With the spectacle of the fight over, the restaurant slouched back into normality. Loud, bustling, crowded normality. The animals that were being converted into food products for sale in this very establishment probably lived in less crowded conditions. Somewhere in the furthest reaches of the galaxy, some mega-predator is starting a letter writing campaign about the terrible conditions their food is grown in. With the jam in the food delivery taken care of, and the army of waiter-bots directing hungry customers to whatever free tables could be found, at least there was now a steady flow of people coming and going. The Jolly Junta nibbled, the Flauhjinks chewed on in stony silence and the whole scene was bathed with the cheery red and blue flashing lights of a security ship gliding by the window.
The Nurr Slugg Security Ship was, much like the Nurr-Sluggi people themselves, uncomfortable to look at for too long. It was as if the designers of the ship had gone out of their way to make a ship look hideously organic; it pulsed and rippled occasionally, like something swimming through the water. You probably wouldn't catch some kind of disease just from touching it, but even the most hardened of space vehicle technicians preferred to wear gloves as a precaution. It was especially necessary for whichever pour soul was chosen to check the oil levels.
Fortunately, there was a queue of ships waiting for their turn to dock alongside the orbital restaurant. There were rules and regulations governing just how one was to go about queuing in Nurr-Slugg society, and the two security officers on board the ship didn't fancy getting chewed out by their commanding officer for cutting in line. In most species, the phrase chewing out is a metaphor. The Nurr-Sluggi are an alarmingly literal people at times.
A searchlight emerged from the side of the security ship, and swung a searching beam slowly across the ships parked outside. The restaurant attracted all comers, and all manner of ships. Many were Nurr-Sluggi vessels, which were given a wide berth by the other customers. A battered and beaten X-87 "Jalopy" sat surrounded by a cloud of rust flakes. A heavily customised HP-CI Moxie, fast and sleek, with a paint job to match. A bunch of IM Space Bikes, designed for cruising from planet to planet, with the words "The Flowjinks Flaughjinks" painted down the side of each of them. There was even a "Vega Class Carrier" which, while less of a fighter carrier and more of a people carrier, could comfortably sit a dozen pan-humanoids and apparently ran on just about anything. The searchlight swept over them all in turn. Then there was the Quest For Flavour.
She was big enough to be considered a bit clunky, but small enough that you wouldn't have to pay the docking fees. Due to the unusual shape of the thing, the searchlight lingered on it for a moment longer than the others. It looked like an ice cream cone with a scoop of (presumably) strawberry ice cream on top, with the cone forming the rear of the ship and housing the angry beast that was the engine. Nearly everything else, such as the living quarters, the cockpit, the recreation room, the ball-pit and the storage rooms, were crammed into the front section across two floors. The searchlight, having taken all of this in, continued to swing about, aiding in the inspection of other ships and temporarily blinding anyone unfortunate enough to stare right into it.
Meanwhile, back in the restaurant, a short, plump pan-humanoid pushed his way out from the kitchen and waddled over towards booth seven. He carried two bags that bulged with food, along with the complimentary napkins (a plastic and paper mix that could only be torn when you least expect it), plastic eating utensils (knives, forks, spoons, wurglies, chopsticks and a pair of latex gloves with seven fingers on each) and a handful of hand-wipes (lemon scented, sealed for freshness). It took some effort for Clarke to get through to the crew of the Quest for Flavour, the restaurant was busy, the flashing lights outside had agitated many of the customers and Clarke was more used to a sedentary lifestyle behind the counter of Henderson's Ribs.
"Thank. You. For. Visiting," Clarke punctuated his sentences with gasps for breath as he placed the two bags on the table, "Henderson's. Ribs. Your. Custom. Is. Appreciated."
He looked like he'd just been through a warzone. The Henderson's Ribs Management Guide & Colouring In Book, incidentally, recommends having your restaurant declared legally as a warzone. This allows for the limited use of chemical weapons in the eyes of most governments, which is something of a must when cleaning the customer toilets.
