- May 11th, 3186 -

Illian was sluggish to awake, but when he did, he was ready to enact his plan. By tonight, the boy will find out what the Maiorians were scheming, even if he had to tear the entire Rayvine apart to achieve it. Leaning upright in bed, he was greeted by a clean floor. Well. Clean-ish. Some cola stains still persisted, but they were nothing he couldn’t snuff out later. He suited up as normal, all the while lugging around his slate device under his armpit as to not misplace it somewhere stupid.

There was a slender mirror which was usually neglected in the corner of Illian’s dorm. Not today. He had to look the part when dealing in espionage. Not a single article could be out of place. Upon catching his reflection, Illian wasn’t disappointed, for once.

His coat was dapper, freshly ironed; his collar partition a virgin neckline begging for accommodations, for clout which has since evaded him. No better time to prove his mettle than tonight. The boy shot promises through the mirror: “You’re a Messenger, Illian. You can do this.”

Illian embarked out in the early morning. He was looking to stretch his search through the cafeteria.

It was an open picking yard sprawled within a clear dome; the Rayvine’s pearlescent white body structures—ensnared in a massive ringed sector—peaked over the eatery. System B-3’s dimming sun did what it could to help the station shine when Illian entered the fray on the second level; glass guard railings ringed the entire way around and only parted for stairways. Illian slid his hand on them, now looming over the commotion.

Multiple kiosks clamored for dominance as an amalgamation of every delicacy that the universe had to offer—ally or otherwise to their station. No need to be a saint to cook a fine dish. Love and hate are their own special spices. Exotic flora pots decorated every stair set in their own varied soils. Lush baby cycads, fervent annual flower pods as varied as the food could conceal his advance, if needed. He started jotting notes, connecting the floor plan in his Jailbreak software.

 Some plants were more useful than others—some even fought predators. Not worth the blood, though. Illian shrugged off a Chalice vine pod flashing its sharp thorns and kept moving.

 Illian lost precious seconds in rumination; he turned away and resumed his investigation. That was when he spotted the thickest flora he’d ever seen; it was that teary beauty which moves a guy to drop expensive shit caught in whimsy. Luckily, Illian was fast enough to catch his slate. He made a note of the southwest balcony strut where the beautiful tree display stood under. Its translucent plaque caught the boy’s eyes. It read: Corova Busk Palm.

He figured this was a dependable concealer to start. It was a green, frizzled palm with thick, olive-green branches that demanded constant attention; no other substitute soil as dense as this. The boy took time to appreciate it, scooping a handful.

Finally, Illian ventured down to ground level, descending an escalator. Chaos enraptured each step closer; clattering spoons, processed chatter from dozens of mouths. Keeping up with certain demands meant that all sorts of creatures were coming in for breakfast while the other was getting a midnight snack. Twenty-four hours, ten hours—no matter the rotation, something was open and was obligated to serve any and all diplomats and patrons alike without prejudice.

Illian leaned near a placard that confirmed this on a pillar at ground level: a strict reminder which was enforced by the Rayvine’s own United Security dispatch. Leaning from the pillar’s blind spot revealed that he had come just in time for the Kale lunch rush.

It never got easier to look at these chewed-up gum wads. He’d have to circumnavigate. No easy way around their ranks at this hour. Fleshy outer skins with a tint of malnourished pink, barely functionable with very sickly, emaciated limbs. Angry, little monsters that spared no friendly semantics with their beady teal eyes. And even those varied. Some had two, some three—even four sockets.

Illian passed by a small collective, sliming up a cold iron-lattice bench. An unrelenting scent coagulated, invaded the boy’s space, causing him to blanch over. Dear Gaia, what the hell is that?

The entire time, the boy was being eaten alive by the Kale’s many beady glowers; he couldn’t help but pass a revolted stammer for the monsters to munch on. He had learned not to engage Kale in any fashion, especially when their track suits matched. The only thing worse than pissing off a Kale is pissing off a slice of Garellion Prime’s planets. Make it out the door alive, and there’d still be an ankle-biter on each calve. Illian sized up the bench, hand in pocket.

