Page 66 of Alien War Daddy's Got Rizz
Not demands.
Not threats.
Favors.
Because true alliances don’t come with knives behind their backs.
And the answers don’t come fast.
But they come.
The first oneis a smuggler on Epsilon-Nine Station — a plasteel maze of vapor markets and neon shadows. He meets me in a back room where the smell is half booze, half spice, and all secrets. I can feel the weight of his unregistered weapon beneath his coat before he even smiles his crooked grin.
“Grau,” he says, like greeting an old scar.
“Where’s the data move from the last breach traced?” I ask, voice low.
He smirks.
“You don’t come here for drinks, tar-skin.”
I don’t need to answer.
He hands me a file.
Not data logs.
Not surface traces.
Financial movements.
Every pipeline, every redirected asset, every manipulated contract.
And tucked deep in there?
A series of signatures linked back to shell accounts with a familiar pattern.
One only a corporate ghost could produce.
I leave him with a credit chip and a nod — nothing more.
No thanks.
No discussion.
Just the cold click of a door behind me.
The second isa data broker in the Kessan undergrid — labyrinthine servers humming in the dark, illuminated only by pulsing readouts and the occasional spark of stolen algorithm.
He values anonymity more than life itself.
So I watch his eyes narrow when I appear.
“Sit,” I say. “We don’t have all day.”
He swallows — not fear.
Something more like respect.
