Chapter Eight: Joyrides and Junkyard Challenges

Huoman declared it was time for Baisha to get a taste of the big, bad world beyond the orphanage's walls.

Baisha cornered Yaning and Jingyi with a question. "You guys ever been outside the orphanage?"

Both froze. Yaning, usually a chatterbox, hemmed and hawed, at a loss for words. Jingyi's face darkened, her mood tanking like a busted reactor.

"We know what's out there," Jingyi said with a shrug. "Yaning showed up a year ago. I got here two years before him. We were either ditched or lost everyone—different lives, same story. Point is, this planet's a dump."

"Don't get your hopes up for Lanslow," she added. "It'll let you down."

Baisha kept quiet. She'd already poked around the galactic web, so she knew Lanslow was a backwater rock. But as a literal alien from another world, she was still a wide-eyed newbie. Even a barren dustball like Lanslow could spark daily wonders for her.

So when Huoman swung by to scoop her up, Baisha was practically bouncing.

That is, until he parked her in front of a beat-up flyer. The thing was a metal mess—dents everywhere, paint peeling to reveal some graffiti that looked vaguely like a skull, if you squinted.

"This baby's secondhand," Huoman said, eyeing the skull. "Belonged to some hotshot joyrider who crashed it. Was headed for the scrapheap, but I snagged it dirt cheap. Got it patched up, even slapped on a fresh coat of paint. Cheap stuff, though—see, it's already flaking."

Baisha stared, speechless.

Huoman gave the flyer a hearty smack, and with a creak, the cockpit door popped open. He waved her in. "After you."

Baisha eyed the rickety contraption. "This thing can actually fly?"

Huoman flashed a toothy grin. "Sure can. Drove it to the abandoned mines when I found you, didn't I?"

No dodging that. Baisha climbed in, face set like she was marching to her doom. She plopped into the co-pilot seat, strapped herself in, and braced for the worst.

Huoman slid in, buckled up, and barked, "Start." The dashboard lit up, screens flashing with the flyer's stats. Buttons glowed soft blue, and—because why not?—the system kicked on some music.

It was an electronic dance track, all thumping beats and a sultry female voice. Her breathy croon was pure magic, teasing the nerves like a dragonfly skimming water. Baisha could almost see a neon-lit dancefloor, bodies swaying like seaweed in a current. She was digging the vibe, soaking in the alien culture—until the lyrics took a turn. Party vibes slid into one-night stands, then straight-up adult storytime, with words so blunt they'd make a sailor blush.

Huoman cut it off mid-chorus. "That's the old owner's startup tune. Can't change it. Pretend you heard nothing." He figured Baisha was too young to get it anyway—just hoped she wouldn't parrot the lyrics to Lady Joan.

"Pretty catchy, actually," Baisha said, deadpan. "Should've let it play out."

Huoman's mouth twitched. He shot her a look. "Keep dreaming."

With a flick of his wrist, the flyer wobbled into the sky.

Free from gravity's grip, Baisha finally got a bird's-eye view of Lanslow. The orphanage sat in a sea of barren hills. Minutes later, concrete buildings popped up—same gray slabs she knew from her old world, just more… tired. They huddled close, a jumble of heights and shapes, linked by sagging power lines.

"This is District Eleven," Huoman said. "Where the orphanage sits—one of Lanslow's poorest zones. The planet's split simple: Districts One to Ten are for the rich. Past Ten? That's us broke folks. My flyer's not licensed for the fancy districts, but I can swing you by District Nineteen. It's got a view—you'll catch a glimpse of the high rollers' turf."

Ten minutes later, Huoman parked near a grim tower. Baisha used the flyer's zoom to peek at the rich districts. They were a world apart—sleek, pale buildings arranged like a palace maze, each with gardens and glassy pools. Silver shuttles zipped silently overhead, leaving only streaks of speed. Way slicker than their junker flyer.

Then she glanced back at the poor districts. Gray. Gritty. Chaotic. Nobody looked polished—workers, waiters, or straight-up thugs, all coated in invisible grime that smothered any hint of joy. Baisha spotted folks with clear disabilities or deformities lurking in alleys, their faces screaming I'm one step from snapping.

From District Eleven to Nineteen, Baisha clocked at least four fights. The last was a full-on gang brawl—until white-armored soldiers with laser rifles dropped from the sky, rounded up the punks, and hauled them off in a military rig.

