The courier stands and smokes as he watches a parade of pirates board his ship, passing through the golden atmospheric barrier with a faint crackle. 

The first is an elven woman, dark skinned and regal, her tightly curled hair shifting from bright teal to deep indigo in a gentle gradient. It is pulled back neatly into a puffy, segmented ponytail, secured with gold rings which mirror the hoops in her ears. Her sleek spacesuit reminds him of a gymnasts’ leotard, white and starry blue, with gold accents.

Following her is a much smaller elf—probably gnomish—and very pink, with bubblegum skin and magenta hair. She bobs around in midair, as though the rune spells controlling the gravity on the 5UN-FL0R are a completely optional phenomenon.

The courier is certain they are not. Or at least, they shouldn’t be.

A naga follows the floating pink girl, long and lithe, with light blue scales and sharp orange eyes, echoed in the orange patterns decorating his cobra-like hood. The serpent-man is dressed very lightly—just a simple, white scarf looping around his humanoid torso.

The last to board is a third elf, a brawny man with tan skin, broad features and dark brown hair in a short, backswept mohawk. He holds a laser rifle and carries himself with the posture of a soldier—which would be a lot more intimidating were he not wearing baggy white pants and no shoes.

“Ahem.” The courier clears his throat, catching the gaze of the blue-haired elven woman. “Right. So, the valuable cargo’s in that big crate there.” He points at a large, password-locked shipping container on the wall opposite to him. “O’ course you’re welcome to look through the rest o’ the ship, but it’s mostly just full of old tech junk I like to collect, so I don’t think—”

“Seize him.”

The elven woman regards him with an intense glare as she cuts off his rambling with her command. The courier raises his hands, sputtering in disbelief.

“Wha—? Wait a second—!”

He yells in alarm as the naga bursts into action, launching toward him like an uncoiling spring. The courier dodges the first punch just in time, flinching as a lightning-wreathed fist crackles past his ear. He stumbles back, hands open in an appeal for peace.

“Stop! I said I didn’t want trouble!”

The naga does not stop. A bolt of lightning follows a second punch, leaving a scorch mark in the far wall. The lights flicker as another blast hits the floor, exploding into little arcs of electricity which cascade in a mad dance across the surface.

“This ship is made o’ metal, ye nitwit!” the courier yells. “Ye want to fry us all?!”

There’s no real threat to the ship. The structure is well insulated, the metal poorly-conductive by design, and the worst anyone may suffer is a static shock.

But the naga doesn’t know that.

The reckless lightning mage pauses, neon eyes widening for a moment before he surges forward again with a flurry of bare fists. A few blows find their mark—painfully—but only a few. The courier dodges, deflects, dodges again, his movements betraying a rusty but practiced agility—

—until he finds his legs kicking empty air as he levitates a foot from the floor.

The floaty little pink elf is holding up a single finger, an imp’s grin on her face. With a casual flick he’s flying across the cargo hold, then crumpling in a heap on the floor.

He tries clumsily to untangle his limbs.

“Would ye hold on for a damned—ach!”

A blast of laser fire hits the ground, inches from his fingers. He flinches, disoriented—then the naga is behind him, hauling him to his feet, hooking both arms around his elbows and yanking them back roughly.

“What the hell do ye think you’re doin?” The courier squirms, panicked. “I’m unarmed!”

“That’s nice,” says the big elf holding the laser rifle. He taps it as he walks toward the captive courier, grinning pleasantly. “We’re not.”

Whether the elf means they’re not nice or not unarmed is left to the courier’s own interpretation.

“I noticed,” he says, acidly.

The courier grimaces, each breath lancing painfully along bruised ribs, his right cheek stinging where the naga had landed a punch, his cigarette lost somewhere in the scuffle. This was not how things were supposed to go. Most pirates are in the business of self-preservation. You can’t enjoy your ill-obtained riches if you get yourself killed in an unnecessary fight. He had it down to an art. So long as you don’t antagonise them, the average pirate crew will just take the most valuable loot they can find and flee before any potential distress beacon can attract unwanted attention.

This pirate crew isn’t following the script.

A disjointed melody of beeping sings out from where the little pink elf is hacking the password console on the shipping container. At least that’s going to plan. He watches a procession of comical expressions flit across her face as she works, her tongue poking out in most of them. Then a movement by the cargo bay door catches his attention and he meets the gaze of—implausibly—a smiling, drool-faced, flop-eared dog.

A dog who immediately bounds over to him and sits at his feet.