We need some money

They docked at the first available berth, which turned out to be less a proper hangar and more a repurposed fuel bladder with delusions of grandeur. The moment the ramp lowered, the smell hit them—spilled coolant, fried street food, and the unmistakable musk of a hundred species who didn't believe in deodorant. Adam inhaled deeply. "Smells like... poor life choices." Susan grinned, cracking her knuckles. "So, Tuesday."

The Voraxian bouncer at the Singularity Saloon didn't even blink when Susan slammed the still-sparking drone core onto the counter. "We're here to—" Adam began, before Susan elbowed him sharply in the ribs. She tapped the drone core twice, then mimed drinking with exaggerated gusto. The bouncer's tusks twitched—either amusement or indigestion—before sliding over a chipped data slate covered in pictograms. Susan squinted at the incomprehensible symbols, then pointed at the largest one, which vaguely resembled a exploding star. The Voraxian snorted, tossed them two grimy tokens stamped with a radioactive-looking cocktail glass, and jerked its head toward the back.