The city sprawled before them like a drunken sprawl of chaos and ingenuity, its uneven walls jutting against the sky in defiance of gravity and good taste. A mishmash of stone, timber, and rusted metal formed its barricades, patched together as if by desperation rather than design.

  The scent of saltwater and something fouler drifted toward them on the wind, carrying faint echoes of shouting, laughter, and metal clanging.

  Clorita wrinkled her nose. “Well, this place is... charming.”

  “Charming isn’t the word I’d use,” Zog muttered, eyeing the gate—a massive, uneven structure seemingly cobbled together from salvaged ship hulls, mismatched plating, and repurposed bulkheads. The doors bore no official insignia, only deep scratches and burn marks as if they had seen more than their fair share of ‘negotiations.’

  HALAT’s optics flickered as she scanned the scene. “Port city. Likely dependent on maritime trade. Probability of piracy: high.”

  “No kidding,” Clorita said, gesturing to a pile of barrels by the wall, each leaking a suspiciously dark liquid. “This whole place screams ‘shady business.’”

  As they approached the gate, the guards became more visible—or at least, what passed for guards. Their armour was a patchwork of stolen pieces, mismatched plates and straps barely holding together. One guard leaned lazily against a spear, his other hand clutching what looked like a piece of dried fish, which he lazily gnawed on as he sized them up. His gaze lingered on HALAT’s pristine, mechanical form with thinly veiled interest.

  The other guard, taller and slightly more alert, straightened as they drew near. His armour bore more scorch marks than plating, and the jagged blade at his hip looked like it had seen more maintenance than he had.

  “You lost?” he asked, his voice rough but not entirely unfriendly.

  Zog kept his voice level. “Not lost. Passing through.”

  “Through where?” The taller guard smirked, gesturing to the ramshackle city behind him. “This ain’t a place you just pass through. You come to deal, or you come to bleed. What’s it gonna be?”

  Clorita stepped forward before Zog could answer, her stance relaxed but her tone sharp. “We’re here to deal. And if you’ve got any sense, you’ll get out of our way before we change our minds.”

  The shorter guard let out a scoffing laugh, shaking his head. “A mouthy one, huh?” He turned to Zog. “Is this one of yours, or should I teach her to hold her tongue?”

  Clorita’s smirk faltered. “Excuse me?”

  The taller guard ignored her, keeping his focus on Zog. “I don’t know what kind of places you’ve been, but here, men speak first. So why don’t you get your pet in line before she causes trouble?”

  Zog’s fingers twitched. He was used to dealing with arrogant lowlifes, but this was a whole new brand of obnoxious. He stole a quick glance at Clorita, whose circuits were no doubt overheating with the effort not to punch someone.

  HALAT, meanwhile, remained impassive, though her optics flickered ever so slightly.

  Zog took a slow step forward, deliberately positioning himself in front of Clorita. “We’re not looking for trouble,” he said, his voice carefully measured. “But I do expect my crew to be treated with respect.”

  The taller guard raised an eyebrow, appraising him. Then, after a long moment, he smirked. “Fine. If you say it.” He gestured to the gate, nodding to his fellow guard. “Let ‘em in.”

  The gates creaked open, revealing a city alive with activity.

  The labyrinth of narrow streets stretched before them, tangled and chaotic. Ramshackle buildings leaned at odd angles, some supported only by hastily welded beams. The wooden docks jutted out over the murky water like precarious spider legs, held together by rust and faith alone.

  Vendors lined the streets, shouting over one another to peddle everything from exotic weapons to unidentifiable grilled meats. A heavily scarred smith sat on a crate, sharpening a blade the length of Zog’s arm, his gaze lingering on them just a little too long. Nearby, two traders argued in hushed but heated tones, one gripping the hilt of his dagger as if waiting for an excuse.

  Clorita walked stiffly beside Zog, her circuits buzzing with irritation. “Well, that was charming.”

  “Yeah, I caught that,” Zog muttered.

  HALAT scanned the bustling port. “Observation: This planet operates under a rigid hierarchical system. Males dominate social interactions. Females are disregarded or assumed subordinate.”

  “Yeah, I noticed,” Clorita snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut through the market noise.

  Zog ran a hand over his faceplate. “We need to be careful. We don’t know how deep this ‘system’ runs. If we play this wrong, we could end up on the wrong side of the law. Or worse.”

  Clorita smirked, though there was no humor in it. “Well, Captain, it’s your turn to do the talking.”

  Men strode confidently in simple tunics or doublets, their belts weighed down with pouches and sheathed blades. Some wore short cloaks fastened with bronze pins, while others carried heavy staffs capped with iron.

  Women wove through the crowd in long skirts, their hair bound in intricate braids or modest scarves. Many bore baskets laden with goods, moving with quiet efficiency, speaking only when spoken to. A few carried daggers discreetly strapped to their waists, but none openly brandished weapons like the men.

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  Clorita glanced at a man sharpening a curved sword on a whetstone, his calloused hands steady as he worked. “No guns, no tech, no electrics. Just blades and bad attitudes.”

  “Port city,” HALAT said, her optics sweeping the scene. “Likely reliant on maritime trade and agricultural bartering. Dominant weaponry suggests pre-industrial technology.”

  Zog scoffed, gesturing to a vendor haggling over the price of a bundle of spears. “You think? What tipped you off, Spark? The swords or the lack of Wi-Fi?”

