Phase 4 Security Standoff - Spum Collected 3D Render, Digital Artwork by emarukk

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Phase 4 Security Standoff - Spum Collected

3D Render by emarukk

We both turned to face guard, our smiles concealing the turmoil simmering beneath the surface tension, like a calm sea hiding its turbulent depths. I held the Ghost and shopping basket with my right hand with the gentleness of a lover's embrace. But I needed to take the risk; my left hand released her delicate hand with a casual yet precise grace. My fingertips reached toward a can of SPUM, a so-called affordable delicacy with an excellent price-energy ratio, at least in its reputation. SPUM: the infamous meat product from NexFood, a concoction crafted from the discarded remnants of tube-grown pork. I once heard a story, perhaps more fitting for the realm of science fiction, that this delicacy was made from overgrown pieces that occasionally escaped the confines of the tube, growing wildly out of control. They claimed SPUM tasted like pork, but who among us had ever savored authentic pork? Perhaps only a select few, daring enough to venture into illegal stations like Avernus, had ever pondered such a luxury. SPUM was undeniably greasy, its slick texture perfect for frying alongside eggs, transforming into a semblance of food. Yet, each bite felt like a slow descent into self-destruction, as if indulging in a culinary version of slow suicide.

I held the can up, raising an eyebrow toward the guard with a hint of casual defiance. "SPUM. My favorite, sir. Junior Lieutenant?" I said, letting the words hang in the air like a challenge.

His eyes narrowed behind dark glasses, scrutinizing me with the sharp intensity of a predator sizing up its prey. I didn't flinch, maintaining a steady gaze as I helt the Ghost shift beside me. She played her part perfectly, demure, relaxed, though the tension in her cuffs pulsated like a silent heartbeat between us.

The guard's posture softened just a fraction, enough to allow words to pass through his gruff demeanor. "Completed my conscription in flight control at Portauthor," he said, his voice gravelly yet steady like rocks grinding together. "Long hours, tight windows, too many landings and takeoffs. No thrill, but you learn to read people moving between ports. That's the trick."

His smile, faint but undeniably present, cracked the iron air between us like a chisel against a stone.

I replied, "Ghost Hands and Coginators. Dead boring. Imagine the acrid smell of burned neural links when tech-savvy nerds downloaded forbidden fantasies from stolen memory coins, their virtual desires seeping into reality."

The guard tilted his head slightly, a flicker of amusement dancing in his gaze. "I could have imagined something more action-packed. Robotic hand, a targeting eye, now that should come with a better story."

His eyes wandered to my fully cybernetic right eye, where a faint glow emanated from the targeting computer just beneath the surface, and then to my armored hand, metal, and precision replacing where flesh and bone had once faltered. I kept the truth hidden beneath the simplicity of my words.

"Car accident," I said flatly, my voice a steady monotone as I scanned the statistics and thread analysis about the guard. Both escape and offense strategies lay ready in my mind.

The Ghost beside me chuckled softly, the sound both warm and as sharp as shards of shattered glass. "Traffic around here must be a nightmare."

The guard's smile spread slowly across his face, a subtle acknowledgment of the unspoken bond now formed between us. He understood that I had withheld the truth, but he also knew that the truth was unnecessary for him to hear.

Without warning, he remarked, "Nice catch you have. First Nation?" His eyes flicked towards the Ghost, referencing her with a knowing tilt of his head.

The Ghost's smile was serene as she nodded in agreement.

Then, unprompted, the guard launched into a stream of words, his voice weaving a tapestry of long, flowing syllables in the language of the First Nation. His tongue danced over each word with practiced grace, his tone a blend of formality and warmth, rich with layers of ritual and respect.

I should have recognized it sooner. From his poised demeanor, from the gentle curve of his accent. That told he hailed from somewhere beyond the North. He carried within him the enduring legacy of Kharadun to see that kilometers away.

The Ghost replied in kind, her voice a seamless cascade of complex sounds, a river of guttural tones rising from deep within, creating a melody I could never hope to replicate. Yet the meaning was clear to me.

And she was well aware of my understanding.

The guard acknowledged us once more with a respectful nod, a silent salute to our shared recognition before he quietly returned to his post.

"Chocolate?" the Ghost inquired playfully, her hands brushing against me with a light, teasing touch. "Be careful with your gun." Her laughter was soft and mischievous, a gentle ripple in the cool evening air.