Chapter 2 part 1 Kebab to the Stars: A Boar-ing Victory

Chapter 2 part 1

Kebab to the Stars: A Boar-ing Victory

There's a cantina I frequent—a place I'd almost call my sanctuary. Sure, the Mercenary Guild mess hall on the station is convenient, but it's overpriced, the synthesized menu is uninspired, and the atmosphere is too sterile, too professional. It's designed for brief encounters, mission discussions, and occasional deals over sub-par ration packs. They probably keep the credit rates high to prevent the hall from becoming a hangout spot for freeloaders.

So, when I need something real—something with flavor—I head to a smaller establishment nearby. A modest restaurant pod with private booths, no grandiose bar or holo-luxury nonsense. Its name? **"Gift of the Nebula."**

Today, the pod is busier than I've ever seen it. The usual hum of conversation has grown into a symphony of voices, clinking utensils, and sizzling grills.

"Venusian boar kebabs, fresh off the grill!" The call rings out from the kitchen, and I don't waste a second.

"Mm, mmff mmm!"

Ten kebabs are set in front of me, their aroma wafting through the air, and I dive in without hesitation. The meat—juicy, tender, and seasoned with just the right balance of spices—melts in my mouth, the natural oils dripping onto the plate beneath.

**Half price today.** What kind of cosmic alignment is this?

The holoboard outside the pod had caught my eye before the station even switched to its artificial night cycle. I'd read the words "Venusian boar—half-off" and practically slid through the doors. Turns out, a guild crew returning from the satellites of gas giants had brought back a haul of the beasts, enough to overflow their cargo holds. The owner of this place, unable to let such a bounty go to waste, had doubled the portions for the same price. **A deal worthy of the stars themselves.** Could I live here?

"Galaxia Narwhal, huh? You're really going at it."

"Mmga?" I pause mid-bite, turning to see who's addressed me.

"Swallow first!"

I gulp down the mouthful of boar and blink. "Aioi? Oh, hey. Good work out there. These kebabs are half-price today! What a glorious age we live in!"

"Yeah, I know," she replies with a raised brow, sliding into the seat beside me.

Aioi: a junior guild member, plasma bow specialist, and a rising star among our ranks. She's part of the Diana crew now, working alongside a tech wizard and gaining a reputation for her prodigious long-range combat skills.

Her suit, though? Utterly plain. No custom decals, no flair—nothing that matches her growing reputation. Still, she's a decent kid. Polite enough to treat me as a mister, even if she occasionally sasses me.

"That boar meat you're scarfing down? My crew brought it in," she says, a hint of pride in her voice. "The satellite clusters were crawling with those things. Took forever to hunt them all. My stabilizer joints are practically creaking."

"You're telling me this meat's from Diana?"

"Yup! Heheh. We had so much extra, we wholesaled it to half the station. I'm planning to drink until the next cycle to celebrate."

"Aioi... you've really grown up. Makes me proud."

Her expression deadpans. "Galaxia Narwhal, that was the flattest praise I've ever heard. You don't even sound remotely happy."

"C'mon, I'm being sincere!" I protest. "Look a little happier, will you?"

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

"Mm. Make that two!"

"Coming right up!"

The drinks arrive quickly, and I raise my glass, alternating between swigs of ale and bites of boar. The spices and the smooth, bitter tang of the drink are a match made in the void. "This," I declare, "is living."

"...But Mister," Aioi interrupts, "I heard about your little scuffle at the guild yesterday. What's that about?"

"Huh? Oh, that? Just some punk newcomers. They tried to rush me with thrust-packs like amateurs. I coolly evaded and took them down with unmatched elegance."

"That is *not* what I heard," she retorts, smirking. "The story is that it was a chaotic brawl."

"You heard, huh? Tch."

"But still, taking on four opponents in suits? That's impressive."

"Right? Well, they were half-competent small fry. Got lucky with the match-up."

Fights like that aren't uncommon. Stations like this attract all sorts—ex-military types, drifters from the outer systems—most trying to establish themselves by picking fights with the wrong people. Yesterday, I was the unlucky target. They must've thought I was easy prey, sitting alone with a protein shake. Too bad for them—I'm a special ability enhanced mercenary.

**A boring win, but a win nonetheless.**

If I'd fought seriously, I could've wiped the floor with them faster. Not that I'd ever openly reveal just how many abilities I'm packing.

...No, really. I've got plenty of tricks I haven't shown anyone! Really!

"You should join a crew, mister," Aioi says suddenly. "mister Burger's invited you more than once, hasn't he?"

"Nah," I reply, shaking my head. "Not my style. I can't stand the sound of other people's suit fans or life support systems. Too distracting."

"Not like you're some Starborn elite..."

There's more to it than that. I don't like relying on others in an emergency. If some unexpected threat appeared, allies would only slow me down. For now, soloing suits me just fine.

"What about you, Aioi? Diana treating you well?"

"Yup! They're great—no hazing or anything. They've taught me a ton about targeting techniques, and they split credits fairly too."

"Good. Glad you found a decent crew."

"Yes!"

When Aioi first left her colony, she'd stuck with childhood friends from her habitat. That crew fell apart after a few months, and her next attempts at finding a team didn't go much better. But now, with Diana, she seems to have found her place.

Work environment matters. In space, it's everything.

"Here you go!"

"Ooh, sho delishush!" Aioi mumbles through a mouthful of kebab.

"Hm? What's that seasoning?"

"You don't know?" she asks, swallowing. "They're using Europan crystal enzyme on the seared surface. Fancy stuff. Sheena from my crew says it's all the rage with Starborn Elites."

"Oh, right. That stuff."

"...Whassat face for?"

"I've got no idea what that is. Salt's the foundation of flavor, Aioi. Let the ingredients speak for themselves."

"Mr Narwhal, you're such a rim dweller. No wonder you'll never blend in with the Starborn."

"Shaddup! I've got the most refined palate in the entire Lunatran Empire!"

"Pfft! Pfft!"

And so, while celebrating my junior's growth (even if she's getting sassier by the year), I spent the rest of the cycle gorging on kebabs, drinking Martian ale, and basking in the simple pleasures of station life.