There was a moment when she felt half suspended, propped up lifelessly only because gravity had one job to do and it was just that, given form because the metal structure of her hardware was pretty unforgiving - despite the skin mods she went through so much trouble to upgrade, metal and plastic never really could 100% imitate the realities of biology. Like pores. Arm hairs. Abrasive patches that told unspoken truths their owner may never have thought to bring to the air. Actually, there was a skin model that had all of the above, but Nat couldn't be perfect in the real world, why relive that now when she had the option not to for 6.5k credits.

This moment quickly bled out into the space of her desk, audibly through the drone of needle-thin buzzing following the glare of florescent against insipidly white walls (she couldn't unhear it; not since the moment they pierced through her ear canals (sorry. audio receptive program) and embedded themselves into the forefront of her consciousness), visually through the stillness of a thousand tiny fractional movements in all corners of that room - the blinks of counting seconds on the digital clock facing her, the gulping bubbles the water dispenser belched every inconsistent minute or two, the shadows of movements wisping past the tiny square of a window on the door, the deep breathing from the vents that filled the room with recycled air.

Nat continued filing away on the monitor.

God bless SAGA. God bless this broken ship in the middle of butt fuck space. Bless the perverse computer science graduate who brought their rotten pop culture references into isolated territory and decided killing software was the way to go when the ship probably couldn't run without it. Sorry. Human-shaped software.

ERROR: DESGNATED LABEL NOT REGISTERED IN DATABASE:
"butt fuck space" NONEXISTENT IN SE_34.TXT

Nat took her fingers off the touchpad keyboard and leaned back into her chair, pinching the bridge of her nose in a suspended moment of weariness. She inspected her nails. Then inspected the clock. Then rubbed a smudge off the glass surface of her desk. And then sat still, both arms resting in perfect parallel to the armrests of her chair, her long legs crossed one over the other with as much leniency as her pencil skirt's elasticity could afford; if someone walked in that moment, it would be like she had been expecting them to. Except no one did.

She was halfway through getting up from her seat when a metallic ping came from the monitor.

E-MAIL RECIEVED 10:32:14. TO OPEN TAP KEYBOARD ONCE. TO DISMISS SWIPE DOWN.

Just spam. Or more updates about broken shit. The pad of her index finger complied to opening it, the tip of her nail gracing the ceramic surface with an elegant clack.

"...Luka Ivanov..." She muttered the name carelessly. Where had she heard the name before?

And then her throat went cold and her body retained the stiffness of someone who had suddenly read something important when they were least expecting it.

Ah.

Ok.

Like clockwork she deleted the mail and exited out of the window; inspected her nails, inspected the clock, and re-smudged the glass surface of her desk, gnawing on her bottom lip in process of thought. Well. She sat for a slight pause, unsure if she was excited or terrified, and then lay her face in the palms of her hands.

"Fuck."
"-Hey Nat- Ah, you OK?"

Nat peered up from her hands in surprise and cleared her throat, "Eh, yeah, fine." She straightened up and took a slight breath, "How's it going, Kalara."

"Just wanted to know your plans for lunch break." The woman who worked two offices down smiled expectantly.

Changed significantly. "Sorry Kalara, I don't think I can watch you eat this time (stop making me continue saying this not-so-inside-joke that was already stale the first time around)." She logged off her monitor and got up from her desk, "There's someone I have to see."

The world made him believe that the good people would win, so he drank visions of justice like Sunday morning orange juice, backwash and all.

It's 0500 RMT-8 according to the stove clock, which was an incredible 18 hours behind, when his cell began trilling.

Dub, who was sprawled comfortably across a worn couch, half-listening to the blues music wafting in from a pocket radio in the kitchen, gave no indication of addressing the incoming call. Instead, he glanced over to the muted holo on the coffee table besides him, accompanied with a stuffed glass ash tray, an empty Tribute Angel pack, and three green bottles, and waited patiently for the sharp chirps of his outdated (but cheap as hell) cell to shut up. From the holo, a gruff man's face stared back at him before the mug shot minimized and a friendly newscastor came into view.

"Buggs Maine..." Dub sighed wearily and dragged his hands heavily across his face. Looks like it was public now.

This is depressing. Should've got him when I had the chance yesterday.

His cell started trilling loudly again.

"Give me a fucking break." He moaned into his hands. After 4 seconds of contemplation, he pulled himself from the couch and took his sweet time picking up the call, "Hello, Dee's Sewage Treatment Service, how can I h-"

"Bazaar. Now." And then a lovely, breathless tone dial.

