The walk back to the bridge was all swagger—at least, for the first few corridors.

  Clorita led the way, shoulders squared, practically glowing with pride.

  “Best sparring match we’ve had. Ever. Somebody remind BOB to update the leaderboard.”

  Zog snorted.

  “Yeah. Right after we patch the dents you left in the floor.”

  Tuk, trailing a step behind, peeled off toward the galley.

  “Hang on. You deserve a victory drink.”

  Minutes later, he returned holding a tall glass that shimmered faintly with coolant, synthetic lube, and some other glowing component best left unidentified.

  Clorita took the glass and sniffed it cautiously.

  “What... is this?”

  Tuk grinned.

  “RG made it for you. Victory shake.”

  She took a long sip, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and declared, “Best shake I’ve ever had.”

  But before anyone could celebrate her new favorite beverage, there came a faint whir-click.

  Then, a pop.

  And then the grinding noise started.

  Clorita froze mid-step, looking down at her legs as if they’d just betrayed her.

  “Oh... that’s not ideal.”

  The hip joint gave a metallic screech.

  The left knee stuttered.

  And then her legs just stopped entirely.

  She crumpled to the floor with a dramatic clank, half the shake splattering across the tiles.

  Luma, never one to waste a good spill, trotted over and delicately began lapping up the runoff, tail flicking with absolute indifference.

  HALAT immediately scanned.

  "Servo failure. Joint integrity compromised. Diagnosis: thermal overload due to enhanced power output."

  Tuk knelt beside her, peering at the readings.

  “Yeah... they’re fried. Old parts couldn’t keep up.”

  BOB’s voice hummed overhead.

  "Congratulations. Your victory has exceeded the limitations of your own hardware."

  Clorita groaned.

  “Ugh. What now?”

  Tuk perked up.

  “What if we add a potentiometer? You could manually dial down the core output when you don’t need full power.”

  Zog snorted.

  “Yeah, right. Like she’d ever use it.”

  "Agreed," HALAT added. "Manual intervention would require discipline Mother does not possess."

  BOB chimed in, helpful as ever.

  "Solution: automatic power modulation via software, adjusting output when internal stress thresholds are detected."

  Clorita squinted.

  “You’re saying you want me to have... a limiter?”

  "Affirmative."

  She groaned louder.

  “This day keeps getting better.”

  And then, as if the universe wasn’t finished kicking her, HALAT added:

  "There are no suitable servo replacements aboard. Repairs will require procurement at the next available port."

  Zog, barely holding back his smirk, delivered the final blow.

  “Which means until then... wheelchair.”

  Clorita slapped a hand over her face.

  “You’re all enjoying this way too much.”

  BOB, ever helpful:

  "Initiating wheelchair protocol. Good news—The Duj is fully ADA compliant."

  Luma gave one final lap of the spilled shake and padded off like nothing had happened.

  And as if the universe had scripted it, the bridge door swished open with a gentle hiss.

  In rolled Reginald, standing impeccably straight behind a gleaming wheelchair that looked suspiciously like it had been freshly polished for the occasion.

  “Madam,” he began, with his usual suffocating charm, “I took the liberty of preparing your transport.”

  Before Clorita could protest, HALAT and Zog moved in.

  "Lifting," HALAT announced with mechanical precision as she and Zog grabbed Clorita under the arms.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Zog grunted as they hoisted her up.

  “Seriously, what have you been charging on? Solid steel and regret?”

  “That’s rich coming from you,” Clorita snapped, but it lacked her usual fire as they plopped her into the chair.

  With an air of absolute dignity, Reginald reached down and adjusted the seat cushion for a minute.

  "There. Optimal lumbar support is now engaged."

  Clorita stared at him.

  Tuk barely held back his laughter.

  HALAT added helpfully, "Efficient suggestion. Approved."

  And Clorita...

  Yeah.

  That was the moment the mighty champion of the Duj met her mental KO.

  She was grounded.

  Reginald steered the wheelchair with the dignity of a royal procession, his movements flawless, his posture insultingly perfect.

  “Please relax, madam,” he said, gliding through the corridors like he was escorting royalty to a gala. “You are in the most capable of hands.”

  Clorita slouched as low as the chair allowed.

  “I hate this ship.”

  “Of course you do, madam,” Reginald replied cheerfully. “May I suggest focusing on your breathing? Oh wait. You haven’t got any.”

  By the time they reached the recharge suite, Clorita had considered at least twelve different ways to uninstall him.

  Reginald eased Clorita onto the recharge dock with the careful precision of someone handling priceless cargo.

  “Please, madam, surrender to the process,” he said, adjusting the settings as if he were offering spa recommendations. “Your optimal wellness is my only concern.”

  Clorita sighed as her systems powered down into low mode.

  “This is the worst.”