The Kale returned the favor, holding their ground. Some sniggered to his passage, but nothing more. Their stench followed and only seemed to get worse. This so-called food racketed around Earth equivalents in Illian’s head—then the import markets. White wine broth and rotisserie Pavi, he concluded. Their meal a delicacy with all the presentability of paint water filled with ground chicken pieces. It had to be served somewhere cheap. Somewhere open all day.

With a fortified nose, the boy headed to where these stews were being prepped. Kurk’s Space Tour, a holographic display toted, fiberglass spaceship backdrop soaring across Corova, Earth, and Garellion 5 in what could be considered ludicrous speed. Wholly inaccurate, of course. He’d make note of that.

A lone Raktar—barely able to accommodate the small box kitchen with its hulking mass—was stirring more of that mucous stew. Illian worried that its braided tassels would shed a secret spice accidently. On a mission, the boy took a breath and walked through the counter’s unsavory cloud.

Illian had a clear shot to the one called Kurkesh, as if parted just for him. He couldn’t squander this opportunity. He’d have to know if something was going on last night. Let’s hope I caught he—It in a good mood.

Kurk took notice of the Messenger immediately. It left its pot to simmer and helmed the front counter. “Ahh. That coat’s no lie, is’it?”

Illian stomach boomed with the rock thing’s searing core; each word was like a volcanic rumble, coated in a graveled tone backed by their hammer head and ghoulish mandibles. “You’re one’a dem Messenga boys!

“What can aye dew for ya?”

Needless to say, Illian never expected such a warm response from a Raktar, especially one that had some capital and wasn’t mucking up the worksite with their sweaty pits. Well. They were still sweaty, but that was only a single ingredient fouling the kitchen.

“Good morning,” said Illian. “I was hoping you could help me with some information, Kurk.” The Raktar’s molten red smile faded slightly, but revised when the behemoth hardily chuckled.

“Oh, let’s put that ta’bed quickly, Earth boy! My name is Hide Zlav. Kurk’s not in today. Come ta think of it, not yesterday eith’a.” It settled comfortable, propping his elbows to withstand its weight on stained mirror countertop.  

Illian’s greenhorn was showing. Not good for his pink hecklers still picking him apart. “Sorry!—Hide Zlav, I formally apologize.”

“Ahh, no skin scraped.” Zlav absolved him, extending its beefy, coal-black fingers in a lazy wave.

“Okay. But I still wish to find out what you know.”

The beast, quickly mounted on an interrogation chair, was no longer the cheery culinary chap it greeted as. Rather, Hide Zlav flipped the script on him: “You’re new ta’dis, aren’t ya?”

Yes

“No.”

“What’s yer name, little Messenga’?”

“Illian Jones.”

Zlav brought its many mouth ends together; their ridges appeared chapped with something of a poker face. “So I’ve been told. Though, they didn’t mention yew were as selfish a haggler as Pavi breed. That’s ta’say”—Zlav turned to approaching customers, about to part ways with Earth’s finest—“a skuchburgh.” Well-known shorthand for ‘a ton of shit’ in Raknese.

Galvanized, the boy leaned over the counter, imploring an intimate dead zone both could negotiate with. Though confident, Illian was leaning on credentials and it showed through Zlav’s mandibles. “If that’s what you believe. Though”—he requested the distance adjourned with a slick regression of his wrist—"the Rayvine may be in danger. And I need you to work with me here. Please.”

Zlav was all over himself. It chuckled all the way back to its stew, and back again. Zlav said, “I haven’t been co’rted so eagerly since I’met my mate.” It curled closer per Illian’s request. “I think I like yew.  Yew’ve got yourself a’deal, Jones.”

Hot ember breath swept over Illian’s face. “Thank you, Hide Zlav,” he said, wincing. A small, slimy finger then poked Illain’s back; typical Earthling shit to hold up a line loitering. This particular Kale shrimp wasn’t going to have it for long, flashing his white-glossed canines. Neither were his cronies.

“Don’t thank me yet. Yew’re gonna regret mutterin’ dat in just a sec.” Zlav was already back in the kitchen when Illian turned.

“What?”

A large apron flew over the counter directly into Illian’s royal prim face. Upon examining the garment, he had an itch, as though insulted by. By … ‘lesser status’ than himself.

Before Ilian could swallow, Zlav put its foot down: “Help me dew lunch, and we talk. After dat, my lips are seal’d.”