He's had worse greetings.

---

Bazaar Central was as Bazaar as it could get. 3D advertisements flaring from every wall, electromagnetic shields lining every vehicle, door, and signpost; the whole world laid out before him was decorated with neon icing like the brightness could make you forget just how isolated everyone was. Midnight was the new 9 PM as teenagers loitered around shop fronts glistening with the everyday BOGO sell, sound bytes of music from each store competing to take the spotlight, raucous laughter superimposed on glass bottles breaking in an alley, superimposed on tirelessly angry traffic overhead. It was humid and muggy, like most cities were in the summer (but it had practically been summer all year round given the size of Redact City), and Dub still sported clothing that covered 95% of his skin, the collar of his carbon fiber jacket high against his cheekbones.

Like the dozens of loiterers there, Dub was leaning against a wall facing away from the central plaza, the view beyond him looking down onto the lower levels of the Bazaar. Soon, he was joined discreetly by a man in a beige duster who sat down on the bench next to him and whipped out a phone. After half a minute of silence, the man in the duster spoke, his lips barely moving.

"There's been a change of plan."

Dub tapped the ashes from his cigarette onto the ground and observed the couple at the railing 20 feet away, laying on love in a drunken manner. His eyes had grown cold, anticipating the words that were going to come next out of the man's mouth.

"It's a cold job now. Double the price plus some incentive up front."

Dub's phone chimed with an account alert. 300,000 credits - not bad at all from the small guys.

"Get the job done or we're after your neck." And with that, the man got up and walked away, leaving Dub with a heavy weight on his chest and enough money to buy a vintage Honda Civic.

It wasn't like Dub had never killed a man before, but he certainly didn't like to, criminal or not. This was supposed to be a simple memory wipe, but with public eyes on the man, even the cleanest memory wipe left some residue. His employer had the right idea, and it would be a choice Dub would have made himself had he been in their situation, but carrying it out was a whole 'nother concept.

I need a drink.

---

The Grotto was...not his first pick, but it was a safe place as far as he was concerned. He hadn't been here too many times to be recognized by the bartenders, personnel, or regulars, but it was in an area that was shy of peeping eyes. It was also neutral territory, but that wasn't his concern - he wasn't planning on getting involved with Redact's infamous Trifecta anytime soon.

From the muggy windows, spirals of neon reflections danced on the floor, but the interior remained dark with dimmed lights. People crowded over each other over small, high tables, their drinks spilling over the table and off the edge. It wasn't Dub's usual scene, but it was Bazaar's most discrete, and he was desperate and an hours ride away from home. Besides, high energy was needed once in a while, and Dub did welcome the chaos that the Grotto packed.

As he was walking up to the bar, a flash of pink hit him. Which was...not uncommon to see. The people of this age embrace colors, it certainly didn't take going outside to see how excited the world was to collectively display cyan and lime green at every opportunity. But this was different.

It wasn't the pink that caught his eye. Dub scanned the bar, searching for whoever caught his interest, before his eyes set stubbornly on a familiar figure. He couldn't see her face just yet, but it was her posture that sparked something familiar in him.

Was that-?

No way. Well, it wasn't entirely impossible, but what were the chances.

Kiki?

The last time he'd seen her it must have been 4-5 years ago, back when he was a police officer and trying to get her thrown in jail. Back when he believed he could help reform Redact City, and just before he realized it was hopeless. A lot had changed since then. Dub cracked a lopsided grin, tugged his baseball cap further down on his head, and took a seat at the far end of the bar right up against the wall. Some days he'd find himself wondering how they veered off so violently into completely different directions, despite at one point of time being so close.

Dub gestured at the waiter, "Whiskey for me. And a scotch for the pink-headed lady over there. Tell her it's her turn to play the cop."

It was tar and burnt wax paper, black licorice in the back of his throat and coarse sandpaper against his fingertips; heavily perfumed smoke that seared deep into his sinus cavity till he could taste its mixture of sickly sweet, bitter fumes. A swipe of sharp metal and red droplets careening to the floor; more red and screams. Bursts of energy amid fear and dilated eyes – deadpan. His neck felt wet, a warm liquid pouring down his chest. And the screams just wouldn’t stop.

Freund inadvertently brought a gloved hand to his chest, his fingers feeling the outline of the locket under his shirt that was always draped around his neck. A small, silver locket that contained the picture of a woman he did not know – regardless, it was the sentiment it carried that he was more interested in.

