Market Flythrough

So this is a piece I wrote a while ago as a practice in exposition. I found that I was rushing through into action and the world around the action was suffering for it. It’s more just an exercise in “explore nothing happening” than a short story. Hope you enjoy

The market was buzzing with activity. Stripped ship parts, covered in the musky ectoplasm of dark matter, passed freely, ready to install into whatever beaten up starship they were running. The owner of a small Wave Store, Blarzan, was lounging on a soft office chair, browsing the new release catalogue on their data pad with an empty enthusiasm, keeping two of their stalked eyes on the front of their shop looking out for any potential customers. They saw a particular wave that caught their eye, had a quick look to make sure no one was nearby, tilted the pad towards them and tapped in for more info, saving it into their "personal" collection, florax expanding slightly in a gentle excitement. Blarzan's stall was dingy, the limited space was taken up by racks of wave chips, their cases strewn so carelessly as to almost appear deliberate. There was a stale smell of an exotic mix of spices, aged food, and various bodily excretions. Their shop, nestled deep into a dark corner of the market, was unnamed and oft overlooked. It was predominantly visited by teens looking for the edgiest new wave or businessmen in hooded jackets trying to find their niche fix.

A small primplerupper nibbled at some day old leftovers and scurried away, its six feet pattering on the metal floor like raindrops. Blarzan looked at it, considered hitting it, but decided that was too much effort and turned back to their catalogue. The primplerupper purred, then squeaked, and turned around and scurried out of the shop. It crisscrossed the maze of small shops, past the old landing pad, now housing a small stage currently occupied by a hugely unpopular klov-punk band, thankfully drowned out by an argument over an allegedly stolen hull piece. The primplerupper didn't linger, though. It darted between the feet of a heavy-set visiting Glargian, and onto its favourite afternoon snack spot.

"Brasko's" was a charming family run restaurant. Bright and warm, it had a welcoming atmosphere. The self-replicating owner, neutrally referred to as vish, gently fried a proton-fish as vish's offspring quietly finished its homework at a desk nearby. Vish noticed the little primplerupper nudge its ankle, and sliced off a small corner of the proton-fish to feed to it. The primplerupper tapped its feet in a delighted little dance as it munched away on its little treat. Vish looked at the little creature and released a pleasing pheromone and got back to work. ln the other room Vando, a regular, sat in a booth nursing a hangover, chain smoking cigarettes and waited for the "Vando Miracle Cure", a proton-fish steak and two large eggs. He was drumming his foot expectantly, stealing quick glances out the window at nothing in particular. He leaned back, lent his head on the headrest, and blew a lungful of smoke into the air. He looked out the window again, this time watching a woman hurriedly walk by, hands buried deep into her pockets.

Practo clenched her fists, joints creaking slightly as she did. She would need to lubricate them when she had the chance. She beamed up her messages, double checking the time, and lifted the collar of her jacket. She was particularly sensitive to the breeze these days. It had been a while since she'd been in for maintenance, and the carbon fibre casing had worn away, leaving the nerves in her shoulder connection vulnerable. She hurriedly headed down the bustling streets, the soft glow of the neon lights giving her metal jaw a gentle glow. The long dark dawn of The Sphere was drawing to a close, and the light was gradually fading in. Just a few more hours until daybreak, she thought. Practo ducked under some hanging wires, currently siphoning electricity from some unsuspecting captain. They'd be in for an unpleasant surprise when they get back to their drained ship. She sat down on a wooden stool, tapped on the table, and was promptly handed a steaming cup of coffee. She fingered the gun in her pocket, her tip sensors indicating it was still warm. Her cornea dinged, pay had come through. Maybe she'd head in for maintenance after all. A few blocks away a receptionist screamed as he saw the bloodied body of his boss in the foyer, half-eaten sandwich in hand.

The sun finally rose on the Sphere, ushering in another long, long day.