  And then, because the universe clearly wasn’t done mocking her, Luma appeared.

  Without hesitation, the Felixanoid hopped gracefully onto the edge of the recharge dock, gave the scene a cursory glance, and then—without even a second thought—settled herself directly on Clorita’s stomach.

  Tail flick.

  One slow yawn.

  Then, as if sealing Clorita’s fate, Luma curled into a perfect, smug little loaf and proceeded to nap.

  Clorita stared at the ceiling, unmoving, power low, completely unable to shove the cat off.

  “This is actually happening,” she muttered.

  Reginald, still meticulously working on her knee servos, barely glanced up.

  “Indeed, madam. A flawless application of gel and a most distinguished companion for your recovery. It is, dare I say... perfection.”

  There was a long, unbearable silence.

  Then, BOB’s voice crackled to life overhead.

  "Logging official report: Clorita has been upgraded to ‘Luxury Reclining Cat Bed.’”

  Clorita’s glare, dimmed by the weight of recharge mode and public humiliation, had never burned with more promise of vengeance.

  Time passed.

  Too much of it.

  Luma purred, undisturbed, as though she’d planned this from the start.

  And when the recharge cycle finally completed, Clorita powered up with a groan.

  “Reginald...”

  “Yes, madam?”

  “Get the damn cat off me.”

  Luma stretched luxuriously, flicked her tail against Clorita’s face like a final insult, and hopped down with a single graceful leap. Without so much as a backward glance, she padded from the room with the self-satisfaction of someone who had absolutely overseen maintenance.

  Clorita sat up slowly.

  “Reginald?”

  “Yes, madam?”

  “Wheelchair. Now.”

  “Of course, madam.”

  Moments later, Clorita found herself once again deposited into the chair, and with all the enthusiasm of a royal escort, Reginald began her dignified journey back to the bridge.

  “Shall I alert the crew to prepare a hero’s welcome?” he asked.

  “Don’t you dare.”

  “As you wish, madam.”

  Reginald rolled Clorita through the Duj’s corridors at precisely 0.8 meters per second—the universally recognised speed of a dignified funeral procession.

  The faint hum of the ship’s systems provided the only soundtrack, save for the subtle creak of the wheelchair and the occasional exaggerated sigh from Clorita.

  “Is... is this necessary?” she muttered, slouching as low as the chair allowed.

  “Absolutely, madam,” Reginald replied without hesitation. “One must never rush the journey of recovery. Presentation is everything.”

  They passed a few crew bots.

  Each paused in their tasks to observe the scene with silent, artificial sympathy.

  One of them beeped softly.

  Another dipped its mechanical arm in what might have been a respectful salute.

  Clorita groaned. “Stop making eye contact with them.”

  “I assure you, madam, they are merely paying their respects to your heroic sacrifice in the line of sparring.”

  The corridors stretched endlessly, and every turn allowed Reginald to pause, adjust the chair’s angle, and proceed with the gravity of a state funeral.

  By the time they reached the lift, Clorita was ready to throw herself down the nearest trash chute.

  “Reginald?”

  “Yes, madam?”

  “Next time, just leave me in the recharge suite.”

  “As you wish, madam,” he said serenely as the lift doors opened, “but then who will ensure your return with the proper level of decorum?”

  The doors slid shut, and the procession continued upward, as slow and unbearable as her dignity allowed.

  The lift doors opened with a quiet ding, and Reginald wheeled Clorita onto the bridge with all the solemnity of a royal motorcade pulling into a palace courtyard.

  Zog glanced over from his seat and didn’t even bother to hide his smirk.

  “Well. Look who survived spa day.”

  Clorita gave him her best glare.

  It didn’t land.

  Not from a wheelchair.

  Reginald brought her to a smooth stop beside the central console.

  “Madam has arrived, Captain. Shall I arrange light refreshments?”

  “No,” Clorita muttered. “No refreshments. No comments. Just... no.”

  Zog leaned back in his chair, casually scrolling through a nav report.

  “Oh, by the way... checked the nearest port that carries high-grade servos and parts.”

  She raised an eyebrow.

  “And?”

  “Fourteen days out. If we’re lucky.”

  Clorita let her head thump back against the chair.

  Reginald, ever the professional, immediately adjusted the headrest.

  “There, madam. Optimal reclining angle achieved.”

  She groaned. “Fourteen... days.”

  “Yup.”

  “Perfect.”

  BOB, ever helpful, chimed in.

  "Plenty of time to practice patience. And sitting."

  Clorita groaned into her hands.

  Luma hopped onto the console, gave her an innocent slow blink, then curled up for a nap like the universe’s least helpful emotional support animal.

  The Duj drifted on.

  Fourteen more days.

  In this chair.

  With these people.

  She was never sparring again.