She raises a brow. “Voltar, are you blushing?”
“I do not blush,” I grumble. “Vakutan physiology?—”
“Right, right. Different blood distribution. No capillaries in the upper dermis, blah blah. C’mon, soldier boy.”
And just like that, I’m following her out the door, my massive boots thudding softly on the pavement as she practically floats ahead of me, swaying in a loose sunshift dress that catches the breeze and wraps around her legs like it's got a crush on her too.
The market fair is already alive by the time we get there, all color and noise and chaos. Banners flutter overhead, some electronic, some old-school cloth. There’s a vendor selling synth ice cream next to a guy deep-frying something that smells like an alien aquarium exploded. Music from six different cultures blares from speaker poles trying to out-bass each other.
Sable dives right in, tugging me by the wrist. Her fingers wrap around mine, warm and casual, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t make my pulse trip over itself.
“Let’s start with the fried algae,” she says, eyes gleaming with wicked delight.
I look at the vendor’s cart, where green slabs sizzle in grease and a toothless woman flips them with a spatula that might once have been a sword.
“That is not food,” I announce. “That is a chemical experiment.”
Sable grins. “Oh, so now you’re a food snob?”
“I eat to maintain caloric density for combat effectiveness. That… that is slime wrapped in cardiovascular betrayal.”
She orders two.
I glare at the algae on a stick like it owes me money. Then she takes a bite and moans—not in pain, in pleasure—and my brain short-circuits.
I take a bite. It tastes like kelp-flavored revenge.
“That’s…” I manage, trying not to gag. “A texture war crime.”
Sable bursts out laughing, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Oh my stars. You look personally offended.”
“I’ve been shot with acid rounds less hostile than this snack.”
We keep walking, hand in hand now, her arm brushing against mine as we drift from stall to stall. I let her drag me to a booth where an old Fratvoyan with too many arms is manning a game rigged so bad I can see the crooked servos under the claw.
“You’ll never win that,” I mutter.
She looks up at the giant stuffed keffri hanging in the prize rack. It’s a mutant little thing with one eye, six legs, and a bowtie. Hideous. Adorable.
“I bet you could win it,” she says, looking at me sidelong.
“Obviously. But it’s a trap.”
“Come on, commander. Show me your skills.”
I sigh like it’s the greatest burden ever placed upon me, but secretly, my chest is swelling. I slide a credit chip into the slot and the machine beeps awake. The claw jerks left, then right, obviously designed by someone who hated fun.
But I time the drop just right.
It sinks, catches the keffri by the foot, and holds.
Sable cheers as the claw rattles back and drops the monstrosity into the prize chute.
I hand it to her, deadpan. “For morale purposes.”
She snorts and clutches it to her chest like I just gave her a declaration of war in perfume form. “I’m naming him Volty.”
“Absolutely not.”
