As they wove through the crowded streets, Clorita adjusted the thin belt of her tunic, her circuits buzzing with irritation. “This thing is barely holding together. What kind of primitive society thinks this is acceptable clothing?”

  “I believe it serves a designated societal function,” HALAT said.

  Clorita frowned. “Like what?”

  Before HALAT could answer, a man stepped into their path.

  Draped in a finely stitched robe, he exuded an air of quiet authority. His sharp eyes flicked over HALAT and Clorita before settling on Zog. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of a sheathed short sword—not as a threat, but as a statement of status.

  "You have fine property," he said smoothly, addressing Zog as if the others weren’t there. “The bronze one is particularly exquisite. A rare find.”

  Zog’s circuits buzzed with unease. “Uh… thanks?”

  The man’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “I am a collector. And I pay handsomely for quality.” He gestured toward Clorita and HALAT without once acknowledging them directly. “For this one, I offer four silver tarsk disks. For the bronze… six.”

  Clorita sputtered, her servos nearly locking up. “Excuse me?!”

  The man barely glanced at her before looking back at Zog. “They are well-built but not exceptional. I could offer more for proven obedience.”

  Zog let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Oh, obedience? This one?” He jerked a thumb toward Clorita. “You’d have better luck housebreaking a rabid asteroid hound.”

  HALAT tilted her head. “That assessment is accurate.”

  Clorita’s mouth fell open. “Are you serious right now?!”

  The trader frowned, unimpressed with the outburst. “Clearly, she requires training.”

  “She requires a miracle,” Zog muttered.

  Clorita’s hands clenched into fists. “I swear to—”

  Zog gave her a pointed look. “Careful. You're hurting your market value.”

  Clorita inhaled sharply, her optics glowing dangerously. “Sell me, and I will personally—”

  Zog sighed and turned back to the trader. “Yeah, no. Not for all the silver on this planet.”

  The man studied him for a long moment, then inclined his head slightly. “A shame. The bronze one would have made a fine addition to my collection.”

  He turned to leave, but then paused, glancing at Zog with a knowing smirk. “A word of advice, traveller—if you truly wish to keep or sell them, collar them properly first.”

  With that, he stepped aside as if the conversation had never happened.

  Zog enjoyed himself far too much as the group moved deeper into the city. Every time Clorita breathed (metaphorically), he would dramatically raise a hand to shush her, drawing approving nods from passing locals.

  She didn’t explode—yet. But her fists were clenched so tightly her servos whined in protest.

  “I’m not saying you’re doing a bad job,” Zog whispered smugly as they passed a group of armoured men, “but maybe try looking a little more... humble. You know, less like you’re planning my murder.”

  Clorita smiled, the kind of smile that promised violence. “Oh, I am planning it. I just haven’t picked a location yet.”

  HALAT walked beside them, a steady, neutral presence. “Observation: Prolonged deception is yielding optimal results. However, crew member Clorita is exhibiting high levels of suppressed aggression. Prediction: imminent physical outburst.”

  Zog snickered. “You hear that, Clorita? HALAT says you’re about to blow a fuse.”

  A low warning chime buzzed inside Clorita’s frame, registering that her annoyance levels had hit the red. “Not if I remove yours first.”

  As they entered the bustling marketplace, a merchant called out, his voice smooth and practised. “A fine blade for a fine master! Perhaps something for your slaves?”

  Zog barely held back a laugh. Oh, this is too good.

  “Slaves, huh?” he mused, glancing at HALAT and Clorita, who were standing behind him, silent and fuming. He turned to the merchant and gestured lazily toward HALAT. “What about the tall, quiet one?”

  The merchant squinted, his gaze lingering on HALAT’s metallic sheen. “Strange. What is she?”

  Zog waved him off. “Complicated. What about the short, angry one?”

  Clorita took a sharp step forward, but Zog turned and held up a finger.

  “Ah-ah,” he said, his tone smug. “Quiet. Or I will sell you.”

  Clorita’s optics flickered dangerously.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Once they were out of earshot, Clorita snapped.

  “DO YOU HAVE A DEATH WISH?!”

  Zog barely flinched. “Relax,” he said, waving a hand dismissively. “You wanted to blend in, didn’t you?”

  “Blend in?” Clorita hissed. “You auctioned me off!”

  “No, I didn’t,” Zog said. “I can’t because you have no collar, and we have no local money to buy you one.”

  A low warning chime buzzed inside Clorita’s frame as her irritation spiked. “Oh, well, that’s such a relief. I’ll be sure to thank you later—after I’m done not strangling you.”

  HALAT chimed in matter-of-factly. “Captain Zog’s behaviour has effectively maintained our cover. However, extended roleplay may result in... complications.”

  Clorita whirled on HALAT. “THANK YOU, SPARK! At least someone here is worried about ‘complications.’”

  Zog smirked. “Come on, admit it. You were impressed.”

  Clorita narrowed her eyes. “Impressed isn’t the word I’d use.”

  Zog shrugged. “Fine. But you have to admit, I make a convincing boss.”

  Clorita scoffed. “You’re about as convincing as a broken toaster trying to pass as a gourmet chef.”

  Zog grinned. “And yet, I am in charge.”

  Clorita’s left eye twitched.

  The marketplace was a chaotic swirl of sights and smells: roasting meats, open barrels of pungent spices, and racks of dried fish hanging from wooden beams.

