painted the center of Mei-Ying’s brow. She didn't drop her ladle, checking the steam rising from the simmer. Vur-Tash scrambled forward, his green frills flaring in raw fury as he shielded the pot with his robes. “If that woman falls,” the Skarn bellowed across the square, “I order the fleet to fire upon every human outpost in the sector!”