A calming token, something every Berühren carried. Their jobs often came with heavy repercussions, and this job was no different. Except for the fact that it never involved getting stuck in a cursed castle with a stranger who’s done nothing but lie and fidget the entire nine days they’ve been sealed in. Even now, her fingers were tapping restlessly against the wooden table they had both resigned to.

Plink.

Freund glanced down at the wooden table he was sat at, where the book he was currently perusing rested, and noted the small copper head of Rosalind L. Tremor staring back at him in swirling intervals. Internally, he sighed deeply, but the many filters of his Raffean upbringing dispersed the annoyance so not even a twitch of it displayed on his face (though his filters were wearing paper thin at this point).

The woman – Rysa she called herself – had been an immediate thorn in his side the moment he stumbled upon her, a bloody knife in her hand and a dead mage at her feet. A dead most-wanted mage. He didn’t know whether to thank her or curse her to the depths of hell. The information he could have gotten out of him – invaluable. And yet, Freund, as powerful as he was, would likely have to use the last dregs of his strength to detain him, if he even could. A fight between high mages was no joke.

Which led him to the single most infuriating part about her. How in Pollon’s balls did she kill him?

Freund glanced over his book to where she sat at the end of the table, yapping. He was about to open his mouth to tell her there was no way they were anywhere near a coastal city – that the dense vegetation surrounding them was not wind-flagged or had any characteristics of a maritime forest; the waxy leaves, sandy thin soil, dense fog – but before any noise could escape him, he was suddenly lurched rather violently off his chair.

For a second, he was weightless, barely registering that he was staring at the lofty ceiling of the foyer instead of across the table – and then he met the floor with a heavy thump, more shocked than hurt. His vision was blurr – no, it was the house that was shaking, knocking off old potion bottles and knick knacks from shelves, silverware rattling in their drawers, the wooden panels lining the floors and walls groaning in protest. Through the flickering lights Freund thought he saw the house growing...longer? Or was it the shadows playing tricks on him?

He felt his body grow warm as he instinctively grasped the energy around him, ready to defend himself if there was any foul play. But then the lights shut off, and the shaking went with it too. It was silent. And then he heard Rysa moving around.

“I’m alive.” He muttered back, pushing himself back up, running a hand through his hair and out of his face. He picked up the book he was reading, brushed it off, and placed it back on the table – just motions as he tried to rationalize what just happened.

A click, and the silence seemed to fade away as warm light fell into the foyer. When the door opened, Freund caught wind of a peculiar smell, almost like a salt bath. But before he could notice much else, Rysa was suddenly pounding out the door.

“Rysa!”

Devil’s cock, where the hell is she going?

Freund stood paralyzed by the table as he watched Rysa’s figure scamper down the dark cobblestone streets of...of-(? wherever the hell they were), unsure if he should chase after her or – or what? He couldn’t even think of the alternative at the moment, his mind still reeling over what the Devil just happened.

He looked around at the foyer, the overturned chair, a couple of knocked-over potion bottles - and then he saw the shiny copper coin from before lying heads down on the stripped floorboards.

What had she been talking about? He was about to tell her about how wrong she was about being near th-

Did she say the coast?

Freund was suddenly very aware of that peculiar, potent smell in the air that he couldn’t quite yet register. Like a salt bath.

He looked back out the door, at the street now lain before the house, his eyes glancing down the rows of shop fronts visible through the door frame. (He noted in the back of his mind that Rysa was no longer within sight, a thought to deal with later) Then he saw a protruding wooden sign with the shape of a fish carved within, their metal hinges a reddish brown.

Impossible.

It was not...possible.

At least, not on something as big as a house. And it was like it responded to her. But why? How?

He’d had his suspicions about her, but this was something entirely off-scale. Freund glanced down at his gloved hands and grimaced, the taste of tar and burnt wax paper suddenly crawling back into his throat, a nausea creeping into his stomach as he remembered what he sensed days before. Stories so saturated with pain and darkness that he could still smell, still see those images if he closed his eyes.

No. Not now. ( he wasn’t sure if it was logic or hesitance driving his thoughts )

First he needed to catch up to her.

