A few hours had passed. The bridge had settled into a rare, uneasy quiet.

  Clorita sat in her chair, arms crossed, watching the endless drift of stars. The frustration hadn’t faded—if anything, it had settled into something heavier, an awareness that no amount of grumbling or glaring could change the fact that she was stuck. Stuck sitting. Stuck waiting. Stuck in the world’s slowest wheelchair.

  She sighed, resisting the urge to kick at the console—mostly because she wasn’t sure if her legs would even cooperate.

  Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement.

  Tuk shuffled in from the side corridor, clutching something under one arm—an old, slightly crumpled box.

  Clorita eyed him suspiciously. “What’s that?”

  Tuk hesitated, shifting the box from one hand to another like he wasn’t sure this was a good idea. “I, uh… found this. Back when I was… you know… hiding.”

  He held it out.

  It was a jigsaw puzzle.

  The box was worn, its edges frayed, and the picture on the front faded beyond recognition. It was a cheerful landscape of a planet that might not even exist anymore.

  Clorita blinked. “You’re giving me… a puzzle?”

  Tuk shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “Figured you’d get bored. Sitting there. Not… sparring. Or walking. Or doing anything.”

  She stared at the box.

  Then at him.

  Then, back at the box.

  And, slowly, the corners of her mouth twitched.

  “…Thanks, kid.”

  Tuk shifted awkwardly, already halfway toward retreat. “Don’t make it weird.”

  Clorita smirked. “Too late.”

  She ran a hand over the battered lid, fingers tracing the worn edges, the faded image of a world long gone.

  She opened it.

  Half the pieces were missing.

  Of course, they were.

  But she started anyway.

  As Clorita sifted through the faded, half-missing puzzle pieces, the soft chime of STELA echoed through the bridge.

  "Attention, Captain," the ship’s navigation system purred, her voice as polished and effortless as ever. "I have identified the optimal route to the nearest certified mechanics hub capable of providing the servo replacements and upgrades required."

  Zog rubbed his temples. “About time. How far?”

  "At current cruising speed, approximately thirteen days, twenty-two hours. Assuming no unforeseen… complications."

  Clorita snorted without looking up. “Complications? On this ship? Never heard of ’em.”

  Tuk leaned over the console, squinting at the glowing map STELA projected. “That’s… a long way.”

  Zog exhaled. “Better than sitting here. STELA, set course and engage when ready.”

  "Coordinates locked. Course laid in. Preparing for a jump."

  The ship hummed beneath them, that familiar, comforting thrum of the Duj shifting into motion.

  Clorita flicked a puzzle piece across the table. “Guess I’ve got plenty of time to finish this thing.”

  Tuk glanced at the half-empty box. “…Yeah. Good luck with that.”

  Zog leaned back in his chair, watching the stars blur as they accelerated.

  “Thirteen days of broken knees and missing puzzle pieces. Just what I always wanted.”

  BOB, unhelpful as ever:

  "On the bright side, Captain, at least we’re not broke."

  Zog groaned, burying his face in his hands. “I hate optimism.”

  As STELA plotted the course, the navigation display flickered to life, illuminating the system name:

  Juno Drift, Sector 9K.

  And orbiting a dim, flickering star was their target:

  Scrapnest Station—a sprawling, half-asteroid, half-mechanical monstrosity cobbled together from centuries of salvaged ships, forgotten debris, and questionable engineering choices.

  STELA’s voice, smooth and unbothered as ever, filled the bridge.

  "Destination set: Scrapnest Station. Known for its extensive black-market parts bazaar, high-quality servo workshops, and a statistically improbable number of noodle vendors. Please note: security is considered optional. Proceed with... discretion."

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Clorita raised an eyebrow. “Noodle vendors?”

  Zog groaned, already exhausted. “Oh, good. A repair stop and food poisoning. Classic.”

  Tuk, intrigued, leaned over the console. “Scrapnest? I’ve heard of it. Traders say you can find anything there... if you don’t mind the risk of getting scammed, robbed, or adopted by a rogue maintenance bot.”

  BOB, always helpful, added: "Confirmed. Average visitor survival rate: 78%. Slightly higher if you don’t make eye contact with the local welders."

  Clorita flicked another puzzle piece across the table. “Sounds charming. Let’s get this over with.”

  HALAT tilted her head, reviewing the incoming data from Scrapnest. "Suggestion: Upon arrival, Captain and I will proceed to the surface to acquire the required servo upgrades. Estimated time: minimal. Additionally, I will procure noodles for Tuk."

  Zog groaned louder. “Noodles? Really? We’re risking our necks on a rusted asteroid to bring the kid lunch?”

  Tuk didn’t even look up from the puzzle. “They’re famous noodles.”

  "Confirmed," HALAT added, sealing the deal. "Scrapnest’s Smeghead’s Noodle Shack is considered a local delicacy. Tuk’s preference aligns with standard crew morale protocols."

  Clorita snorted. “Perfect. I’m stuck in a chair, and you’re all planning a noodle run.”

  Zog leaned back, muttering, “Yeah, yeah. We’ll be in and out. Grab the parts, grab the food, back to the ship before anybody tries to sell us a pet star or an ancient cursed toaster.”

  BOB’s voice hummed.

  "Statistically unlikely, Captain. Scrapnest hasn’t sold cursed toasters in years."

  Zog just rubbed his face. “Oh, Smeg. I’m not setting foot in a place called that.”

  Tuk shrugged. “Fine. More noodles for me.”

