Vexel’s grin stretched, a grotesque smear in the flickering light of his comm-link. The vibro-blade at Ambassador Vur-Tash’s throat hummed faintly, a mechanical counterpoint to the Skarn’s panicked gurgles. “This, Commander,” Vexel’s amplified voice echoed through the Rust-Market, relaying across known space, “is the beginning of the end for your human blight. The realm will be eradicated, a cancer excised from the stars, and its pathetic diplomats will be the first to fall.” He tightened his grip, the blade pressing a millimeter deeper. “Tell your fleet, Ambassador, that the Skarn Hegemony will have its war, and its vengeance.”
Jaxen pivoted with mechanical precision, slamming a cartel heavy-trooper into a rusted cargo crate, crumpling the corrugated alloy. He glanced toward Mei-Ying, checking her perimeter, but she stood by her wok, oblivious to the grandiloquent threats, humming a soft tune. Raelar, his plasma-pistol a beacon of crimson bolts, dispatched two more mercenaries, his attention split between securing the area and the unfolding drama at Mei-Ying’s stall. The Skarn soldiers, still mesmerized by the fragrant air, were easy targets for the remaining cartel forces, but most were simply too entranced to fight.
“Your regime,” Vexel continued, his voice rising to a fever pitch, “has proven itself a pestilence. Its reliance on organic matter, its primitive appetites—it is an affront to order across the stars!” He gestured wildly with his free hand, nearly nicking Vur-Tash’s jugular. “We will purify this system, starting with this outpost, and rid ourselves of your species’ disgusting… *culinary practices*.”
Mei-Ying’s humming stopped. Her brow furrowed, a delicate line appearing above her eyes. The sound of Vexel’s voice, grating and shrill, intruded upon the sizzle of her wok and the gentle simmer of her broth. He was disrupting the ambiance, shouting about “disgusting culinary practices” while she was trying to ensure a proper meal. This would not do.
She picked up a glistening, fat-laced slice of braised pork belly, fresh from the pot, its edges caramelized to a perfect crisp. Steam still wafted from the meat, carrying the heady scent of star-anise, cassia bark, and fermented bean paste. Without a word, she began to walk, her steps deliberate and unhurried, right towards the Syndicate boss. The vibro-blade at Vur-Tash’s neck, the sidearm aimed squarely at the ambassador’s head, the active feed—none of it broke Mei-Ying’s focus.
Vexel paused, his monologue momentarily interrupted by the sight of the diminutive woman approaching him. “What in the void-cursed blazes do you think you’re doing, old woman?” he snarled, his pistol steady on Vur-Tash. “Get back to your filth-pit before I ventilate you!”
Mei-Ying ignored him. Her hand, holding the steaming pork, was already reaching. Before Vexel could react, before his nutrient-paste-dulled reflexes could even register the movement, she was there. Her fingers, surprisingly strong, pinched his jaw open. She shoved the scalding hot, incredibly savory piece of pork belly directly into his monologuing mouth.
Vexel choked, pupils dilating as his mouth gaped. The sidearm clattered onto the iron floor, forgotten. The vibro-blade, released from his grasp, fell away from Vur-Tash’s throat with a soft clang. The Ambassador stumbled back, gasping, rubbing his neck.
The pork, hot and rich, exploded on Vexel’s tongue. His brain, accustomed only to the bland, optimized sludge of nutrient paste, reeled from the sudden, complex assault. The tenderness of the fat, melting like dew on a sun-drenched petal, the fibrous resistance of the lean meat, the symphony of spices—sweet, savory, a hint of umami, a ghost of heat—it was too much. It was everything his existence had denied him. His knees buckled.
On the public comm-feed, the cartel chieftain, feared architect of sector riots, dropped to the grime-slicked deck. Tears, thick and uncontrolled, streamed down his face, mixing with the grease from the pork. He began to sob, great, wracking gasps that echoed through the now-silent Rust-Market. His formidable reputation, cultivated through years of terror and extortion, shattered across every open network.
“It’s… it’s like… the river fish,” he blubbered, his voice cracking, utterly devoid of menace. “My grandmother… she’d catch them, by the Zylos River, before the Ascendancy… before they paved it all over. She’d cook them like this, hot and… real.” He curled into a ball, weeping openly about a childhood he hadn’t known he’d lost, a memory so potent it ripped through his meticulously constructed persona of cruelty.
Raelar, seizing the opportunity, moved with incredible speed. His boot skittered the dropped pistol across the floor plates, and in the next instant, magnetic cuffs snapped around the humiliated crime lord’s wrists. “Vexel,” Raelar said, tone brisk and dry above the bawling figure, “you are under arrest for sedition, hostage-taking, and inciting interstellar conflict.”
The silence that followed was profound, broken only by Vexel’s continued, pathetic sniffling. The Skarn soldiers, still drooling, shifted their weight, looking utterly bewildered. Jaxen, standing over a pile of unconscious mercenaries, merely shook his head, a wry smile playing on his lips.
Mei-Ying, satisfied, wiped her hands on her apron. “Now,” she muttered, adjusting a stray strand of hair, “perhaps we can finally eat in peace.”
A deep, resonant shudder vibrated through the hull frames. The floor beneath their feet lurched violently, shedding sparks from overhead conduits. A low, ominous klaxon began to wail, a sound of profound urgency that cut through the lingering scent of pork belly and spices. On the overhead monitor, which had been displaying Vexel’s humiliating breakdown, a new feed took over: the rigid, armored visage of Skarn Grand Fleet Commander Zarkon. His flat voice crackled across the speaker horns, echoing past the Rust-Market into the surrounding corridors.
“Attention, Terran vessel *Starlight Citadel*,” Zarkon intoned, mandibles clicking with heavy finality. “Despite recent… *transmissions*, the Hegemony Council’s directive remains unchanged. Orbital bombardment sequence initiated. Thirty minutes until orbital purge.”
The superstructure groaned beneath another rolling shockwave.