  HALAT suddenly stopped in front of a stall. Her optics flickered as she scanned the goods. On display were rows of vibrant, shimmering beans, each an unnatural shade of deep blue, glowing orange, or shimmering green.

  Zog arched a brow. “Uh... Spark? You good?”

  The merchant—a wiry old man with a long beard and a deeply amused expression—grinned. “Ah, an eye for quality! These are Zentra Sparks. Finest stimulant beans in the land.” He tapped one of the glowing sacks. “Just one grind will wake the dead.”

  Clorita gave the display a sceptical look. “Wake the dead? That sounds... safe.”

  The merchant chuckled. “Not for the faint of heart, no. But for those seeking true vitality, they’re unmatched. Grown in volcanic soil, deep in the southern wilds.”

  HALAT’s optics brightened slightly. “Volcanic soil contains high concentrations of minerals capable of enhancing bioelectric output. These beans may have practical applications.”

  Zog crossed his arms. “What kind of ‘applications’? You’re not suggesting we make coffee out of this stuff?”

  HALAT nodded. “It is plausible. Preliminary analysis suggests these beans contain properties synergistic with the VitalVolt formula.”

  The merchant’s grin faltered slightly. “Vital-what-now?”

  “Never mind,” Clorita said quickly. She pointed at the beans. “How much for a bag?”

  The merchant’s smirk widened. “Depends on the bag. A handful—ten silvers. A satchel? Fifty.”

  Zog choked. “FIFTY SILVERS?!”

  The merchant shrugged. “The harvest is dangerous.”

  Clorita folded her arms. “Oh, let me guess. Something really nasty guards them?”

  The merchant nodded sagely. “Sleen.”

  Clorita blinked. “...Sleen?”

  “Big cats,” the merchant said, entirely too casually. “Six legs, two rows of teeth. They love the taste. You gotta be quick—or lucky—to get out alive.”

  Zog groaned, rubbing his temples. “Great. More big cats. Because that went so well last time.”

  Clorita’s sharp eyes caught a scrawny man slipping his hand into a richly dressed merchant’s pouch as they moved through the bustling streets. The merchant, weighed down by gold jewellery and silk robes, didn’t even notice as the pickpocket darted into a side alley, clutching his prize.

  Clorita’s lips twitched into a grin. “Hold up, you two. I’ll be right back.”

  Zog frowned. “Where—” But she was already slipping into the shadows.

  The alley was narrow and dimly lit, the smell of damp stone filling the air. The pickpocket crouched at the far end, rifling through his stolen haul. He was muttering to himself, too distracted to notice Clorita creeping up behind him.

  With a swift motion, Clorita pinched the man between his shoulder and neck. He let out a muffled yelp before collapsing in a heap, unconscious. “Nothing personal,” she murmured, crouching to retrieve the coin pouch from his limp hand. It jingled with a satisfying weight.

  She flipped a single coin into the air, watching it spin before snatching it and tucking it away. Humming to herself, she strode back into the marketplace.

  Clorita rejoined Zog and HALAT, her grin widening as she handed the coin pouch to HALAT. “Here. Go get your beans.”

  HALAT tilted her head. “Where did you acquire this currency?”

  Zog crossed his arms. “Yeah, what did you do?”

  Clorita shrugged, her expression entirely too innocent. “Unexpected windfall.”

  Zog squinted at her. “Windfall. Right. And this windfall didn’t happen to be clutching his prize in an alley, did he?”

  Clorita gasped dramatically. “Zog! Are you accusing me of something?”

  The merchant at the bean stall glanced at her as HALAT stepped forward to make the purchase, his eyes narrowing slightly before shaking his head and counted the coins.

  Zog wasn’t buying it. “Lottery, huh? What kind of lottery happens in a dark alley?”

  Clorita grinned over her shoulder. “The kind you don’t ask too many questions about. Now, go make yourself useful and carry something.”

  Back at the stall, the merchant’s eyes gleamed as HALAT handed over the pouch. He weighed it in his hand, nodding approvingly. “Fair enough. Try not to set anything on fire with them.”

  HALAT took the satchel with deliberate care as if cradling a fragile artefact. “This could redefine our understanding of stimulant compounds.”

  Zog shook his head as they walked away. “You’re sure these things are worth all this trouble?”

  HALAT didn’t look up. “Discovery requires risk.”

  “Yeah, well, if anyone asks, I had nothing to do with this,” Zog muttered. Then he jabbed a finger at Clorita. “And you—no more ‘lotteries,’ got it?”

  Clorita smirked, patting the still-weighty pouch at her belt. “Luck’s a finite resource, Captain. Gotta use it wisely.”

  The marketplace began to thin as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the cobblestones. The warm glow of lanterns flickered in doorways, and the scent of roasting meat and brine thickened in the cooling air.

  Clorita walked a few paces ahead, her gaze sharp. “I don’t think farewells are a thing here. Just disappearances.”

  “Comforting,” Zog muttered, stealing a glance over his shoulder. The faint hum of voices trailed them—not threatening yet, but watchful.

  HALAT, ever unshaken, strode beside them with mechanical precision. “The probability of an encounter with local enforcers increases as night falls. Suggest expedited travel.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Zog grumbled, quickening his pace. “If we get out of here without being skinned or robbed, I’ll call it a win.”