Not with their wages

The Xithian's mandibles twitched in what might have been amusement—or indigestion. It tapped the price display with one chitinous forelimb, the number pulsing crimson: enough credits to buy a small moon, or at least a very used shuttle. Susan let out a low whistle through her teeth. "That's not a price tag, that's a declaration of war."

Adam hefted the vibro-blade again, testing its balance. The humming blade cast jagged shadows across the stall's corroded walls. "What's the interest rate on 'fuck you'?"

The Xithian made a wet clicking sound deep in its thorax. It reached under the counter and produced a holoprojector, the image flickering to life between them: a grainy security feed showing a Voraxian—not one of their new "pack," but a bulkier specimen with cybernetic tusks—standing knee-deep in sparking wreckage. Behind him, the smoldering remains of what looked like a weapons cache. "Ghorrax," the Xithian hissed. "Steals my shipments. Kills my guards."

Susan leaned in, squinting at the frozen image. The Voraxian's belt was lined with what looked like Xithian mandible fragments. "Let me guess—your 'little problem' has a big appetite?"

The Xithian's ocular membranes dilated. It slid the needler pistol across the counter toward Susan, then tapped the sword's hilt where Adam's fingers curled around it. "Take them. Kill him. Keep them."