TRANSCRIPT // DZ-9K7-JLO
[The sun blazes relentless over cracked ochre sands. A lone structure of corrugated metal and salvaged panels stands stubbornly against the heat waves. A faded holo-sign flickers, spelling out “Mara’s Morsels.” Sparse shade shelters a wobbly counter with jars of dried spiced roots and salted insects. The hum of distant hover-crafts barely stirs the still air.]
[The crunch of worn tires on baked dust. An old hover-vehicle, patched and rattling, skids to a stop beside the shop, dust puffing around its rusted edges.]
MARA (wiping sweat from brow):
Well, look what the sand dragged in. Ain’t seen a ride like that in cycles. You runnin’ on hope or just scrap?
TREV (climbing down from vehicle, voice dry):
More scrap than hope, truth be told. Battery’s cooked—nav system’s dead. Can’t trust the solar cells in this heat no more. Need somethin’ to eat before I figure my next move.
MARA (grinning, opening a battered cooler):
Got some fried krempt roots—good for scorched throats—and a slab of hard-baked lox’n jerky. Keeps longer than most o’ these credits last. What’ll you have?
TREV (leaning against a heat-warped support beam):
Lox’n jerky, thanks. And the roots. Reckon I could use somethin’ to bite into that don’t taste like burnt wiring.
MARA (chuckling, hands over a small plate):
No burnt wiring here, promise. You headed to Rylath settlement? Few clicks east, past the red dunes. But without a nav, you’ll wanna follow the old marker pylons. They ain’t lit up much—rot-lights don’t get replaced—but they’re still standing. Just don’t trust the drip rats; lately they’ve been stripping parts off those pylons.
TREV (nodding, taking a bite):
Yeah, saw a couple faded pylons out there. Guess gotta trust ‘em till the batteries come back. How’s the water situation here? Heard the corp-sec put higher oxygen tax on this sector.
MARA (pulling a small flask from under the counter, offering it):
Water’s thin, like everyone else. Water tax got us all thin. But keepin’ cool’s more about what you don’t sweat than what you drink. Here, take a swig—least the temp’s down in the shade.
[They share a brief silence, the heat pressing in, mingled with the scent of spices and dust.]
TREV (quiet, chewing):
You ever think about quittin’ this dust trap? Or is this your line in the sand?
MARA (shrugging, eyes scanning horizon):
Quit? Maybe once. But where to go? Those high-rigs up north? Corp-sec don’t want freeloaders. This spot’s a grind, sure, but it’s ours. Besides, these meals ain’t gonna cook themselves.
TREV (smirking slightly):
True. There’s somethin’ solid about a place that feeds you, even if the world’s fallin’ apart.
[Outside, a faint whirr indicates a hover-vehicle passing far down a shimmering heat-rippled road.]
MARA (handing back a cred-plate):
You’re set, stranger. If you run dry again, you know where to find old Mara.
TREV (climbing back into his battered ride):
Thanks, Mara. Maybe next time bring batteries insteadta jerky, eh?
MARA (laughs):
Deal. Safe travels, Trev.
[The old hover-vehicle sputters to life, kicking up more dust as it drifts eastward, leaving Mara’s Morsels behind under the unyielding blaze.]
[Background chatter from a distant comm-scrambler crackles faintly—snippets of ghost shifts and water ration grumbles.]