In a bustling street under a warm evening sun, raucous laughter spilled out of the establishments like lemonade. The sand and dust sparkled between the alleys and grates; ladies fanned themselves and gentlemen mopped their brows, while the workers and handymen sweated new patterns into their clothes. The buildings were squat to keep the streets cool and canopies hung between windows to keep the sun off the patrons’ backs.

“... So I saved her life. Needless to say, she was very thankful...”

A few men laughed, but the girls, bored and unimpressed, rolled their eyes and turned their heads. The bar was so crowded that it was impossible to escape the bragging, even in the secluded booths marked off with screens and curtains. Beads and scarves decorated the walls and dimmed the lamps. The waitresses, though, flitted between the audience with tall cool glasses of refreshments and got ridiculous tips for their services, because even though he was a pain, Jace always drew enough of a crowd for them to make their living. He leaned against the bar with his usual smug expression, surrounded by men who had never had the misfortune to meet him and women who clearly had, and he entertained them with his largely untrue stories of reckless abandon and sexual ‘prowess’.

“I mean, come on,” he said, smirking, “who wouldn’t be thankful? Have you seen this face?”

Jace was, regrettably, handsome, but he knew it and it ruined him. His dark, chocolatey hair was overly preened and his open shirt and rolled up sleeves were too casual to be casual. His trousers were so tight that most would say they were indecent. The shoes on his feet cost more than some houses.

“Well, the ladies love a hero.”

He glanced at the women, winked his sparkling eye, and the girls gave up and walked away with their drinks. It didn’t matter to Jace. Impressing women was not difficult. Impressing men was harder, and that was what he counted on. If there wasn’t anyone to listen to him, what was the point of anything? He sipped his drink and opened his mouth and was ready to continue when -

The crash shook the bar so hard that glassed fell behind the bar and some drunker patrons were unseated. People screamed; some hurried out to see what had happened.

Then it was oddly silent inside the bar, as everyone’s gaze left Jace and went to the windows.

He did not like being out of the spotlight. Not for a second.

Jace downed his drink, rubbed his hands together and stood.

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he said, sliding between his fans. “I feel that my talents may be needed outside.”

He strode to the door, followed by a few of his more rabid taggers-on who chattered amongst themselves in a babble of excitement. In the near distance, beyond the low roofs of the commercial centre, was a plume of black smoke.

“Oh, that’s the poor district,” one man muttered.

“Meteor?”

“No,” said a woman, biting her nails. “Looks like a crash.”

Jace smiled. His brain, more attuned to his own wild fantasies than any kind of empathy, went straight to hordes of half-naked women, needing his medical aid, fawning over him and telling him just how smart and handsome he was. A crash was a perfect opportunity.

The poor district was not a fair assessment of any part of the city – it was all poor. Even as Jace left the awnings of the pub, he was walking beside broken windows and boarded up doors, piles of refuse and destitute men begging for scraps. The streets were winding and close. Eventually, the crush opened up to a field which once was used to mine for ore but since became a rubble-strewn dustland where hawkers might ply their wares.

And there was the crash, burning a hole in the earth.

It stank. Crashes never smelled good. The tang of burnt engine fuel, metallic and oily, mixed with the eye-watering scent of hot metal and melting plastic. Aside from that, Jace could not see much but the smoke beyond the crowd that had formed, craning their necks to try and see some dead bodies.

“Was anyone on there?”

“Maybe it was unmanned?”

“How did it crash?”

Jace put on one of his best smiles.

“Excuse me, ladies, gentlemen,” he said, and parted the crowd.

As he got closer, he could see the ship – a bright red scout ship, by the looks of things, relatively intact save for the ground it had smashed up and the fires in the back engine. The ship had a crest, a two-legged dragon breathing fire into the air, and a name printed beside it: Wyvern.

Momentarily, standing at the side of the ship, Jace felt panic. He was not expecting the scene he was presented with and he could not do any performative heroics unless there was someone to save, and from first glance the ship was remarkably empty. Behind, some women laughed, and he knew with grim embarrassment that they were laughing at him.

Then, like a miracle, a hand emerged from the dirt.

Jace’s grin returned.

“Don’t worry!” he called into the smoke. “I’m a doctor! I can help you!”

A head appeared, then bony shoulders and a dusty, skinny torso, and eventually, standing in the dirt, was a man. A boy, really – Jace could not tell from first glance if it was a tall adolescent or a malnourished adult. The survivor shook his head, hand on his brow, eyes shut, coughed once.

But what a strange person this was. Jace assessed his tumble of silvery hair, the scratches on his sharp face, the torn arm of the jacket. He was certain that the survivor was not even wearing shoes. How had this person flown this ship without any help?

