Amaru grinned wider, voice dropping low and teasing. "Come closer~."
They leaned in, half-curious, half-afraid.
"Bu-bu-BUKAAAH!"
She threw herself backward, laughing so hard she nearly hit the floor.
Tyson just smirked, shaking his head. Moore twitched a small smile threatening to break through.
"Okay, seriously, where are we even going again? I wasn't paying attention, I just caught something about kicking a horror's ass with a bunch of big-game hunters and a fried-chicken restaurant," Amaru said, blinking. Tyson rolled his eyes. Moore, however, glared so hard Amaru snapped upright, puffing her chest out like a scolded cadet. "Our objective is to capture the horror this time, Miss Amaru, not kill it," Moore said crisply. "Those hunters are under contract. They track the target and assist during containment." Moore's gaze lingered, sharp as a scalpel, like she was waiting for the performance monkey to juggle again.
"Oh, okay, but what about the fried-chicken part though?" Amaru asked. Tyson waved his hands dismissively. "The fried-chicken place is their base of operations. It's their side business when they get extra game during a hunt. Not important."
"Can we—"
"NO!" Tyson and Moore barked in perfect unison.
Amaru crossed her arms and pouted like a child denied drive-through fries. "I wanted tenders and potato wedges," she muttered under her breath.
They arrived at the hunters' base of operations.
It was a fast-food-and-hunting-services space station orbiting quietly above the blue haze of Kepler-17b.
A glowing sign spun slowly outside: the face of a smiling old man with ice white hair while having a Van Dyke beard and a battered hunter's hat.
Beneath it, in flickering red letters, the slogan read:
"Kepler Famous Fried Chicken — It's Definitely Losing Fingers Lickin' Good."
"Disgusting, I hate the ghetto of space. Uneducated, leech of programs and lack of culture." Moore said while her upper lip curls, baring a hint of teeth, and the corners of their mouth pull downward in revulsion.
"Hey now, they just surviving like rest of universe. Plus, they are educated Agent Moore. They call it street smarts rather higher education smarts." Tyson put his hands on Moore's shoulder and implanted her to focus on why they were there.
They entered the building and a Bowie fling toward Moore face until stop inches from her face. "Don't worry, I got you Alan~" Amaru said while she pulled way the Bowie knife caught between her fingers. "…I appreciate it but it's not Alan Amaru." Moore said but Amaru give a sly look. "I know what I said Alan~."
They walked in. Amaru veered toward the brawl while Tyson and Moore headed for the counter.
"Wah yuh interested fi order pon wi nice likkle menu?" asked the service droid, its voice thick with island twang.
Moore tilted her head, puzzled.
Tyson rested his hands on his hips. "We're from KPH. We're here to speak with the hunting service."
"Gimme a minute," the droid said, vanishing through a back door.
Seconds later it reemerged, now sporting a wide-brimmed hunter hat instead of its grease-stained chef cap.
"So ya do want me huntin' service, eh?" it said, full Outback mode engaged.
Tyson blinked. Moore's face didn't move.
In the background, Amaru was calmly eating tenders and wedges while the brawl raged around her like a live-action commercial for insanity.