The Skarn warlord towered like a column of scarred chitin, steam hissing from the joints of his plate. His compound optics swept the Rust-Market, fixing upon the flour-dusted human standing over the burners. The dozen execution troopers fanned out, their blasters humming with barely contained destructive force, creating a wide, tense perimeter around the small cooking stall. “So,” his voice ground out like crushed shale across the sudden silence. “This is the grand ‘Rite of Hospitality’ that will save your pathetic station? This… hovel? These… *human* aromas?” A sneer pulled at his mouthparts. “Your Ambassador Vur-Tash speaks of a feast worthy of the gods. I see only squalor and the stench of decaying organics.” Mei-Ying, her gaze steady, wiped her hands on her apron. “The gods, Grand Commander, are merely those who have forgotten the taste of real food.” Chitin plates snapped together in mock amusement. “Bold words, human. But words will not halt the orbital bombardment.” He gestured with a clawed hand, indicating a small, rickety table laden with what Mei-Ying had hoped would be a selection of light appetizers: delicate radish flower salads, crisp vegetable spring rolls, and tiny, sweet glutinous rice cakes. “These… trinkets. Are these your ‘offerings’?” Without waiting for a reply, he swung his heavy metal-sheathed forearm across the table. The flimsy wood splintered, sending plates, bowls, and food skittering across the grimy floor in a shower of ceramic shards and scattered vegetables. A collective gasp ripped through the few remaining bystanders, quickly stifled into terrified silence. Jaxen leaned his shoulder forward over his soup spoon. Raelar notched his cleaver against the cutting block. Vur-Tash shrank against a stack of salvaged power converters. “A pity,” the warlord rumbled, surveying the splintered pine. “Such a waste of… whatever this is.” He raised a clawed finger; a droplet of chili oil, flung from a broken bowl, clung to the alloy casing before dripping straight onto his feeding palps. The warlord froze. The sneer evaporated. The glossy compound lenses over his face went glassy, pupils dilating under the chitinous brow. His entire, towering frame became rigid, utterly still. A wet, involuntary rumble shook his throat plating. His feeding apparatus twitched, opening and closing in rapid, desperate reflex as toasted sesame and fermented chili sparked across his chemoreceptors. He stood there, statue-like, for what felt like an eternity, the hum of his troopers’ blasters the only sound. Then, with a sudden, almost frantic jerk, he snapped back to awareness. His gaze darted past the ruined appetizers, fixing hungrily upon the main spread. His gaze locked onto a large, steaming platter of golden fried rice, studded with glistening char siu and bright emerald scallions, nestled beside the bubbling woks. A low growl rumbled in his chest. He took two heavy strides forward, bare metal claws splaying as he reached straight for the smoking rice. *Whack!* The sharp crack echoed through the unnaturally silent bazaar. Mei-Ying brought her thick wooden ladle down across his steel wrist with a sharp crack. His hand snapped back, dark lenses twitching in surprise. “Grand Commander!” Mei-Ying’s voice, though calm, cut through the tension with the precision of a master chef’s knife. “Do you intend to eat without washing your hands? That is not the ‘Rite of Hospitality’ I know. Please, find a basin. We have soap.” She gestured towards a bucket of lukewarm water and a rough cloth near her prep station. The bay fell dead quiet. Jaxen took half a step forward. Raelar rested a thumb against his pistol holster. Twelve execution carbines leveled at Mei-Ying's chest, charge coils whining as they spooled up. Grand Commander Zarkon remained immobile. Then his chest plate rattled, releasing a cavernous, roaring bark of laughter that bounced off the rusted bulkheads. It was a sound of pure, unbridled amusement, a sound that shook the very foundations of the Skarn war machine. He threw his head back, his laughter filling the void. “A Goddess of the Hearth!” he roared, wiping a tear from his eye. “Indeed! But tell me, Goddess, how do you plan to feed me when my orbital cannons are still locked and firing in 60 seconds?”

The Banquet of Survival