The survivor staggered forwards. Jace, seizing the momentum, tried to intercept.

“Easy, there –“

But the survivor, far from being grateful, shoved Jace haphazardly out of the way and stumbled off into the crowd, to shouts of “Hey!” and, “Watch it!”

Jace stood dumb.

You have a reputation, he reminded himself, and he bolted off in the direction the man had woven together.

“Hey! You! Come back here!” he called, ignoring the smirks and giggles of his fair-weather fans.

The injured man was maddeningly difficult to catch up to. It was almost as if he was deliberately trying to embarrass Jace, and that would not do at all. Jace was not known for his patience.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

“Hey, Moon-head!” he finally snapped.

The man stopped, giving Jace just enough time to grab him by the shoulder and turn him around.

“Where d’you think you’re going, starshine?” he said, smacking a cloud of dust off the survivor’s shirt. “You need medical attention. Luckily for you,” he said, opening his hands in a magnanimous gesture, “medical attention has just arrived.”

And he awaited the gratitude he expected for such a statement.

But the survivor stared, blinked, without an iota of expression on his dusty and bloody face, and he turned and started to walk away again.

Jace’s blood finally started to boil. He never got turned down like this, not here. It was as if this person didn’t know who he was and that would not end well for either of them.

He grabbed the survivor’s shoulder again and span him back around. The survivor’s head lolled momentarily, but Jace once again found himself face-to-face with the blank stare.

“Moon-head, I’m talking to you,” he said.

The survivor blinked lazily, cast his eyes up and down Jace’s body, then – the audacity! – raised an eyebrow. Jace increased his grip and barely managed to keep his cool.

“I’m offering to help you, here. Do you understand me? Do you speak Basic?”

The survivor said nothing.

“I mean, for a fee, of course. I’m, like, a doctor. I’m qualified.”

Maybe he didn’t speak Basic. Jace pulled out his wallet, flashed his holo-quals, certain that was enough to persuade the survivor that he was legit.

“Dr. Jason Brooks,” he said, pointing to the words. “Doctor of Medicine. See?”

Still no response. Jace placed his hand back on the man’s shoulder.

“I’m not trying to scam you, all right? You crashed, you hit your head. You’re bleeding. I’ll tape you up.”

The survivor reached up and, with surprising strength, peeled Jace’s hand from his shoulder, gave the most patronising smile Jace had ever seen, and began walking for a third time.

Growing up, disrespect had been foreign to Jace. He did not take it well as an adult.

Furious, he snatched the survivor’s collar so hard that the poor man choked slightly and dragged. The survivor dug his heels in. Jace increased his hold on the collar and pulled harder.

Eventually, he got the survivor to the bar, where the patrons witnessed Jace hauling a dusty, bleeding man through the establishment into the back room, and heard the door slam.

Nobody spoke, for a moment. Then, nervously, one of the barmaids laughed, and as if it started an avalanche, the whole room filled with disbelieving roars.

In the back room, Jace shoved Blake down into a rickety chair and said, “Sit,” like he had any choice in the matter.

Blake rubbed his neck slightly and complied. Doctor Brooks was strong, but on top of that the full extent of the smack to Blake’s head was finally catching up with him and he was starting to feel limp. For a moment, his vision whited alarming; the doctor grabbed his hair and lifted his head back up.

“Hey, don’t pass out.”

Good idea.

Blake frowned, studied the room. There was a table, three chairs, a sink. For a doctor’s office, it was lacking. The steel barrels for the pub taps made gurgling, hissing sounds occasionally as the pipes took alcohol out of the room and into the glasses of the patrons. Spare boxes of snacks, new glasses and cleaning supplies stood on the shelves, between discarded jackets and work gloves. It smelled of yeast and damp.

Some doctor, Blake thought, just as he felt the arm of his jacket torn free from the threads. He started, but the doctor took the sleeve to the sink, rinsed it under water and folded it into a cold compress. Gently, he put the fabric to Blake’s head.

“Got quite a lump, there,” he said.

Slowly, Blake lifted his arm and held the wet sleeve in place. The doctor nodded.

“That’s it, you hold that there. I’m going to get my bag, be right back.”

Then, Blake sat alone, torn sleeve in hand, gazing into space. Nothing made sense. There was a ship, and a robot, and…

His free hand instinctually went to his pocket and, relieved, he felt the orb, safe where he had left it. Satisfied, he closed his eyes and felt the throbbing in his head.

There was a clattering sound, a click, and finally, “You still awake?”

Blake nodded, eyes still shut.

“Hey, Moon-head, are you alive?”

“My name,” said Blake, irritated, “is Blake.”

“Ah, you do speak!”

