Pavla squinted at the ship, then at her own trembling hands. "Watch me," she whispered, then belched.

It was a slow Tuesday night at the Galactic Dust , a dimly lit cantina on the fringe of the Andromeda trade route. The bar was known for two things: synth-ale that could strip paint, and the holographic jukebox that only played mournful country songs from old Earth.

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