The night is young

The key card buzzed against the lock plate three times before the door finally hissed open, revealing a room that smelled like disinfectant and bad wiring. Susan kicked the door shut with her heel, tossing the needler pistol onto the bunk where it sank into the threadbare mattress like a stone in quicksand. "Three days to find and kill a cyber-tusked maniac," she mused, peeling off her torn shirt with a wince. The Voraxian's claw marks stood out livid against her ribs.

Adam was already dismantling the overhead light fixture with his vibro-blade handle, scattering glass shards across the floor. "According to the Xithian, Ghorrax hangs out at the Black Hole Cantina." He yanked free a tangle of wiring, the exposed copper glowing faintly in the dim light. "Which, coincidentally, is where the bartender spikes drinks with neurotoxins for fun."

Susan snorted, probing the bruises on her stomach with clinical interest. "So basically Tuesday." She peeled off her boots, revealing toes that were somehow still intact despite the evening's festivities. The floor stuck to her bare feet like flypaper.

Adam's fingers moved through the wiring with the focus of a bomb technician—which, Susan recalled, he technically had been for three weeks back on Earth before getting fired for "excessive enthusiasm." The overhead panel sparked ominously as he spliced two filaments together. "Cantina's got a backroom where the real deals go down," he continued, twisting the wires until they hissed. "Xithian says Ghorrax brokers flesh trades there every third cycle."

The room's holodisplay flickered to life, projecting a wobbly schematic of Freeport Nebula's underlevels. Adam grinned at his handiwork. Susan leaned over his shoulder, her breath warm against his neck. "You realize we're basically committing to murder-for-hire, right?"