One week later...

One week later, the galaxy’s most feared bounty hunter wobbled on a pair of stiletto heels that felt more precarious than any crumbling alien ledge. The flimsy black shafts **** her weight onto the balls of her feet, an unnatural posture that made her calves ache and her hips jut out. A tray laden with fluorescent green cocktails trembled in her hands.

The air in the casino tasted of ozone, stale synth-ale, and the collective sweat of a thousand **** gamblers. A constant, maddening symphony of electronic chimes and triumphant fanfares assaulted her ears. Every few seconds, a slot machine would erupt in a seizure of flashing lights, casting her nearly naked form in strobing blues and reds.

Her uniform was an exercise in minimalist humiliation. A stiff, white collar encircled her neck, a tiny black bowtie clipped neatly at the hollow of her throat. Matching cuffs cinched her wrists. Thigh-high black stockings clung to her legs, their silken tops ending in a stark line high on her creamy skin. And that was it. Between the cuffs and the collar, the collar and the stockings, there was only Samus, her athletic figure and pale skin on full display under the casino’s relentless, gaudy lighting.

“Hey, Blondie! Another round over here!” a portly woman with three eyes bellowed from a card table. She winked one of her lower eyes. “And take your time walking back.”

Samus’s jaw tightened, but she kept her face a blank mask of polite servitude. She pivoted, the heels threatening to betray her with every degree of the turn, and navigated the crowded floor. Her bare feet ached from the confinement of the shoes.

She had meant for it to be a temporary solution. A night, maybe two. Earn enough for a set of clothes that didn't scream ‘I am a walking felony’ and a transit pass to anywhere else. Then she made the mistake of hacking into a public terminal to check the status of her impounded gunship. The repair estimate that flashed onto the screen was galactic. The pursuit through the planet’s atmosphere had fried half her systems, and the emergency lockdown had fused circuits that hadn't been manufactured in a decade.

The only establishment on Veka that didn't rely on automatons for its service staff was, of course, the adults-only Forbidden Oasis. They called it a feature. “Experience the warmth of organic interaction!” the flickering recruitment sign had advertised. Samus had walked in, been looked up and down by a man whose entire suit was made of mirrored tiles, and was hired on the spot.

She delivered the drinks, placing each glass on the felt tabletop with military precision. The three-eyed lady's stare remained fixed on Samus' breasts as she leaned down, her leering expression never changing.

Of course, Samus could pay for the repairs. The bounty for the lava monster, once she finally managed to claim it through a series of encrypted, off-world channels, was more than enough. But the thought made her teeth grind. She had chased that incandescent space-slug across three solar systems and practically melted in her own cockpit to earn that money. It was for a new Wave Beam emitter. It was for a top-of-the-line scanner suite. It was for a vacation she could actually enjoy, one that didn't involve running starkers from janitor bots. Spending all of it just to fix the damage she incurred earning it felt like a cosmic scam. A waste. She would earn her way out of this hole. It was a matter of principle.

A loud bell chimed throughout the casino, a signal that overrode the din of the machines. The gamblers cheered. It was time for the stage show.

Samus set her empty tray on a nearby service counter. Her stomach twisted into a cold knot. The mirrored man, her "manager," caught her eye from across the room and gestured toward the main stage with a flick of his wrist. A spotlight flared to life, illuminating a small, circular platform equipped with a polished steel pole.

She walked toward the stage. The cheap heels clicked against the garish floor tiles, a tiny, pathetic sound swallowed by the swell of synthesized music and the roar of the crowd. The lights were blinding, the single spotlight washing out all color and turning the jeering faces into a formless, shadowy mass. She mounted the three short steps to the platform, the wood groaning under her weight.

Her hand wrapped around the steel pole. It was cool and unforgiving against her palm. She squeezed, her knuckles white, her grip strong enough to crush bone. Her training screamed at her to treat it as a weapon, a point of leverage, not an accessory for a performance. The music pulsed, a sleazy, repetitive beat that vibrated up through her feet.

With a stiff, robotic motion, she began to move. She swung a leg around the pole, the thigh-high stocking rustling against the metal. It was less of a sensual wrap and more of a preparatory stance for a climbing exercise. She gave a push and spun, but her enhanced musculature sent her whipping around far too quickly. She stumbled, her other heel skittering on the stage as she fought for balance, the motion causing her bare hips to sway in a way that drew a fresh wave of cheers from the audience.

Her cheeks burned. She reset herself, glaring at her own shimmering reflection in the polished steel. This was for the gunship. For the scanner suite. Principle. She tried another move, a simple dip, but her quadriceps were too powerful. She plunged downward too fast, catching herself an inch from the floor with a grunt, her pose more like someone dodging enemy fire than enticing a customer. The crowd howled with laughter and delight.

She threw her head back, her blonde ponytail lashing through the air. The motion was meant to be alluring, but it came out as a violent, frustrated whip. She launched herself into another spin, this time with more control, her body a taut line of coiled muscle. She wasn't dancing. She was executing a series of controlled calisthenics, a pale, nearly naked warrior going through combat drills on a stripper pole.

"Next vacation," she thought, her cheek pressed against the cold pole as she pushed herself back up, "will be spent ice fishing on a meteorite at the ass-end of the galaxy." Somewhere without crowds, without commerce, and especially without any form of automation.