Chapter Text
The planet of Dodginal-7 had the very earned reputation of being one of the most cutthroat places one could set foot on.
Economically cutthroat, that is.
Whereas the commerce planet of Capitalis-13 was known for its rampant, glitz-laden corporate consumerism, Dodge-7, as its locals called it, was a place where black markets could operate freely outside of the rule of galactic law, under the cover of smoke, grime and other sun-blocking, overall shady—and shade-providing—things.
It was, in short, easily the perfect habitat for someone like… oh, say, the son of one of the Nile Galaxy's most-storied pirate couples.
…
…
…
…yeah, Zaid did not belong here. Holy crap, did he not belong here, nor did he want to be here, at all.
It took everything he had not to run all the way back to the used space speeder he'd parked—far from Dodge-7's main market area, Mercantown. Still, his mission was simple—find a single engine part—so there wasn't much point in going back so soon.
Now if only he knew where to get it.
Zaid wandered around the buildings, some tall, some small, some with only two to three walls made partly of grunge-coated tarp. The smell of dirt was everywhere, and though he'd showered that morning, he was already becoming conscious of how the area was affecting him. If nothing else, his hair was going to be terrible after this—
Wait, hold up.
An orange building caught his eye, with what looked like a ton of engine parts inside of the windows. He walked over to it, looking closer.
Yes. This had to be it! With any luck, he'd be able to get a good price, and call this trial run of following in his family's footsteps successful.
And then, never, ever come back here. Ever again.
Seriously, he did not want to be here.
He just had to be.
The orange-tinted shop—aptly named, "Orangeshop" via its sign—proved itself to be the motherlode the moment Zaid stepped through its doors.
Instantly, his vision was hit with a ton of starship parts, marked with various prices, some tagged with numbers higher than he'd ever seen in his short life. He was starting to doubt the validity of this mission—but, again, the only way through this would be to try. He walked up to the counter.
The "reseller" on duty—most likely some chop shop flunky—had purple skin, oddly shiny teeth, and wore loose pants, along with a shirt that was one size too small for his stout physique. Truth be told, his appearance made little rational sense, but it didn't matter one bit as he towered over Zaid upon standing up to meet him, even from across the counter.
"Welcome to Orangeshop, boy," the shopkeep said, in an oddly pleasant—but still gruff and annoyed—voice. "What can I do you for?"
"Oh! Uh, hi," Zaid said, rubbing the back of his neck with a nervous smile. "I'm, um, looking for a constant-solid-light diffuser for a series SR-67 Novaskimmer," he said, repeating the name he'd learned by heart. A contact had told him and his parents that this was technically the best engine-enhancing part to use for running from Xerx patrols—but they were imported, and they were pricey. Still, needs required, so here he was.
"A Novaskimmer?" the shopkeep said, taking a step back. "Thinkin' you might be in the wrong place, boy. That's luxury and industrial! We talkin' luxidustrial, even… wait a second." He stepped forward, leaning over and getting into Zaid's face. "You some rich kid?"
"Uh… rich kid?" Zaid said.
"We get your kind sometimes," the shopkeep said, bringing himself back up to full height, and crossing his arms. "Y'all keep comin' down to Dodge, trying to put one over on us hard-working profiteers to get a bargain, instead of buying from the normal channels. Well, Orangeshop never fell for it before, and we ain't now."
"Hah! I wish I was rich. Or that ballsy," Zaid said. "But, nah. I'm building a hotrod. And I want something with a lot of juice. Heard you sold the best," he said, turning on the slightest bit of charm through his own gleaming, toothy smile—and an indulgent wink for good measure.
The shopkeep stared at him for a long time, in pindrop silence… before finally saying, "Yeah. I got one. But it ain't for you."
"What?" Zaid said, doing his best not to raise his voice. "Why not?"
The shopkeep scoffed. "I dunno, you just got this look about you. A look that says you ain't got no business here."
"But I just told you I wasn't a rich kid," he said.
"And that just means, even if I wanted to sell to you, you wouldn't be able to afford it."
This was going nowhere fast. In desperation, he said, "The name 'Antonius' mean anything to you?"
"Hmmmmm." The shopkeep's eyes furrowed, and he put his fingers to his chin. "Used to. Once. Back of my head, long time ago. An Antonius, I'd sell to, if only to keep my head where it is." He shook his head. "But you don't smell like one. You smell like Academy filth. Well, anti-filth, really."
In the moment, Zaid didn't quite know in what exact way to feel insulted—he just knew that he felt it. "Yeah? Well, get this: I was kicked out of the Academy," he said, stepping forward and thumbing to himself with confidence. "What do you say to that?"
The shopkeep sneered. "Then I reckon you're a failure at two things."
The words hit Zaid like a hover truck. On reflex, he balled his fist, ready to strike… before the rest of him caught up and let him know what would happen if he caused a scene on this planet, of all things—to say nothing of how much smaller he was than the mountain of merchant standing in front of him.
The rest of him then also snuck in a gentle reminder that, oh, yeah, he'd already been saying the same words the merchant just said… to himself, for the past few weeks.
"Yeah. You're right, actually." Zaid turned, walking towards the shop's exit. "Sorry for wasting your time."