"Patrol guards," Huoman explained. "Each district's got a sheriff calling the shots."

The air buzzed with other flyers, big and small. Huoman blended in, unnoticed. Everyone hovered outside the patrol's cordon, drifting back to their routes once the chaos cleared.

Finally, Huoman pulled up at a repair shop. He strolled to the rusty shutter and tapped twice. "Yo, Lao Liao, you in?"

A wiry guy with no shirt and a tool belt stepped out from behind some shelves. His back sported a black tattoo—petals or gears, hard to tell. White hair, sharp face with a killer's edge, and a mechanical lens over his left eye that whirred like a bug. A round little bot on wheels zipped out too, its green headlamp blinking like crazy.

Lao Liao shot Huoman a look. "You've got the nerve to show? You still owe me 3,800 credits for that mining bot mod. And don't get me started on the time before—"

Huoman laughed, slinging an arm around Liao's shoulders. "Come on, buddy, we go way back. Money talk's no fun." He jerked a thumb at Baisha. "Brought you a gem this time. This kid's a star at the orphanage—picks up anything you throw at her, aces every test. I'm telling ya, she'd school those rich district brats."

Huoman hyped Baisha like she was the next galactic prodigy. Liao first thought Huoman was so broke he was peddling kids for labor debts. Then he realized Huoman was serious.

Liao's brow furrowed, his eye-lens spinning as he sized Baisha up. "Where'd you steal her from?" he asked. "No way the orphanage churns out kids like that."

"Steal? Nah, she's a legit orphan," Huoman said, clapping Liao's shoulder. "Test her yourself—you'll see."

Baisha watched Huoman's over-the-top sales pitch, wondering if she'd ever actually shown him any standout skills. He was betting big on her with zero proof. Wasn't he worried they'd both get laughed out if she flopped?

She mentally roasted Huoman's recklessness but knew she couldn't back down. No guts, no shot. Liao struck her as the prideful type—not into cocky types, but not fans of cowards either.

Time to light the final spark herself.

"Let me prove it," Baisha said, voice steady. "One chance. If I don't impress you, I'm gone, no hassle."

She knew her current look—small, scrappy, polite but sharp—had its perks. Who could say no to a clever, pitiful kid with just the right amount of pluck?

The shop went quiet, so still even Liao's little bot glanced up, confused.

"Fine," Liao said, gruff. "One shot." He pointed at a busted machine in the corner. "Map out that heap's parts—every component, drawn up. Hit seventy percent accuracy, you pass."

Baisha nodded, already rolling up her sleeves, a grin tugging at her lips. "Time limit?"

"Take as long as you want," Liao said. He nudged his bot. "Guagua, grab her a toolbox."

With Baisha set, Liao turned to Huoman with a scowl. "What're you still doing here? Go scavenge your trash. Next time you owe me, I'm docking your cut." He stormed off.

Liao and Huoman's deal was simple: Liao ran the junkyard recycle game, Huoman scavenged parts from dumps for him to repurpose. They split the profits—when Huoman wasn't dodging bills.

Huoman watched Baisha and Liao, rubbed his nose, and thought, I've done my part. Rest's on her. He hopped back in the flyer, cruised to other districts for his usual trash runs, and wrapped up under a starry sky. On the way back, he snagged a fake-meat tomato sandwich from a vending machine—Baisha hadn't eaten all day, and Liao wasn't the type to play lunch host.

When he rolled back to the shop, the sky was a deep bruise of black and purple. Inside, yellow tube lights buzzed. Liao hunched over his workbench, staring at something with a look so serious it could've spooked a ghost.

Liao glanced up, saw Huoman's grin, and growled, "Where'd you dig up this freak?"

Huoman blinked. "…Huh?"

"Her blueprint's dead-on—hundred percent," Liao said. "Sure, any decent mechanic can chart parts, but she's how old? And get this—she hand-drew it. No optic-link scanner, no modeling. That old-school craft's been dead for centuries. Kid's got fundamentals like I've never seen."

Huoman paused, then ventured, "Maybe… she's never used an optic-link? Doesn't know modeling's a thing?"

Liao went silent, stunned.

Then he tapped his wrist terminal. Huoman's pinged—a transfer from Liao. "Buy her an optic-link," Liao said. "I'm teaching her. She's gonna be one of Lanslow's rare master mechanics."