[center][h2]Shopping Trip[/h2][/center]
[center]Starring:
Firuzeh
A bunch of salespeople[/center]

Firuzeh sighed, pushing her chair out from the desk in the medbay. The entire system was a mess, and it would take her days to properly format it and sort it out into a language she could understand - or at the very least was human in origin. But that would be something for another day, already she could feel the pinch of boredom and irritability from sitting there for five hours already trying to sort it out. She would probably have to do a complete wipe of the system, but for now, she had a ship to explore.

After a moment’s hesitation she decided to save the bridge for later and, with some trepidation, inspect the kitchen of the ship. 

The sight that greeted her as she inspected freezers and refrigerators was… disheartening to say the least. Barely anything but frozen chunks of meat, inedible looking vegetables, and some salt for flavor. Making a face, she began emptying them out, inspecting each one and replacing anything that looked palatable - by the end she had a stack of frozen food and a sinking feeling in her gut - she had the distinct impression that her trip to resupply the crew would be an expensive one.  

Dumping the unmentionable frozen food-like objects into a bag, she set out with a purpose back into Illyria with a sense of purpose. She doubted her medical knowledge would be overly necessary for some time - a regular cut could be repaired with medi gel, and any long term conditions were far out of her realm of expertise, but food on the other hand, was something they would immediately benefit from. 

She thought back to her Quarian friend, Foru'Meell nar Faevis had been her name, and the… mostly voluntary cooking experiments with her. It had taken her some time, but she had eventually gotten the hang of cooking with dextro ingredients, but the thought of how much those would cost her was one she did not want to consider. But still, there were Turians on board, and she could hardly let them starve - or see the rest of the crew enjoying actual food and stuck with those unnameable frozen meat chunks.

She found a dumpster sitting forlorn in an alley and hurriedly walked over to it, dumping the severely freezer burned and probably years old food like a shameful secret best kept in the darkness. Which - to her eyes, it was.

Now with disposal out of the way, she neatly folded the bag, stopping a moment to orient herself before setting off in the direction of the market. 

It was underwhelming, to say the least. For the most part she had avoided the market in the months following the Skyllian Blitz, with nowhere to call home she had taken to looking for odd jobs and wandering off into the wilderness to fire aimlessly at pests and trees before sleeping in one of the shelters set up by the Alliance. With no kitchen to use she had never had cause to visit the market.

It hardly came as a surprise to her - while the market in Illyria had hardly ever compared to Isfahan, it was even smaller now as a result of the Blitz, most stalls were empty or craters, but signs of life had bloomed there again, and even though it was small, vendors hawking their wares could be seen even from her position.

With a determined glare, she began her quest, scanning the meager selection of goods available for proper meat and produce. Levo goods were easy to find, and after fifteen minutes of very aggressive haggling, she had secured a full supply of frozen meat and vegetables, allegedly grown locally, to be delivered to the Jalopy - at the cost of a sizeable dent in her personal finances. She winced, giving her account a once-over before pressing further, asking if the man had any dextro foods on hand.

“Do I look like I have meat for those dinosaurs, lady?”

She pursed her lips, walking away. Normally she might have gotten into an argument with him, but right now she was on a mission to acquire supplies, and now was not the time to get into pointless arguments with racists. Instead, she needed to get into pointless arguments with stingy merchants.

The next store over, conveniently enough, proudly boasted of its stock of dextro meat, vegetables, and spices, though she had her doubts.

Several shouting matches later, complete with a competition for who had the more impressive war story to boast of, an arm wrestling match, and numerous threats of taking her business elsewhere, Firuzeh had managed to secure a sizeable stock of dextro ingredients as well, even if it was making her wallet weep bloody tears. 

Now… her face took on a steely look and she scanned the market. She had to find some spices. She wondered if some of them, saffron mainly, would even be available in this pitiful excuse for a market, and prospects looked bleak, mostly general stores and other miscellaneous goods for sale, with the odd grocer here and there.

Then she spotted it, a small, out of the way stall off to the left - boasting of spices and other “rare and exotic ingredients”. 

Despite herself, she approached it hopefully, gingerly fingering the much depleted credit chit in her pocket.

_____

“The fuck is this shit, you thrice damned pale imitation of a spice merchant?!” She shouted into the face of a stout, portly man who stood across from her. “You call this real authentic saffron!? Are you blind, or just a crook?” She slammed her right hand down on the counter, cybernetic fingers clenched tightly in frustration. 

The source of her outrage lay before her - a cluster of dark red fibers in a neat little plastic baggie labeled “authentic saffron”. Her uncle had taught her many things, but chief among those lessons had been identifying fake spices, saffron in particular due to its cost. 

“You charge me real prices for this shit!” She hissed at the man, hurling the offending bag of what was probably marigold petals into his face, “I don’t even want to see what you’re passing off as other spices. Sawdust as granulated onion and leaves from a shrub as basil?” 

The man glared back at her with equal intensity, shouting back with a volume to match her own in a thick Italian accent. “I pay exorbitant prices to bring these spices all the way from earth! And what do I get? Some ignorant woman barging into my shop and accusing me of being a fraud! The nerve I say, the nerve!” He levelled an accusatory finger at her, “My selection is the finest in Elysium, grown on my family’s farm in Italy! I pay huge fees to bring it here for you ignorant barbarians to have a taste of proper cooking!”

Firuzeh grinned savagely, poking the man in the chest, “And yet, I’m from earth too! Funny thing that, I had a friend who [i]farmed[/i] saffron in Iran, guess what?” She snarled at the man, holding up a few loose strands and throwing them to the floor, “[i]Those[/i] are not real saffron!”

The spice merchant puffed up, looking mildly afraid and extremely infuriated. “Get out! Out! Out of my shop before I call the authorities, you slanderous whore!”

Firuzeh beat a hasty retreat, hurling insults at the man the whole way. Once outside she grinned broadly to herself - the man had been right, he [i]did[/i] have real saffron, but not at a price she was willing to pay. She had been careful to avoid telling an outright lie, only been… selective with her definition of “real saffron” - she was not a particularly pious person, but it weighed on her mind all the same. Contentedly patting the now decidedly not-empty bag that she had taken the liberty of filling with some of his more expensive stock while arguing with him. By her estimate she had saved herself several thousand credits’ worth of bank breaking and now had the spices to cook for the crew ad infinitum. 

Uncle Amir had taught her a few more things than cooking and spice identification.