With his hoverblades set to their lowest, quietest setting, Zaid meandered about the outskirts of Mercantown, barely able to keep his bearings with regards to his surroundings…
…and utterly lost within himself.
It was as he feared from the outset—this pirate-slash-freedom-fighter-slash-sortakindawhatever thing wasn't going to work. Sure, it'd been less than a month since he'd been expelled from PYRAMID, but wow, apparently you sure could pack a lot of incompetence into even that short amount of time.
When his mother and father were rescued, they'd decided to pick up exactly where they'd left off, using their skills as galactic pirates to fight the good fight against Octavian. It certainly felt like the right move—they'd be doing what they loved, while sticking it to the man who'd robbed them of their son and years of their lives, and any other bad eggs who got in their way, in the process.
Zaid was okay with this.
But it seemed the rest of himself... wasn't?
Entering the rebel pirate life had rendered him a pinball in the school of hard knocks. Losing fights, botching raids, failing his part of missions, and, just now, faceplanting on a simple haggle. Nothing was going right, and it seemed like nothing ever would. His parents were, if nothing else, supportive, but he could tell that he was trying their patience.
One day, I may have to stick it to myself. Flunked out of being a fine upstanding military student, flunking out of being a rogue… this got real dumb real fast.
Being an Academy-student-slash-spy with the threat of his family's demise over his head seemed almost quaint in comparison now. Zaid loosed a self-pitying sigh as he navigated the abandoned buildings and run-down homes which made up the outskirts of Mercantown.
His tab let him know that he was nearing where he parked his star vehicle. So much for going out on his own to prove himself to his parents as a surprise. Once again, he'd have to ask them for backup, proving instead, once and for all, that even with Academy training, he was unable to pull his own weight—
Zaid's tab sent a vibrating pulse through his wrist, telling him that his vehicle wasn't the only one around—nor was he the only person within 50 feet of himself.
Possibly more chop shoppers. Ugh. He turned off his hoverskates, quietly walking towards the alley where he'd parked. Sure enough, there was another vehicle in the shadows—but it looked even less remarkable than his.
Zaid heard a sound—footsteps. Not his own, but light, almost catlike, able to rival his own when he was in full stealth. His ears perked, all of this senses going on alert as he pressed himself flat against a nearby brick wall, scanning the area.
He did not need this today.
"You have good instincts," he heard someone say—a woman's voice, echoing around him.
Quickly, Zaid turned around, searching for the voice's source. He knew it sounded familiar, but also… detached. Faraway. Almost as if the person speaking right now was routinely concerned with affairs far, far above his own.
"Zaid Antonius?" the woman's voice asked.
"Who wants to know? Zaid said, moving his hand down to grasp his quaser. "By the way, far as I'm concerned, there are no right answers to that question."
A figure wearing a dark, hooded robe stepped out of the alley. Within moments, they were in front of him. How had they approached so fast? In a desperate move, he clutched his quaser, bringing his arm up as quickly as he could… only to be stopped in mid-raise by the hooded figure's arm, which possessed a strength that defied appearance.
Just who was he dealing with?
He found out quickly, as the figure took off said hood, revealing a woman with an only slightly lighter brown complexion than his, her hair tied up in an immaculate bun.
She was a woman Zaid knew well—all too well, upon gaining full context. She was also a woman he instantly feared—though, honestly, who could blame him? Most people did, as much as, or more than, they respected her.
"And here I always prided myself on getting perfect marks on my tests," the woman said, with a playful smile, and the same lilting voice he'd heard a minute ago. "I'm so utterly disillusioned. Tell me, dear sir, what shall I do with my life now?" She giggled.
Zaid found himself pressed against the wall again, though this time more due to instinct than purpose. "Ph-Ph-Pharaoh Yosira?"
Her identity also explained the voice, of course. He'd heard her in speeches addressing PYRAMID Academy, though only through proclamations and accolades. They were always amplified—loud, booming, authoritative, benevolent.
She was… different, here, without the loudspeaker. Heck, she was… actually more intimidating, if one could be believed, without the aid of a microphone. Even if she certainly wasn't trying to be right now, given her choices of words.
"Do not fear, Zaid," Yosira said, placing a hand on his shoulder. "I know exactly who you are."
"T-that would actually be why I'm fearing," Zaid said. "And also eyeing the area for royal guards looking to arrest me at any moment."
Pharaoh Yosira smirked. "Oh, the guards are everywhere, at every time, even if you can't see them." Her smirk widened, and she leaned in, her voice near a whisper. "If you were in any trouble with me, they'd have you by now. And they're trained to make offenders wish they'd been captured by Octavian instead."
Zaid gulped.
"But as I said, you have nothing to fear from me." Yosira pulled back. "Even if Cleopatra hadn't already vouched for you herself, I like to think myself a good judge of character."
Wow. Saved by the cute one. Well, one of the cute ones—honestly, Khensu's squad was kind of full of them from what he remembered and why was he thinking about this now? "I mean…" Zaid shrugged, scratching his head. "Your intuitions could be a little off."
"Were that true, it'd be the first time in a while," Yosira said, walking into the alley towards the second vehicle, and gesturing towards it. "Please," she said, "may we talk?"