Back on the bridge, Zog slumped into his chair. "Alright. The kid’s tucked in. Now, what are the odds he actually sleeps?"

  "Given the change in environment and exposure to excessive comfort, I calculate a 76% probability of mild psychological distress," HALAT offered.

  Clorita snorted. "Yeah, I don’t think he’s the ‘deluxe suite’ type."

  BOB chimed in smoothly. "While we wait for our new mechanic-in-training to adjust, I have completed further analysis on the phrase he originally spoke."

  Zog frowned. "You mean ‘Tuk’?"

  "Correct."

  Clorita perked up. "Oh, this should be good."

  BOB’s voice remained as infuriatingly neutral as ever. "Your assumption was incorrect. ‘Tuk’ is not a name. It is, in fact, a crude imperative."

  Zog groaned. "Oh, hell."

  "Closest translation in Standard: ‘Fuck off.’"

  Silence.

  Then Clorita burst out laughing.

  "Oh—oh, my gods." She gripped the console, wiping a tear. "We called him Fuck Off."

  Zog rubbed his hands down his face. "You mean to tell me we named the kid after his first panicked insult?"

  "Confirmed."

  HALAT, ever composed, simply nodded. "This is… unfortunate."

  "Amusing," BOB corrected.

  Clorita grinned. "Okay, well, we have to rename him now. We can’t just keep calling him that."

  Zog sighed. "Fine. We rename him. What’s a good name for a stowaway orphan with four arms and a bad attitude?"

  HALAT considered. "It would be logical to use a name of his own culture."

  HALAT simply stated, "He has already responded to ‘Tuk.’ Changing it now may create unnecessary confusion."

  Zog smirked. "And getting used to something else would be a pain."

  Clorita crossed her arms. "You know what? I say we let the kid decide."

  They all glanced toward the corridor, where Reginald had disappeared with their reluctant new crewmember.

  Clorita leaned back, stretching. "Well, since Tuk means ‘Fuck Off,’ I think we can all agree that needs a rework."

  "Confirmed," BOB said unhelpfully.

  Zog sighed. "Great. Suggestions?"

  Clorita tapped her chin. "Something tough. He’s scrappy. Rex? Korr? Skran?"

  Zog snorted. "He’s not a gladiator, Clorita."

  HALAT, ever precise, offered, "It would be efficient to assign him a designation reflecting his role. Engineer’s Apprentice, Junior Technician, or Designation 247 would be acceptable."

  Clorita made a face. "Yeah, no. We’re not calling him Designation 247."

  BOB hummed. "Would you prefer ‘Organism 12’? It maintains numerical accuracy."

  Zog shook his head. "He needs something that fits. Something short, easy, and doesn’t translate into an insult."

  Clorita snapped her fingers. "How about Dex?"

  "Eh."

  "Jax?"

  "No."

  "Vik?"

  "Absolutely not."

  Zog groaned. "Gods, it shouldn’t be this hard to name one kid. Guess we’ll see what he says in the morning."

  The following morning, the doors to the bridge slid open, and Tuk shuffled in, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His posture was stiff, clearly not used to a bed that wasn’t a pile of scavenged blankets and insulation. He stopped at the edge of the room, blinking blearily at the crew.

  His hair was slightly flattened from sleep, and his large eyes were still adjusting to the bridge lights. He rubbed his face, clearly not a morning person.

  Zog looked up from his console. “Morning, kid. How’s luxury treating you?”

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

  Tuk scowled. “The bed tried to smother me.”

  Clorita grinned. “That’s called comfort. You’ll get used to it.”

  Zog wasted little time. "Listen, we were talking, and you need a proper name. We were thinking—"

  Tuk cut him off. "It’s Xixxon."

  The crew paused.

  Clorita raised a brow. "Wait. You mean your actual name is Xixxon?"

  Tuk nodded, still rubbing his eyes.

  Zog exhaled. "Alright, that’s settled, then. We’ll—"

  Tuk interrupted again. "But I’d rather you call me Tuk."

  The crew exchanged glances.

  Clorita smirked. "You do realise what it actually means, right?"

  Tuk looked her dead in the eye. "Yeah."

  Zog chuckled. "Alright, kid. Tuk it is."

  HALAT’s head tilted. "Your insistence suggests familiarity has overridden the original meaning."

  Tuk crossed his arms. "Or maybe I like making you all say ‘Fuck Off’ every time you talk to me."

  Clorita grinned. "Oh yeah. You’re gonna fit right in."

  Luma let out a slow, approving chirp.

  BOB hummed. "I give it one week before the ship is on fire."

  Zog sighed, already regretting his choices. "You and me both."

