[code]Ruvulla shot a scathing glance behind her at the soldiers rushing her out. Whatever pretences of discipline had evaporated the moment things became difficult. Typical. She squinted back at the ship through the overbearing sunlight, meditating on how she’d have responded if she’d only managed to grab a gun. Her back was tense. Her fists were curled. It was a stroke of luck that these good-for-nothings were as useless as they were, no doubt, and yet it was still also a deeply frustrating sign of the times. 

And now she was stuck. Stuck here, with common criminals and scum of not just the galaxy, but with the inclusion of so-called “humans,” the local group as a whole. She watched the ship rise, glaring even as her eyes ached from the gleam of the metal. She willed that there might be some critical malfunction on the ship—some sort of fatal, painful cosmic justice—anything to strike down these good-for-nothings before they had a chance to get off scot-free. Knowing it to be an exercise in vain, she instead resorted to repeating the names she’d overheard in her head and tried to keep the faces in her mind. If she ever got off this rock, she promised herself she’d remember them. These were lineages that needed to be cauterized. If she ever happened upon them, it would be her deepest pleasure to ensure they got what they deserved. Traitors among traitors—there was no lower life form, not a one, even among the foulest, most miserable, and wretched dank little corners of the known universe.

Slowly, the conversations at hand peeled her attention away from that ever-diminishing hated blip in the sky. 

There was such a monstrous conglomeration of races involved. There was no doubt that the correct destination, for the sum of them, was indeed a prison colony. The cacophony of translated tongues grated on her ears even after almost a century of intermittently tolerating such affairs. And there were stranger things about too—the sorts of things that belonged in vats in the lab or cautiously subjugated at arm’s length as the case may have been. There was some anomaly of nature inhabiting a space suit which felt equipped to weigh in despite lacking any apparent utility as far as skill or knowledge went. Worse still, there was an abomination of flesh and machinery—the sort of wetware monstrosity that she and the other medical officers were continually quashing attempts by arrogant and foolhardy cyberneticists to cobble together from medical waste. It too had an opinion, and one which was uttered in a manner which she needed no nanites to clock as profoundly ridiculous, to such an extent that its very presence felt insulting.

They all went around singing kumbaya and introducing themselves, as if they were new colleagues and not a half-cocked abortion from a prison ship run by the galaxy’s most worthless excuses for soldiers. She rigidly clasped the bridge of her nose as she contemplated the situation, and begrudgingly took in the ragtag assemblage’s assessments of the situation.

If it was any small consolation, there were at least some heads in the group with any notion as to how awful the situation was, and some thought as to how to begin to salvage it. Appealing as the proposition of shedding such humiliating attire was, it was also practical. The Dhasath was, in truth, correct in her assessment that alternative garments needed to be requisitioned by any means necessary. There were perhaps specifics to be quibbled over, but really, the only outstanding question was exactly what they were expecting to find. There were surely practical options available within reasonable bounds, but suitable? Less likely. They’d have to make do with whatever scraps could be dragged from this backwater.

Despite her misgivings, Ruvulla followed the proactive Dhasath, human, and Kiel with relatively little hesitation. It wasn’t as if there were better options lying around. As the other misfits continued their chatter, she sighed.

“The more time wasted out here, the more chance there is to get sunstroke. Anyone who intends to move ought to move. Talking and walking can be done at the same time.”

And just then, she heard a Kiellar name, followed by the words “Political dissident” and “Makerist monk.” 

“That’s a new one,” she muttered, “What a sick fucking joke.”

She kept walking in the direction of the town, trying her best not to dwell on the matter.[/code]