Blake opened his eyes. The doctor was fiddling with some contraptions inside a suitcase – usual items like a little hammer and bandage but other, weirder things too, like a metal cylinder about the size of an open hand and a flat screen tablet. The doctor selected the computer and some bandage and grabbed a chair, twirling it artistically so the back faced Blake. He straddled it, leaned forward and held up the tablet.

“And stop calling me ‘moon-head’,” Blake added, wary of the computer. The doctor hardly moved.

“That’s what you are. A moon-head.”

“What’s a… a moon-head, exactly?”

The doctor shrugged. “An idiot. Y’know, a jackass.”

“I am not a moon-head.”

“All right, Moon-head. All done.” The doctor tutted at the screen, shrugged again. “Considering, you’re in pretty good shape.”

“Considering what?”

“Um, that you crashed your ship?” said the doctor, staring at him in bewilderment.

Crashed my… oh.

So that was what happened.

The doctor took a pocket torch from the bag.

“Eyes wide now,” he said.

Shit.

“No,” said Blake.

“Do it,” said the doctor, “or I shove it up your arse.”

It was hard not to be aware that Blake’s eyes were not normal, by any measure of ‘normal’. As a rule, he tried not to be seen by too many people because it was a defining feature that he had no explanation for. This was too much.

But the doctor did not wait for Blake to deliberate. He pried Blake’s eyelids apart, shone the light in, tutted again, pulled more faces. Finally, Blake pulled away and took the cold compress from his head.

“Are you done?” he said.

“Yeah, I’m done. You’re not concussed, so far as I can tell without – y’know – pupils or whatever.” Blake’s cheeks felt warm. “You should probably get some rest, though.” The doctor threw the torch back into the bag. “I’ll wrap up the cuts on your arms and leg if you –“

“I’m fine, thank you,” said Blake. He had wasted too much time here already. If it was true that the ship had crashed, then he needed to find Miki and get some repairs done before anyone else came looking for him.

He tried to stand, but the room span alarmingly and the doctor laughed and gripped his arm to stop him falling down.

“It isn’t up to you to say if you’re fine or not,” the doctor said. “It’s up to me.”

“I’m not paying you,” Blake said, tearing out of his grip. The doctor looked scandalised.

“What do you mean, you’re not paying me? We had a deal –“

“No, you kidnapped me.”

“Hey, I treated you – “

“You forced me in here. I didn’t want your help. Now leave me alone.”

The doctor stayed standing, appalled, as Blake collected himself and found the door. As he lifted his arm to leave, he noted the torn-off sleeve, the blood seeping through the fabric beneath.

“And you owe me a new jacket,” he said. “Arsehole.”

He slammed the door behind him.

Out on the street, wet jacket sleeve to his head, Blake tried to organise his thoughts. Things were moving too quickly for his liking. He was exposed, here, and too noticeable. If the ship was down then it was down somewhere with intelligent life, and intelligent life was bad news if he wanted to stay hidden from his pursuers. That, and the sphere in his pocket –

“Ar-pap!”

“Miki?” Blake whispered, turning.

Hopping down the street came the rabbit robot, darting through pedestrians’ legs, hustling up to Blake’s ankle. Blake knelt and lifted Miki to his shoulder; the robot sat obediently.

“I’m sorry, Miki. Let’s go. But,” Blake added, “next time, tell me we need repairs before the engines start to fail. Okay?”

“Boooooop,” said Miki, and hung his head in shame.

Blake sighed and stood to leave when he heard, irritatingly, “Oi, Moon-head!”

The doctor was still following him.

Blake scowled and rolled his eyes, but it did not deter the man.

“Where are you going?” he said. “You got somewhere to stay?”

Good question.

“I’ll be fine, now go away,” said Blake. The doctor put his hands on his hips.

“You even got any money?” he said.

Better question.

Whatever possessions Blake had once owned, they were lost to him now. There was no doubt that his money was frozen, and he was not really in any shape to steal or break-in anywhere like he would usually. He was under no illusions that this kidnapper-doctor was not asking out of kindness. He wanted something, and if he could get it from Blake, that was fine.

But he did not have any Green, and as such he had nowhere to sleep but the streets.

The doctor smiled slowly.

“I see. You ain’t got money. Where you gonna stay, then?”

There were not a lot of options.

“Are you offering me a place to stay?” Blake said, suspicious.

“Hey, if you haven’t got any money, my place is the best offer you’re going to get all evening. Take it or leave it.”

Blake hunched his shoulders.

“… Jason, is it?” he said, approaching.

“Ugh, no. Please. It’s Jace.”

Together, they started down the street. Jace wrinkled his nose at the robot.

“What’s that on your shoulder?”

“Arrr-tat-tat!”

“Triple suns, how irritating.”