  Before Tuk could grumble further, Reginald glided into the room, as poised and polished as ever. He executed a crisp bow toward Zog.

  "Captain, if I may request—please enable RG’s functions so we may proceed with breakfast preparations."

  Zog frowned. “RG?”

  Reginald’s expressionless face somehow managed to convey deep disapproval. “The Royal Galley Unit, sir. Surely you recall the ship’s premier banquet service automaton?”

  Clorita blinked. “Wait. You mean the big guy? We still have him?”

  "Of course," Reginald said, offended by the notion that any part of the Duj’s original luxury services could have been removed. “However, he has remained offline since our last systems update, as there have been no large-scale banquets to facilitate.”

  Zog sighed. “Yeah, that tracks.” He flicked through the controls and tapped the Galley Systems Activation switch.

  A deep, booming voice echoed through the galley as soon as the system came online.

  "Ahhhh! At last! I live again!"

  RG’s bulky frame powered up, the massive, high-end culinary droid unfolding from its dormant position against the wall. Gleaming steel plating, mechanical limbs perfectly calibrated for rapid, large-scale food preparation, and an unwavering enthusiasm for the art of fine dining.

  He immediately clapped his articulated hands together. "Good morning, dear guests! What may I prepare for you? Perhaps a delightful interstellar brunch? A seven-course tasting menu? A grand celebratory feast?"

  Zog held up a hand. “Easy there, big guy. Just breakfast for one.”

  RG paused. His mechanical eyes adjusted as he focused on Tuk.

  "One?" he repeated as if trying to process such a small request.

  Reginald nodded. "Master Tuk requires a meal to begin his day properly."

  RG tilted his head, then let out a dramatic sigh. "Ah, how long has it been since I have had the pleasure of preparing a meal? And yet, it is not for a gathering of noble dignitaries… not for a prestigious banquet… but for—" He gestured at Tuk. "This small, slightly underfed creature."

  Tuk glared. “I’m right here.”

  RG suddenly brightened. "But! No matter! Every meal is an opportunity for greatness!" He turned back to Tuk, seamlessly swapping one of his arms into a precision whisk attachment. "Today, young sir, you shall experience my legendary omelette."

  Tuk crossed his arms. "I don’t even know what that is."

  RG gasps in absolute horror. "Then we must correct this travesty immediately!"

  RG moved like a chef possessed, gathering ingredients at blinding speed. Eggs, spices, cheese, fresh herbs (courtesy of the ship’s still-functioning hydroponics), and a drizzle of something fancy-sounding.

  As he worked, he narrated every step with the grandeur of a man preparing a meal for a galactic emperor.

  "Now, young sir, observe! First, one must crack the eggs with finesse! Not too forceful, lest you risk the dreaded shell contamination!"

  CRACK. The eggs split perfectly into the bowl.

  "Whisking! A delicate yet firm motion! You must coax the eggs into harmony!"

  Tuk watched, mildly fascinated.

  "Heat control is paramount! Too high, and you scorch your creation! Too low, and it becomes a sad, rubbery disgrace unworthy of the plate!"

  Tuk narrowed his eyes. "Sounds dramatic for eggs."

  RG paused mid-motion. His glowing optics locked onto Tuk.

  "The art of cuisine is always dramatic."

  Tuk leaned back slightly. "…Right."

  Watching from the side, Reginald added, "Master RG takes his duties with the utmost seriousness."

  "As all culinary masters should!" RG declared, flipping the omelette into the air with an unnecessary flourish. It landed perfectly on the plate. He slid it in front of Tuk with a proud bow.

  "Behold! The most magnificent omelette this ship has seen in over a century!"

  Tuk stared at it.

  Clorita nudged him. "Are you gonna eat it or just admire the artwork?"

  Tuk cautiously picked up a fork, took a bite—

  And immediately looked surprised.

  It was good.

  Zog smirked. "Told you. You’re gonna have to get used to actual food now."

  Tuk, still chewing, gave a slight nod.

  RG beamed with pride. "A resounding success! I shall now prepare a banquet in celebration!"

  Zog held up his hands. “No. No banquets. Just—stick to normal portions.”

  RG sighed, but nodded. "Very well, Captain. But should the day come when the need for a grand feast arises, you know where to find me!"

  With Tuk full and slightly less grumpy, the day could begin.

  Zog leaned back. “Alright. Now that you’ve eaten, we’ve got work to do. Let’s see what you can actually do with all those extra arms.”

  Tuk wiped his mouth and sat back, already feeling more like part of the crew.

  Luma purred and hopped onto the table, stealing a small piece of cheese from the side of his plate.

  Tuk scowled. "Hey!"

  Luma stared at him, slow-blinking.

  Zog smirked. "Welcome to the food chain, kid."