Scrapnest’s Bazaar Deck was a maze of narrow walkways, flickering holo-signs, and vendor stalls slapped together with whatever hadn’t entirely rusted through. If someone sneezed too hard, the whole deck might just blow sideways into the vacuum.

  Zog walked with his hand near his belt, where his CredEx was securely tucked away—though he had the kind of expression that suggested he wished it were buried in a vault instead. His eyes swept the crowd like he was already regretting this trip, which, to be fair, he was.

  Vendors hawked from every direction, and their voices layered over the grinding hum of old machinery and distant arguments.

  “Best thruster parts this side of the spiral arm!”

  “Genuine plasma regulators! No questions asked!”

  A vendor leaned out of a crooked stall, waving a suspiciously shiny cloth.

  “Captain! You look like a man in need of a hull polish!”

  Zog didn’t even break stride.

  “I do not need my hull polished,” he muttered without looking up.

  HALAT, beside him, tilted her head slightly.

  “Confirmation: hull integrity is currently 97%. Polish is unnecessary.”

  Zog sighed.

  “It was a figure of speech, Spark.”

  “Ah. Then no confirmation required.”

  “Stay close, Spark. I’m not getting stabbed over a servo.”

  “Understood,” she replied calmly, her gaze sweeping the crowd. “I have identified five pickpockets, two surveillance drones, and one merchant attempting to short-change a customer. Standard market activity.”

  They pushed deeper into the chaos. The low-end parts were easy enough to spot—half the bazaar was built on scrap. But what they wanted? That took effort.

  Zog stopped at a stall so cluttered it looked like someone had just dumped a scrapyard onto a folding table. Half the components were charred, misaligned, or still leaking something.

  “You got any servo units compatible with Gen-7 humanoid frames?”

  The vendor, a small furry creature in goggles three sizes too large, snorted as Zog had just asked for a unicorn.

  “Gen-7? Ancient tech! Maybe... if you’ve got the credits to make it interesting.”

  Zog groaned. “Here we go.”

  HALAT stepped forward, her voice level and cold enough to make circuits freeze. “We require high-durability, combat-grade servos. Payment is available. Dishonesty is… unwise.”

  The vendor blinked, took one look at her, and cut his asking price in half without another word.

  Later, they had what they came for after a few rounds of haggling—and a low mechanical growl from HALAT. Zog insisted on a complete replacement set of premium-grade servos, plus a few extra components, “just in case.”

  He tapped the side of the crate with a satisfied grunt. “Alright. Now—before we go. The noodles.”

  “Tuk will be most displeased if we return without them,” HALAT agreed.

  They followed their noses down a side alley, this one slightly cleaner—though only by Scrapnest standards. The air was thick with the spicy scent of boiling broth, grilled proteins, and questionable oil.

  A flickering neon sign came into view, half the letters blinking or missing entirely. But the name was still legible enough. Smeghead Noodle Bar.

  It looked like the kind of place health inspectors only visited when bribed. But the smell—Zog had to admit—was divine.

  He squinted up at the menu. “‘Fusion Surprise’? What even is that?”

  “Unknown,” HALAT replied. “I recommend we do not ask.”

  They placed the order—two large portions, extra sauce—because if Tuk was talking about these noodles like they were the key to enlightenment, he was going to get enough to make a proper shrine.

  The line behind them was growing fast.

  Locals and travellers jostled for position, eyes glued to the griddle like it held the last meal in the galaxy. There was a kind of reverence to the way people watched the cooking—like watching opera if opera involved open flames and a chef shouting at noodles.

  The cook, tall and thin with sleek, dark fur and a grin that suggested he enjoyed the danger of his own kitchen, moved like a showman. His tailored crimson coat flared behind him every time he spun around, and his eyes gleamed gold under the harsh neon. He barely looked at the food as he worked, tossing spice powders in from a height that defied physics and taste.

  Zog watched in horrified fascination as the chef ignited a wok with a flick of his lighter glove, flames licking up toward the ceiling.