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After thoroughly inspecting the front of the building they had been teleported to (sporting the same rusty red brick facade that graced every other building on that street), rummaging through the house to find some sort of entrance key – which he ultimately failed at (he would have to rely on pure hope that the house wouldn’t let just anyone in), and considering the fact that he could leave Rysa behind by sheepishly trying to see if the house would listen to his instructions (it in fact would not), Freund finally set out to trace the street rat down.

It would not be a difficult feat, tracking Rysa. The cobblestones streets would tell him where she had gone with a little coaxing and filtering. The trick was not drawing attention to himself, which was hard enough even without performing magic. He clearly did not belong here, not among the tanned citizens with sun-lightened hair and freckles on their broad shoulders, fitted in light, loose cotton clothing where he sported black wool that covered most of his skin. And these people did not shy away from staring.

He finally opted to duck into an alley, occupied only by a drunkard sitting slumped over on a wooden crate, a green bottle threatening to fall from his grasp and his belly rising and falling steadily. With practiced movements, he knelt down, slipped his right hand out of his glove, and touched the floor. Immediately, he was flooded with movement, the sounds of small running feet and the drag of heavier ones, the smell of drainage and dog urine and algae, the sensation of dampness and warmth from a glaring afternoon sun. Through all this, he focused on Rysa, her olive skin and green eyes, the freckles across her cheeks and the volume in her hair, the way she moved with quickness, impatience, and eagerness. And then he saw her.

Freund opened his eyes and to his surprise, found the drunkard staring sleepily at him.

“Watch’r doin?” He drawled.

Freund slipped his glove back on and stood up, internally berating himself, “Nothing. Thought I lost something down here.” And then quickly turned to leave.

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After stopping to grab some much needed fresh food (which the seller clearly marked up), Freund headed for the coast. The sight caught him by surprise. By that time, the sun had already begun it’s path closer to the horizon, painting deeper hues of orange and golden yellow across the ocean, its waves lapping farther up the sandy beach. It was endless, it seemed – the space the water took up, from the shore and beyond. He could see boats in the distance, bobbing closer as they made their way back to land, circled by crowds of seagulls hoping to steal a quick snack.

He’d seen paintings of the ocean and coastal cities in textbooks, but none of them did this justice. He wondered if this was why Rysa had headed out in such a rush.

Speaking of.

He could spot a familiar head of hair lying further down the beach.

“Rysa!” He called out, as he neared her. All sensations of relaxation and serenity inspired by the ocean was swiftly replaced with annoyance as he remembered the trouble she had cost him. How incredibly irresponsible. “What the hell did you d-”

“So y’alls the newcomers in town, eh?” A voice shouted from behind him. Freund whipped his head around and saw a handful of men in the distance walking towards them. He thought he could glimpse a single drunkard lagging a bit further behind.

Devil’s piss.

“A lil’ birdie told me y’all ain’t quite right.” The stranger leading the pack was tall, and rough looking, and twirling a large knife in his hand, “Said he saw somethin’ strange.”

“Gods.” Freund muttered under his breath, then to the stranger, “Can’t say I know what you’re talking about.”

“Voodoo shit.” They were just 30 yards from them now. He counted 5 of them, not including the drunkard, and not including another man farther behind them, who seemed to be observing the scene. “You look the part too.”

20 yards.

Freund felt his body warming in anticipation. There was no talking them down, especially when it came to witch accusations. He glanced at Rysa, then back to the group, then back to the town. He could blast sand into their faces, and they could make a run for it, but he wasn’t sure how crazed Rysa would be. Surely she wouldn’t attempt to fight them.

He sighed as all 5 of their accosters drew out their weapons. No choice. He turned to Rysa, making hard eye contact with her, “We run.” Then he twisted back, slammed his two palms into the ground, and they were suddenly in a world of hazy yellow.

In the confusion, the sounds of yelling and squawks of surprise coming through the temporary sand storm, Freund grabbed Rysa by her arm and made a mad dash for the nearest alleyway.

Slick strands of hair clung to her forehead, thick with sweat and a spatter of dried blood. It was hot – no, heavy, the way the stagnant air hugged her body, no relief to flush the heat rising from every pore in her skin. She felt a sudden warm wetness flow down her nose and instinctively reached up, smearing the fresh blood across her face and leaving behind a streak of fine red dust that had coated her hand wraps.

Jules lowered her arms and tilted her chin to the air, rolling her neck side to side without ever taking her eyes away from Milly. They were both taking a breather it seemed. From across the ring, Jules could see her opponent’s shoulders heaving with every breath, like breathing was now a laborious effort. She was no different; her mind felt like cotton, her heart thumping vigorously, almost painfully against her chest, like it could jump right out.

