Chapter 2 part 1

Kebab to the Stars: A Boar-ing Victory

There’s a little corner of the station I return to whenever I need a taste of something real. The Mercenary Guild’s mess hall is efficient—close to the docks, stocked with ration packs and synth-meals—but it’s got all the charm of a med-bay waiting room. Bright lights, sterile tables, conversations clipped and transactional. They price the drinks just high enough to keep the place from turning into a lounge for idle freelancers.

So when I want food with soul, I go elsewhere. A cramped, unassuming eatery tucked between cargo bays, its name stenciled in flickering neon: Gift of the Nebula. No flashy holoscreens, no gimmicks—just good food and the kind of dim lighting that forgives a long day’s weariness.

Tonight, the place is packed. The usual murmur of scattered diners has swelled into a lively clamor—laughter, the clatter of plates, the hiss of meat searing over open flames.

"Venusian boar Kebabs, hot off the grill!" I don’t need to be told twice.

"Mmph—yes."

Ten Kebabs land in front of me, the meat glistening, juices pooling beneath. The first bite is a revelation—rich, smoky, the fat rendering perfectly between my teeth. The spices dance across my tongue, just enough heat to make the next bite irresistible.

Half price. A miracle.

I’d spotted the holosign earlier, before the station’s manmade night cycle even kicked in. Venusian boar—half-off. My boots practically skidded across the deck plating in my hurry to get here. Turns out, some guild crew had hauled in a surplus from the gas giant moons, more than their freezers could hold. The cook here, never one to let good meat go to waste, had slashed the prices and doubled the portions. A gift from the cosmos. Could I retire here?

"Galaxia Narwhal. You’re really going to town on those."

I pause mid-chew, turning.

"Swallow first, stars."

I do, then grin. "Aioi! Hey. Nice work out there. These kebabs are half-credit today—what a time to be alive!"

"Yeah, no kidding," she says, sliding into the seat beside me. 

Aioi—junior guild member, sharpshooter with a plasma bow, and lately, one of the Diana crew’s rising stars. 

Her suit’s still painfully generic, no custom paint or flashy mods, but she’s got skill. And manners, mostly. Still calls me mister, even when she’s rolling her eyes at me.

"That boar you’re eating? My crew brought it in," she says, smug. "Those moon clusters were swarming with them. Took us forever to clear ‘em out. My shoulder servos are still whining."

"Wait, this is from Diana’s haul?"

"Yep. Heh. We offloaded so much, half the station’s eating cheap tonight. I’m celebrating with drinks until my next shift."

"Aioi… you’ve come so far. Warms my heart."

She stares. "That was the least convincing proud-mentor voice I’ve ever heard. You sound like a text-to-speech program."

"I’m trying here! Cut me some slack. "

"No way. Oh, excuse me! One Martian ale, please!"

"Mm. Make that two!"

"Roger!"

The drinks arrive fast, frost clinging to the glasses. I alternate between gulps of ale and tearing into another kebab. The bitter bite of the brew cuts through the meat’s richness perfectly. "This," I announce, "is why we brave the void."

"...So, Mister," Aioi says, swirling her drink. "Heard about your incident at the guild yesterday. What was that about?"

"Hah? Oh, that. Just some rookies with more ego than sense. Tried to ambush me with jump-jets like it was some kind of surprise. I handled it with grace."

"That’s not the version going around," she says, grinning. "Word is, it was a full-on bar brawl."

"Tch. Gossips."

"Still, taking on four suited-up idiots alone? Not bad."

"Please. They were barely warmed-up amateurs. Got lucky with the terrain."

Fights like that are part of station life. You get drifters, ex-military hotshots, outer-rim toughs—all looking to make a name by picking fights with the wrong people. Yesterday, that was me, minding my own business with a protein shake. Their mistake. I’m not just some washed-up freelancer.

A dull victory, but a victory all the same.

Could’ve ended it faster if I’d really tried. Not that I’d ever let on just how many upgrades I’m running.

...Seriously, I’ve got moves nobody’s seen! Nobody!

"You should join a crew, Mister," Aioi says suddenly. "mister Burger’s asked you, like, six times."

"Nah," I wave her off. "Not my thing. Can’t stand the noise—all those suit vents cycling, oxygen recyclers humming. Drives me nuts."

"Wow. And here I thought you were just antisocial."

There’s more to it. In a real fight, relying on others is a liability. If something goes sideways, I don’t need to worry about anyone else’s reflexes. Solo work keeps things simple.

"How’s Diana treating you?" I ask.

"Great! No ego trips, fair credit splits. They’ve been drilling me on long-range calibrations, too."

"Good. You landed somewhere decent."

"Yeah!"

Aioi’s first crew—childhood friends from her habitat—had dissolved faster than a sugar cube in vacuum. The next few tries weren’t much better. But Diana? She fits.

In space, who you work with matters as much as the work itself.

"Here you go!"

"So good," Aioi mumbles around a mouthful of boar.

"Hm? What’s that crust on the edges?"

"You don’t know?" She swallows. "Europan enzyme glaze. Fancy spacer thing—Sheena says all the elite crews use it."

"Uh-huh. Sure."

"...Why’re you making that face?"

"Kid, if your meat needs glaze to taste good, you’re doing it wrong. Salt. Heat. Done."

"Mister Narwhal, you are such a backwater spacer. No wonder the Starborn think you’re a relic."

"Shut it! I’ve got the most refined taste buds this side of the Lunatran Empire!"

"Pfft! Sure you do!"

And so, between celebrating Aioi’s latest triumph (and enduring her increasingly sharp tongue), I spent the rest of the cycle stuffing myself with Kebabs, downing ale, and savoring the small, perfect joys of station life.

Author's Note:

Ah, welcome back, dear reader! I see you've survived another round of cosmic chaos and culinary delights. Let's dive right into the latest escapades of our beloved Galaxia Narwhal—aka the man who can turn a simple kebab feast into a full-blown celebration of station life.

First off, let me just say, if you thought playing dress-up as a galactic tyrant was easy, try indulging in Venusian boar kebabs at half price. That meat is a revelation, folks. Rich, smoky, and with just enough heat to make the next bite irresistible. And let's not forget the drinks—frosty Martian ale that cuts through the meat's richness like a hot knife through butter. Truly, a gift from the cosmos.

And let's talk about Aioi—our resident sharpshooter with a plasma bow and a tongue sharper than her arrows. She's come a long way, folks. From calling Narwhal "mister" with a roll of her eyes to celebrating her latest triumph with drinks and kebabs. Warms my heart, it really does.

But amidst all the laughter and culinary delights, there's a sobering truth. Life out here in the void isn't easy. It's a constant battle against ego, noise, and the cold, unfeeling expanse of space. Yet, these folks keep going, day after day, with a resilience that would put a black hole to shame.

So here's to the kebabs, the ale, the kebabs, the ale, and the kebabs. May your meat be perfectly seasoned, your drinks frostily cold, and your victories ever in your favor.

And remember, if you ever find yourself in need of a good laugh or a heartwarming tale of triumph against the odds, just tune in to the next chapter of "Kebab to the Stars." Trust me, it's going to be out of this world.

Until next time, stay snarky and keep reaching for the stars!