  “What is he doing?” Zog muttered.

  “Flash-searing with plasma flame,” HALAT replied without blinking. “Likely for texture.”

  The cook yelled something in a language no translator could parse, caught the flying noodles in mid-air with the pan, flipped them again, then hurled them toward the counter with perfect aim—right into a pair of waiting takeaway bags lined with insulating foil. The sauce packet hit the edge of the tray and landed with a satisfying plop.

  Zog took a step back.

  “I think I’ve just been insulted by lunch.”

  HALAT nodded, accepting the bags.

  “Noodles acquired.”

  Zog peered into the nearest one, suspicious.

  "You're sure these won’t melt through the hull?"

  “No more than usual.”

  The chef grinned at them, showing too many sharp teeth for comfort, and blew a kiss over the counter.

  Zog turned on his heel.

  “That’s it. We’re leaving before I buy anything else that might explode.”

  With servos in one crate and dangerously aromatic noodles in the other, they made their way back through the winding maze of Scrapnest.

  “See? Smooth. No disasters.”

  HALAT didn’t respond.

  Because they both knew—on the Duj, the absolute chaos usually started after you got what you came for.

  Navigating Scrapnest’s winding bazaar, Zog moved like the galaxy’s grumpiest delivery man, a crate of premium servos in one hand and two containers of dangerously aromatic noodles in the other.

  Crowds pressed in from every side. Vendors shouted from their stalls. Somewhere nearby, someone was trying to sell a stolen starship—or possibly the starship concept.

  Reading on Amazon or a pirate site? This novel is from Royal Road. Support the author by reading it there.

  Zog kept his head down.

  The pickpocket did not.

  He moved fast—years of practice in every step. One quick motion toward Zog’s belt, reaching for the CredEx tucked at his hip.

  He never made it.

  HALAT caught the thief’s wrist mid-air, her grip snapping down like a trap.

  CRACK.

  The man barely had time to inhale before his arm was twisted up and back. His shoulder dislocated with a sickening pop that turned a few heads.

  HALAT wasn’t finished.

  A swift, surgical knee to the face flattened his nose, blood splattering across the alley floor. His knees buckled.

  Then—with casual, mechanical efficiency—she grabbed him by the collar and hurled him across the walkway.

  He crashed into a pile of leaking barrels and rusted hull scrap with all the grace of a broken marionette.

  HALAT’s voice remained perfectly calm.

  “There. Right where you belong.”

  The bazaar went dead silent.

  Vendors froze mid-shout. Customers stopped mid-bite. No one moved. No one looked directly at them.

  Zog finally glanced back, brow lifted. “You done?”

  “Affirmative,” HALAT said, adjusting her posture like nothing had happened. “Threat neutralised.”

  Zog shrugged and turned back around. “Good. Still got noodles to deliver.”

  Behind them, the pickpocket did not get up.

  And the crowd gave them an unusually wide path for the rest of their walk through Scrapnest.

  They were almost back to the docking bay when HALAT’s gaze snagged on something half-buried under a faded tarp at a crooked little stall.

  Zog didn’t even slow down.

  “HALAT, if that’s another servo vendor, we’re skipping it.”

  “It is not,” she replied, already veering off-course.

  The stall was cluttered—just crates of discarded tech, yellowed star maps, and the kind of junk traders buy for nostalgia. But nestled at the top, hidden between a cracked lens and an old fusion coil, was a small statue.

  Four arms.

  Stocky build.

  Leathery skin, painted in flaking ochre and dull bronze.

  HALAT tilted her head.

  It looked... like Tuk.

  She reached out, brushing dust from the base. No inscription. No signature. Just that strange sense of familiarity.

  Beside it sat a battered book, the spine barely holding: "Extinct and Forgotten: The Lost Species of Pre-Unification Space."

  HALAT traced the faded title with one finger. She had the urge to buy it. She looked closer and browsed through it, but something held her back.

  “Anything interesting?” Zog called from a few paces ahead, voice edged with impatience.

