Then to the dealer we go

The bazaar's underbelly was a maze of repurposed sewage pipes and stolen grav plating, the air thick with the acrid tang of illegal weapon mods. Susan led the way, her boots sticking slightly to the gummy floor. The dealer's stall was wedged between a "massage" parlor and what looked like a live ammunition vending machine. The Xithian smith looked up from its plasma forge, compound eyes reflecting the neon in fractured slices. "Ah," it hissed, mandibles clicking. "The humans who fucked up Voraxian pride."

Adam grinned, hefting a two-handed vibro-blade from the rack. The weight made his shoulders burn pleasantly. "This one's got a dick joke in it somewhere." The weapon hummed to life when he thumbed the activator, the blade vibrating fast enough to blur. Susan whistled low—the blade could probably cleave a starship hull.

She turned to the wall of compact firearms, running her fingers over a matte-black needler pistol. The grip molded to her palm like it was grown there. "Overclocked rate of fire," the Xithian offered, tapping a chitinous finger against the modified cooling vents. "Melts after forty shots." Susan ejected the clip with practiced ease. "I only need thirty-nine."