Junker
In an uncolonised section of space, an unmanned refuelling station sits still a few million miles from the nearest solar system. A ship is docked and refuelling, its owner: a coffee-drinking man looking between the view of the stars outside and the price of his refuelling trip slowly tick up.
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Another ship sails into port, rattling as it does so, and comes to a stop opposite the other ship. As it stops, a well-built woman gets out and sets about refuelling the ship. The noise alerts the coffee-drinker and, quickly downing the rest of his drink, he gets up and disconnects the fuelling pump from his ship, grunting as he does so. With his hands in his pockets, he saunters over to the other ship where the woman is prepping for refuel. As she reaches for the pump, he decides to speak.
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“Those things are heavy, need a hand?”
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“Naw, I got it” she replies, then slots the pump into the ship in one fluid motion. Keeping her eyes on the pump to ensure that it’s fitted correctly, she gestures towards the ship across the way. “That your ship?”
The man doesn’t even try to stifle a grin.
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“Sure is! Set me back a few hundred thousand but you don’t get that kinda top-of-the-range quality for any less.” He gives another once over of the woman’s ship.
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“You… uh… want me to get you the dealer I got it from? No offence or anything but your ride looks… uh… old.”
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The woman finally turns her attention away from the pump and to the man.
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“You kiddin’ me?” she says, as she slaps the side of the ship, “course this baby’s old, can’t have a screw out of place in them new-fangled ships without the fuckin’ Royalists knowin’!” She looks up at the ship with pride, “she might be a bucket a’ bolts, but I’d pick her any day over that glorified homing beacon ya got there.”
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The man, taken aback by this, gets flustered, “well clearly you don’t know the first thing about ships, saying shit like that about mine!”
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“I clearly know more’n you, matter o’ fact I bet my Junker could outpace your pricey hunk o’ chrome any day o’ the week!”
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The man, now beet red, starts to yell out another sentence until he is interrupted by a tall figure appearing at the door of the woman’s Junker.
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“Hey muscles,” he says, “got another job offer through, you gonna be much longer?”
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With her eyes still locked on the coffee-drinker, she replies “naw, just finishin’ up” and disconnects the fuel pump. She then makes her way back inside the ship. The man outside, however, starts after her.
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“Hey!” he shouts, “don’t think you can talk shit and just walk away like tha-“
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As he reaches the door, a shotgun is jabbed into his chest, cutting off his protestations and stopping him in fist tracks. Frozen, he looks up to see the woman standing there holding the gun. Behind her, the tall man leers over and speaks.
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“That there’s an old-world gun, nothing but lead, gunpowder, and shrapnel.” He leans closer, “and I can tell you for a fact that it hurts a hell of a lot more than plasma.”
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The man staggers back a step, pale as a sheet.
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“Wh- who the hell are you two?”
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They both exchange a glance, the woman then looks back at the scared man.
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“Just a couple ‘a traders, ain’t much more to it.”
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As soon as she says this, she kicks the man away from the ship and the door slams down. Moments later, the Junker sputters to life and flies off, leaving the man dazed and sore on the platform. Dusting himself off, he gets up and makes his way back to his ship.
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“F-fucking psychos” he says, as he closes the ship’s door behind him.