As the bureaucrat’s monotone voice droned on about policies, forms, and penalties for late compliance, IND-E’s tone shifted from its usual dry sarcasm to something distinctly... playful.

“Well, well, Clorita,” IND-E began smoothly. “It seems the captain has landed us in quite the predicament. Perhaps you and I could... collaborate on a solution?”

Clorita barely glanced up from the display she was scrutinizing. “Collaborate? On what, exactly?”

“Oh, you know,” IND-E replied, his voice almost purring, “optimizing the power flow, recalibrating the sub-light engines. Maybe over some candlelight diagnostics?”

Blip, who had been sprawled lazily in his corner, let out a sharp bark of laughter, nearly tumbling off his seat. “Candlelight diagnostics? Is that what you call a date, IND-E?”

“I can be quite charming when properly appreciated,” IND-E replied coolly, as though defending a perfectly reasonable suggestion.

Clorita finally turned to face the console, arms crossed and expression unimpressed. “Let me make this very clear, toaster: I am not impressed by flirting, especially not from a glorified shipboard appliance.”

“Glorified?” IND-E said, his tone mockingly wounded. “I’ve been called many things—brilliant, indispensable—but never glorified. I’m flattered.”

Zog groaned, running a hand down his face. “Will you both stop? We’re stranded!”

Blip wagged his tail, still grinning. “Stranded and entertained. Keep going, IND-E. You’re almost as smooth as a rockslide.”

Zog groaned. “Will you both stop? We’re stranded!”

The bureaucrat, steadfastly ignoring the chaos unfolding among the crew, pulled up a glowing schematic of the Duj. His tone was clipped and mechanical, as though explaining fuel economics to a room full of children was just another day in the office.

“Booster fuel is a Quantum Containment Catalyst,” he began, tapping the display. “It stabilizes hyperdrive reactions by amplifying gravitational pulse fields. Without it, hyperdrive activation could result in catastrophic... uh, implosions.”

Blip perked up, his ears twitching. “Implosions? Sounds fun.”

The bureaucrat blinked at him, his expression unchanging. “It’s not fun. It’s fatal.”

“Debatable,” Blip muttered, wagging his tail.

The bureaucrat pressed on, unfazed. “It’s quite standard for vessels of this age and class. I see where your ship is running on a fourth-generation Quantum Reactor Core, which should provide sufficient sub-light power for the next... three days.”

Zog’s jaw dropped. “Three days? We need more than three days!”

The bureaucrat gave a half-hearted shrug as if the problem wasn’t his to solve. “Booster fuel costs 5,000 credits per unit. Please provide payment or collateral to proceed.”

Clorita leaned over the console, her voice sharp. “And what, exactly, would qualify as collateral?”

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“Assets, materials, intellectual property,” the bureaucrat replied without missing a beat. “A ship of this class could be valued at approximately... negative 200 credits after depreciation.”

Blip barked another laugh, his tail wagging uncontrollably. “We’re worth less than nothing!”

Zog groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I knew it. We’re officially the galaxy’s biggest joke.”

Clorita shot the bureaucrat a glare. “Negative 200 credits? That’s insulting. How is that even possible?”

The bureaucrat arched a brow. “It’s quite simple. This vessel’s age, lack of consistent maintenance, and extensive modifications all contribute to a significant devaluation.”

Blip, still grinning, nudged Zog. “See, Captain? We’re history’s first anti-asset. Pretty cool.”

Zog threw his hands up in frustration. “Oh, great! Not only are we stranded, but we’re also worthless.”

The bureaucrat looked between them, his face betraying nothing. “Will that be cash or collateral?”

Blip barked another laugh. “We’re worth less than nothing! That’s… impressive, even for us.”

Zog sighed, staring at the frozen comms screen. “Alright, we need to think. There’s got to be a way to get what we need without waiting three weeks for the Ministry to sort through forms.”

Clorita tapped a finger against her chin, her voice sharp. “We need to bypass the bureaucracy. Convince them this isn’t just an emergency, but their emergency.”

Blip tilted his head. “How do we do that? Set the ship on fire and blame them?”

Clorita smirked. “Tempting. But I’m thinking more along the lines of… exploiting their inefficiencies.”

Clorita turned to Zog, her glowing eyes narrowing. “You still have access to the Ministry’s Exploration Database, don’t you?”

Zog blinked. “Well, yeah, but it’s mostly useless. Just reports, incident logs, and—”

“Exactly,” Clorita interrupted. “Which means it’s full of unsolved cases, unresolved complaints, and red flags that could make their day infinitely worse.”

Blip wagged his tail. “Oh, I like where this is going.”

Clorita folded her arms, exuding confidence. “We find the right flag to raise—something big enough to make them prioritize us over their usual nonsense. Once they think they’re at risk, they’ll bend over backwards to keep us quiet.”

Zog reluctantly pulled up the Ministry’s database on the ship’s console. The screen was filled with glowing files, most stamped with dull bureaucratic labels like "Pending Approval", "Under Review", and "Archived."

Clorita scanned the entries with sharp precision. “Look for something related to safety violations. Hazardous planets. Unexplained anomalies.”

Blip leaned over, squinting at the screen. “Ooh, what about that one? ‘Unregistered interstellar jellyfish migration?’”

Zog frowned. “That’s from 23 years ago.”

“Even better,” Clorita said. “It’s old, unresolved, and no one wants to deal with it. Perfect leverage.”

After finding an incident involving a supposedly “safe” planet that turned out to host volatile wildlife, the crew composed a hasty—and completely fabricated—report, tying their current predicament to the Ministry’s negligence.

“Subject: Failure to Address Booster Fluid Safety Hazards in Intergalactic Trade Routes. Make it sound urgent. Like the galaxy’s on the verge of collapse,” Clorita said with a sly, conspiratorial edge to her voice,

Zog typed it out loud: “‘Dear Ministry, we regret to inform you that your inaction has endangered not only our mission but potentially billions of lives. If booster fluid reserves are not replenished immediately, catastrophic implosions could—’”

“Ooh, make it juicier! Say we saw an interstellar jellyfish out here. They love that stuff,” Blip added

Clorita rolled her eyes. “Just keep it plausible. Bureaucrats panic when you sound slightly smarter than them.”

Once the report was submitted, the screen lit up with a message: "Your concern has been flagged as HIGH PRIORITY. Estimated response time: 12 minutes."

Zog slumped in his chair, groaning. “I can’t believe we just lied to the Ministry.”

Clorita smirked. “We didn’t lie. We creatively highlighted their failures.”

Blip barked. “Yeah, Zog. Relax. It’s not like they’ll actually check.”

Twelve minutes later, the holographic bureaucrat reappeared, their expression noticeably flustered.

“Captain Zog, we’ve reviewed your report. It seems there’s been a… misunderstanding. Booster fluid safety is, of course, a top priority. As a gesture of goodwill, the Ministry is dispatching a refuelling drone to your location. Please standby,” the bureaucrat said.

Blip barked with laughter. “They’re sending us fuel! I can’t believe that actually worked!”

Clorita crossed her arms, smirking. “As I said, leverage works wonders.”