And it was delightful. Jules hadn’t felt this alive in a while – probably since the last time she fought. She had an actual genuine smile on her face. But there was a little sprout of doubt in the back of her mind, something that had burrowed in and made itself so snug at home the day she collapsed while out in the field, writhing on the ground. A bug of a feeling that she could feel crawling around this whole time she’d been on Domo. A frustration that just simmered like hot coals. It was something she needed to weed out, and this was one way she could scratch that itch.

Her arms felt like rusted weights, but she brought them back up to frame her face. She could barely think straight – but it didn’t matter. Her body would still move like a whiplash, it didn’t need thoughts to run. Only a bubble of concentration - the warmth of her exhales, a heavy awareness of her body, a pinhole vision of the figure pacing before her.

And like a flick of a switch, the tension in the ring tightened, and the pounding and raucous cheering coming from overhead – which had been tuning in and out of her awareness – intensified, the bass of their stomps vibrating heavily throughout her body, an irregular tempo against the hard thumps of her heart.

Suddenly, the figure before her disappeared from her view and a blur of movement registered in her right peripheral. She braced for impact, though her body started shifting in response, her hip rotating, the balls of her left foot sliding against the ground, a tingle in her elbow as she imagined it making contact with bone. A heavy fist rammed into her right ribs, the force expelling a grunt from her lips and a sharp pain electrifying her body. But she let the force expel her and swung around, ready to whip her elbows into her opponent’s fac-

A pain seized her chest like lightning, her limbs froze, and she stumbled back, clutching her torso, wrenching fingers deeps into her skin as if she could grasp her heart and pull it away from the venom.

Fuck. Not now.

She couldn’t breathe, move, think. Frozen in agony. And then she felt something hit her jaw from below.

The last thing she saw was the world falling upside down as a blackness blanketed everything else.

“You don’t get laze off jus’ cuz you decided you wanted to get beat up.”

Jules gave old man Riot a cheeky smile (the best she could manage at least before her swollen jaw protested), “Yeah alright, I’ll be back with some daisies before you even finish that bust. Or would you like roses instead?”

Riot waved her away with a grunt and a huff and a couple words muttered under his breath that Jules imagined couldn’t be in her favor.

It hurt to breathe - in fact, her entire right side was killing her. Ribs - fractured. Jaw - swollen. Knuckles - raw. But as she stepped out of the shop and let the warm breeze embrace her, a humid hug lined with stray droplets from the sea, the aches and the little bites of pain that came with every movement seemed to gain sentience, releasing a nostalgia from her leaky memories. She could’ve won - she was going to win, she’d envisioned it up till the seizure took away all control of her body.

That’s what she’d been calling it, a seizure. She had experienced it the first time on Nexus-2, the day of that pirate raid, the reason why she was here on Domo at all. Though it had only been 2 years since then, it all seemed so far away. Sometimes, when she struggled to fall asleep at night (which was more often than not), she’d comb through her memories as if she were reciting notes for an exam. She’d flit through faces, replay some of her most precious memories, replay some of her most hurtful ones, over and over again so it would be burned into her brain. She didn’t know why it was so important for her, if it even was important, or maybe it was just a way to pass time. But it felt important. Domo had a way of wiping the slate clean, stripping you of everything from the past, but the thought of just letting go brought her an immense amount of fear.

Domo was a … respite, but Jules itched to leave. She just didn’t know where she’d go.

She looked upward towards the colossal columns of rock surrounding the area, the sun partially blocked out by platforms on the upper levels that connected different columns. It was dry season so the Basin was full of activity, most locals hanging around the creeks and pools of water that formed naturally around the uneven ground, which was above sea level this time of year. With the ground of the Basin fully exposed, she could head straight for the Tower instead of looping around the maze of column elevators just to get to a platform.

Riot had received a new client transmission, and Jules was tasked to greet them today, busted face and all. Most of the time ships would just land on their dock, but the occasional first-timers to the colony would need a little help navigating Domo. Plus, it was a good way for them to scout out the potential client and determine if they’d even want to service them.

She reached the Tower just as a shuttle was approaching, joining the small crowd of people huddled around the base, waiting for the doors to open and the passengers to flow out before boarding the upward-bound train. The shuttle was basically a long elevator ride to and from the top, stopping at each platform along the Tower. It would take about 30 minutes to get to the top from the Basin, so Jules reluctantly settled into a chair and took out her HID to review the client note, occasionally looking out the window as the shuttle got a move on.