  “Possibly,” HALAT said, releasing the book and statue. “Research pending.”

  She didn’t buy them.

  Not yet.

  But the image burned itself into her memory, locked and catalogued for later.

  Because back on the Duj, HALAT had work to do.

  By the time Zog and HALAT reached the airlock, the scent of Scrapnest clung to them like an unfortunate souvenir—part rust, part grease, and something vaguely fermented no one dared identify.

  The servos were secure.

  The noodles, miraculously, were still warm.

  Zog groaned as the hatch cycled open.

  “Home sweet home. Remind me why we do this again?”

  “Noodles,” HALAT replied, as if the answer were obvious.

  “Right.”

  Tuk was already waiting by the airlock, practically vibrating in place. The second the door opened, his eyes locked on the prize.

  “You got them?”

  Zog shoved the steaming container into his hands.

  “Yeah, yeah. Before you pass out. Go eat.”

  Tuk didn’t wait for further instructions. He disappeared down the corridor like a man possessed.

  Clorita, lounging in her chair with one servo already in her hand, glanced up with a smirk.

  “About time. Thought you two got mugged by a discount parts bin.”

  Zog thudded the servo crate down beside her.

  “We got what you need. Let’s get you walking before Reginald plans another spa day.”

  Clorita groaned.

  “Don’t even joke. That gel was everywhere.”

  With that, the Duj sealed its airlock. Scrapnest, along with its questionable tech, crooked deals, and Smeghead's questionable hygiene standards, faded behind them.

  Repairs were next.

  And, of course…

  Noodles.

  Tuk planted himself at the nearest galley table like it was sacred ground. The greasy, questionably seasoned noodles, still steaming from their Smeghead origin, were cradled in both lower arms. His upper hands gripped a pair of chopsticks like duelling sabres. His eyes gleamed.

  He was ready.

  Unfortunately, so was RG.

  The Duj’s towering, overly dramatic culinary unit turned with the slow menace of a predator spotting prey. His optical sensors zoomed in on the sad little takeout container with a mechanical whir that sounded far too accusatory for comfort.

  He froze.

  There was a pause. A moment of eerie calm.

  Then, in a voice that vibrated with insulted dignity:

  “WHAT. IS. THAT?”

  Tuk glanced up, noodles halfway to his mouth, sauce already on his chin.

  “…Noodles?”

  RG’s chassis shifted with a series of offended clicks, his plating rippling like he might spontaneously combust.

  “Noodles?” he echoed, each syllable more horrified than the last. “That is processed starch soaked in chemical runoff and passed off as cuisine. That is a culinary crime, served in a compostable disgrace.”

  Tuk hunched over the bowl like a cornered animal.

  “You’re not taking it.”

  RG began circling the table, arms folded, expression one digital glitch away from declaring war.

  “You deserve better! I deserve better! I could prepare real noodles—fresh, hand-rolled, flash-boiled with broth steeped in galactic tradition! This… this is a galley violation.”

  “Still eating,” Tuk muttered through a mouthful, clearly unfazed.

  From the far side of the room, Reginald paused in his polishing routine and offered, in his usual polite monotone,

  “Shall I prepare a containment field, sir? In the event that RG initiates a flavour-based intervention?”

  RG ignored him and reached out with one servo arm.

  “Hand them over.”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No!”

  And then it happened.

  RG lunged.

  Tuk locked all four hands around the bowl.

  The two locked into a full-on tug-of-war across the table. Noodles dangled in midair. Broth sloshed onto the surface. Chopsticks clattered to the floor. RG hissed like a malfunctioning steam valve while Tuk growled and pulled with all the stubbornness of a hungry goblin.

  “They’re MINE!” Tuk snarled.

  “You have no taste!” RG thundered.

  And just as Tuk managed to yank the bowl an inch closer—

  The galley doors whooshed open.

  Zog stepped in, one hand on Clorita’s wheelchair, mid-conversation—until the scene in front of them froze both of them in place.

  “…Having fun?”