  Clorita threw a puzzle piece at the ceiling. “Great. I feel better already.”

  By the time the last stars blurred past and the jagged silhouette of Scrapnest Station filled the forward viewports, the Duj had settled into an uneasy kind of silence.

  Systems hummed.

  Spark finished her latest combat download.

  Tuk hovered nearby, pretending not to glance between the station and the box of puzzle pieces in Clorita’s lap.

  She poked at the puzzle half-heartedly, trying to will the broken image into place with sheer spite.

  Tuk finally broke the silence. “Missing half the pieces.”

  Clorita didn’t look up. “Fitting, really.”

  Zog exhaled through his teeth, eyes locked on Scrapnest growing larger on the screen.

  “STELA. Bring us in nice and slow.”

  "Approaching standard docking orbit," she replied smoothly. "Gravity locks engaged. Predicting minor atmospheric debris. Shields holding. Initiating final approach."

  Scrapnest looked exactly like its name.

  A heap of welded ships and asteroid chunks bound together with industrial patchwork and sheer stubbornness.

  Half the lights flickered.

  The other half probably weren’t even real.

  Somewhere down there were the parts Clorita needed.

  And the noodles Tuk wouldn’t shut up about.

  Zog drummed his fingers on the armrest. “Alright. Let’s make this quick. In, out, no distractions. Simple.”

  The bridge remained silent.

  Because not even Zog believed that.

  The Duj eased into orbit, its engines humming softly as Scrapnest Station loomed larger. It was an ugly tangle of forgotten tech and salvaged hulls, looking like it had been welded together by a committee of indecisive drunks. It was a half-asteroid, space-wreck hybrid that somehow still functioned.

  "Docking sequence engaged," BOB announced, its voice smooth and unbothered, as if they were arriving at a high-end resort rather than the galaxy’s sketchiest hardware store. "Aligning with bay seven. Please note that security presence is minimal, and structural stability is sixty-three per cent."

  Clorita was still slouched in her chair and flicked a puzzle piece off the armrest with a snort. "Sixty-three percent? That’s higher than I expected."

  Tuk pressed his nose to the viewport, eyes narrowing. "Hey… does that docking bay door look… crooked?"

  It did. Very.

  Zog barely reacted, just exhaled slowly and muttered, "Perfect. Just the aesthetic I was hoping for."

  As the ship drifted closer, the Duj’s docking clamps extended with a dull, mechanical clunk, magnetising to the station’s jagged, rust-streaked entry port. It held—mostly. The platform shuddered slightly as if Scrapnest itself was reconsidering whether it wanted to let them in.

  "Connection stable," Bob confirmed. "Pressure equalised. Dock secured. You may disembark at your own risk."

  Zog cracked his neck as he stood, shaking off the lingering sense that this was already a mistake. "Alright. Spark, you’re with me. We get the parts, grab the noodles, and leave before this place collapses under its own stupidity."

  Tuk grinned as he leaned back in his chair. "Don’t forget the extra sauce."

  Zog shot him a glare but only muttered, "Oh, Smeg."

  The airlock hissed open.

  And down they went.

  Straight into the chaos below.

  The first thing that hit them was the smell. The station’s recycled air had a distinct edge—part coolant, part fried something and part unwashed metal. Gravity felt just a little off, as if the station couldn’t quite decide on a standard setting and had settled somewhere between "mild inconvenience" and "drunken stumble."

  Scrapnest sprawled before them like a junkyard with delusions of being a city. Docking platforms leaned at angles that suggested engineering was more of a suggestion than a rule. Rust crawled over every surface, making it unclear whether the metal beneath had ever been new or if it had simply arrived pre-decayed. Above them, ancient ship hulls had been repurposed into patchwork ceilings, held together with equal parts desperation and poor decision-making.

  A cargo loader rumbled past, dragging a crate twice its size. The driver, a wiry alien with too many arms and not enough patience, was having a heated argument with himself about docking fees. Further ahead, the Bazaar Deck stretched beneath a canopy of salvaged floodlights and draped tarps that did absolutely nothing to make the place feel less like a crime scene. Vendors shouted over one another, their stalls overflowing with parts of dubious origin and even more dubious warranties.

  Holo-signs flickered in and out of sync, some flashing "Genuine Repulsor Coils!" as if that needed clarification, while others boldly advertised "Fresh Clamps! Lightly Exploded!"

  Zog scanned the mess of stalls and gritted his teeth. "Okay. We grab the servos, get Tuk’s stupid noodles, and leave. Fast."

  HALAT, ever efficient, was already processing the market data. "The Probability of rapid extraction is low. The probability of encountering price gouging is extreme."

  Clorita, still stuck in the wheelchair, leaned back in her chair on the bridge, watching the screen as Zog and HALAT disappeared into the chaos. "Bet they’re already lost."

  Tuk, seated nearby, smirked as he idly toyed with a puzzle piece. "Noodles or parts first?"

  BOB’s voice chimed in, unhelpful as ever. "The Captain has his priorities. And none of them are efficient."

  Zog moved through the crowd with the look of a man who had already given up on expecting anything to go smoothly. He kept his hands near his CredEx, well aware that the station’s locals had sticky fingers and no moral compass.

  "If anyone so much as looks at my CredEx, Spark, just vaporise them."

  Spark didn’t even hesitate. "Affirmative."

  And with that, they disappeared into Scrapnest’s seething maze of rust, commerce, and poor life choices.