  A burly fisherman hauling a net over his shoulder paused mid-stride, his gaze locking onto HALAT’s gleaming frame. His expression darkened, and he muttered something to a companion, who shook his head and made a subtle warding gesture as if to keep evil spirits at bay.

  Clorita wrinkled her nose. “They’re acting like we’re cursed.”

  “Unfamiliarity breeds caution,” HALAT replied evenly. “However, given the frequency of prolonged glances, I suspect curiosity will soon outweigh superstition.”

  A wiry young boy darted forward as if on cue, his bare feet silent on the cobblestones. He hesitated just beyond arm’s reach, his wide eyes darting between them before locking onto HALAT.

  “Where’s your blood?” he asked bluntly.

  HALAT tilted her head. “I do not possess circulatory systems.”

  The boy frowned. “Then how do you live?”

  “Efficient programming,” HALAT answered.

  The boy’s frown deepened, and a sharp hand grabbed his arm before he could ask more. An older woman—his mother, most likely—whispered harshly in his ear before yanking him away. She cast the crew a wary glance before disappearing into the crowd.

  Zog sighed, stepping over a puddle of dubious origin. “Great. We’re the freak show. Let’s not stick around long enough to become the main attraction.”

  The city pulsed with unspoken rules—ones the crew had yet to learn. Merchants called out prices in sharp, clipped phrases. Laborers hauled goods without a word. Men strode with a confidence that implied ownership, while women moved with lowered gazes, their words few and carefully chosen.

  And then there was Clorita.

  “We’re sticking out like a smoking servo,” Zog muttered. “We need to blend in.”

  Clorita scoffed, adjusting the metallic sash slung across her shoulder. “What, you want me to swap this for one of those—what do you even call them? Sack dresses?”

  Zog barely heard her. His circuits buzzed as he noticed something strange—whenever Clorita spoke, heads turned. Not in curiosity. Not in admiration. In disapproval.

  A nearby merchant, who had been loudly bartering moments ago, went silent as Clorita passed. A group of men at a stall muttered amongst themselves, casting brief, judgmental glances in her direction. A woman arranging fruit at her stall flinched when Clorita strode too close.

  Zog frowned. “Okay, this is weird.”

  HALAT, who had been scanning the environment, answered without looking up. “Observation: social hierarchy is strictly enforced. Male figures dominate conversations and decision-making. Females do not openly challenge their authority.”

  Clorita blinked. “Wait. Are you telling me the men run everything here?”

  Zog nodded toward a small transaction happening at a nearby stand. A man in a dark tunic handed over coins while the woman across from him counted them in silence, her head lowered.

  Clorita let out a low whistle. “Wow. Whole planet’s got daddy issues.”

  The moment the words left her mouth, a nearby guard stiffened, turning toward them.

  Zog grabbed her arm instantly, his voice low. “For the love of scrap, stop talking.”

  Clorita opened her mouth to protest, but HALAT gently placed a metallic hand on her shoulder. “Your behavior is causing a disruption. Silence is advised.”

  For once, Clorita actually shut up.

  Zog sighed. “Okay, new priority—we need to blend in before someone decides we’re an insult to their fragile masculinity.”

  Clorita rolled her eyes. “I’d rather go back to dealing with the big cats.”

  “I will handle this,” HALAT announced.

  Before either of them could object, she disappeared into the crowd with unnerving efficiency.

  Zog groaned. “Great. She’s going to do something reckless, isn’t she?”

  A few minutes later, HALAT reappeared, carrying a bundle of folded garments.

  “I have obtained local attire,” she announced.

  Clorita eyed the bundle suspiciously. “You bought this? Our Credex is useless here. With what?”

  HALAT tilted her head. “Bartered. An old energy cell for a full set of clothing.”

  Zog frowned. “Wait—you bartered? Who’d you talk to?”

  HALAT’s optics flickered. “A male trader. Negotiations were minimal. He found my presence... unsettling.”

  Clorita snorted. “Let me guess—he assumed you were a high-tech servant?”

  HALAT blinked. “Correct.”

  Zog sighed, rubbing his face. “One crisis at a time. Let’s see what you got.”

  HALAT handed out the clothes, and Clorita unfolded hers with a frown.

  It was a simple tunic, barely long enough to cover her thighs, with a narrow belt and thin straps over the shoulders.

  Clorita froze.

  “What,” she said slowly, “the hell is this?”

  “Local attire,” HALAT replied. “Standard for humanoid females.”

  Zog bit his lip to suppress a laugh as he unfolded his own outfit—a simple earth-toned tunic and trousers. “Looks like you got the short end of the stick. Literally.”

  Clorita glared at him. “I am not wearing this.”

  HALAT blinked, unbothered. “If we wish to blend in, adherence to local customs is advised.”

  Clorita gestured aggressively at Zog. “Oh, but he gets pants?”

  HALAT nodded. “Males are permitted functional attire. Females prioritize presentation.”

  Clorita turned to Zog, looking for backup.

  Zog shrugged. “I mean... this is your chance to really experience the culture.”

  Clorita growled. “I am two seconds from experiencing punching you in the face.”

  HALAT remained unfazed. “Violence will not change the cultural expectations of this society.”

  Clorita huffed, yanking the tunic over her usual clothing. “Fine. But if one of these guys so much as breathes funny in my direction, I’m introducing him to the concept of equal rights—with my fists.”

  Zog chuckled. “I don’t think that’s how blending in works.”

  Clorita crossed her arms. “Then this planet’s about to get a new tradition.”