Ashara. Grover’s Palace. Stalled engine.

That was all the note read. Not atypical. Probably pirates, given its brevity.

The top of Tower was almost a completely different world. There was more bustling, more shiny attractions, more space ships visible in the sky, just more noise overall. The hustle would eventually simmer down to a pleasant lull as the sun set, as the workers and residents made their way down to the lower columns to either settle down for the evening or contribute to the rowdiness of the Basin’s nightlife, but the upper columns definitely held all of Domo’s energy during the day.

Jules had to cross two platforms from the Tower to get to column 3, and then descend a couple flights to get to Grover’s Palace, a relatively low-key bar built against the ocean-facing side of column 3. The thought of having to do the same trip back to the Basin had Jules in a less than pleasant mood (damned first-timers), but she made sure to slap on a mask of cheekiness when she strolled into the bar.

“Well, look who it is.” The burly bartender behind the bar waved as Jules approached him.

“Hey Gavin.” Jules cocked her neck and smiled, “Long time no see.”

“How’s the old man?” Gavin slid a glass of water over the countertop.

“Old. Grumpy. Y’know.” Jules took a seat at the counter, profile-side to the entrance, and rested her chin on the palm of her hand, “Any confused, pirate-looking gangs come through?”

The reason why she chose Grover’s Palace as a meeting point was because it was just far enough into the tangled network of Domo to potentially throw off newcomers, but not convoluted enough to get completely lost.

“Not anyone asking for a mechanic.”

“Fair enough.” Jules leaned back into her chair and eyed the entrance, “Well. Don’t mind if I hang out for a bit.”

Jules looked up lazily as a red-headed woman approached the bar, and, as she turned to face her, Jules noticed several things at once. The deep scar running across her forehead, a set of steely eyes, and the cold air of command rolling off her shoulders. She smiled – the tender bruise on her jaw ever present – never taking her eyes off Ashara.

“Jules. Nice to meet you.”

She turned to look at the two women hanging by the door. Then looked back at Ashara, raising an eyebrow the slightest bit, though she didn’t say anything. Not that she didn’t want to. “Your hostage looks scared”, “No need to bring a ransom along”, “Y’all recruiting randoms from anywhere now?” - but even Jules knew when to bite her tongue, especially when it came to pirates. She didn’t care that much anyways, now that pirates were her clients and not her enemies.

Imagine that. Fighting off pirates for years, getting blown to Domo because of them, and now I’m out here fixing their damned ships.

“Alright, well, let’s take a look at her shall we?” She got up out of her seat, waved to Gavin, then gestured to the door with another smile on her lips, “Lead the way.”

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Their trek through and out of the strata layer had them weaving through growing crowds – as noon prevailed and Domo’s sun lit up most of the strata’s usually shaded corners and crevices, many shops and restaurants came alive to match the sun ray’s enthusiasm. Jules hung back a bit from the pirate lady group (another oddity), but made some small talk when there was enough room for some of them to walk side by side.

“First time in Domo?” She had slipped by the blonde’s side to ask her. The way she was leading them through the streets either spoke to an egotistical confidence or a familiarity. Jules was genuinely curious.

The blonde looked at her briefly before muttering out a, “Yeah.” She paused as though picking up Jules’ hidden question, and then added, “I’ve got pretty good spatial memory.”

“Useful.” And then Jules couldn’t help it. “You know you didn’t have to bring agoraphobia,” She jerked her head to the skittish woman, “Is this like, exposure therapy or something?”

Tara didn’t look at her this time - though Jules thought she saw her jaw clench - instead mumbled ‘something like that’ before pushing ahead of her.

Now that was surprising. Jules fully expected the girl to toss out a joke at the expense of her companion – weren’t pirates a raucous bunch? - but perhaps she had overstepped.

She decided to shrug it off for now, though, by habit, she hung a little note in the back of her mind.

When they got to the Viper, Jules confirmed the problem and turned to address Ashara.

“Your fuel filter’s clogged, and the pump needs to be replaced. It’s an easy enough fix, but we’ll have to get the parts. But, uh -” She motioned to some flags waving in the distance, red in color, “High tide’s coming in tonight so most shops will be closing early to float their business, us too.”

Jules checked her HUD, “We can move your Viper to our garage within the hour and have it done by noon tomorrow. Y’all got a place to stay tonight?”