Carpark didn't emerge from the badlands so much as it was coughed up by them, a jagged, smoking clot of fused steel, patched canvas, and hopelessness. Beauty growled to a stop beside a wall made of bus carcasses, its engine sighing like a tired beast. The air didn’t just smell; it insisted. Fried grease, ozone, wet rust, and the underlying, sweet-stink of a thousand people that hadn't had a bath in a good while.

  Rhaene killed the motorcycle’s engine beside a leaning tower of bus husks, which were just like normal busses, except completely gutted.

  “Ugh. Smells like booze and fried dough.”

  She smiled, swinging her glasses off and taking in the vibes of the settlement with all three of her eyes, “My kind of place,”

  Arbor’s optic was also doing a slow, 360-degree sweep of Carpark, but for a different reason. The robot was cataloguing exits, potential threats, and consistently going back to the alarming number of stains on the nearest awning. “Population density is 400% above safe operational parameters. Our time here will be minimized. Fuel. Supplies. Departure.”

  “Right. Minimized,” Rhaene said, already drifting toward the nearest stall selling something that might, in a generous light, be called food. “C’mon, kid. Let’s see if they’ve got anything that won’t give us the screaming shits.”

  Aren, finally released from Arbor’s arm-bar, plopped onto the packed dirt. He didn’t run. He just crouched, a small, grimy statue, his blue eyes drinking in the swirling chaos of bodies, carts, and flickering signs. A child nearby was licking the rust off a bumper. Aren watched with the focus of a scholar.

  The three of them moved as a bizarre unit. Arbor led, a tall metallic wedge parting the crowd. Rhaene swaggered behind him, a shark in a bomber jacket. Aren toddled in their wake, mostly crawling on all fours, but walking on two legs here and there as he kept stopping to investigate fascinating bits of trash.

  Their first stop, Fuel, Fuel, More Fuel, was less a credible fuel establishment and more a rusted drum with a handwritten ‘GAS’ sign stuck on it and a crabby attendant sitting next to it, equipped with a plastic table that had a cash register bolted to it. The attendant was a chubby little yellow demon covered in fur who looked like he hated the sun, himself, and especially customers.

  “That guy looks familiar,” Muttered Rhaene.

  “Do not talk. I will do the negotiating. Watch the kid.”

  “Sir yes sir ma’am sir.,” Rhaene half-assed a salute until Arbor turned away. When she was out of the robot’s vision, she popped the middle finger stuck-out tongue combo to the stuck-up back of bolts. A classic.

  “Forty a liter,” Grunted the attendant.

  “Guild charter says fifteen is standard,” Arbor stated.

  “Charter’s in my other pants, don’t reckon you happen to have a copy? Forty.”

  “Wel-”

  Before Arbor could argue, Rhaene piped up from behind them, holding Aren in her arms.

  “HEY! I REMEMBER!”

  Rhaene dropped Aren, who didn’t seem to care much about being dropped, ran forward, fishing something out of her pocket, and leaned over the table, casting a shadow onto the attendant.

  “You were in Mek’s gang! Weren’t you! The one who tried to cheat at knife-toss and lost your thumb for it! It would be a massive bummer if a Shaman were to get ahold of your thumb somehow. Who knows what they’d do to it...” She grinned, dangling something mummified and quite gross in front of him. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what it was.

  “How’s the thumb?” Rhaene smugly asked. Knowing full well how the thumb was doing.

  The man paled. “Oh, my friends! I didn’t recognize you as Mercenary Guild members. You-you know! Everybody is always trying to scam me! Gas is fifteen-"

  "Ten."

  "Y-yes... Ten. My mistake, my friends. I’ll get right on it...”

  The stubby little demon, hopped off his chair on the table and over to the gas barrel, using what appeared to be a measuring cup to pour the sludgy oil into a gasoline canister, a very clear rage painted across his lemon-colored (and shaped) face.

  “Negotiation,” Rhaene said, grinning at Arbor and pocketing the thumb.

  “Blackmail is not negotiation.”

  “Worked, didn’t it?”

  While Arbor monitored the pump, his optic flickered toward Rhaene’s pocket. “A question. Was that actually the appendage in question?”

  Rhaene leaned against the dusty flank of a four wheeler that lacked all four of its wheels, looking immensely pleased with herself.

  “Hell naw, dude. I just keep a random thumb on me. Picked it off a guy who tried to pick my pocket back in Acedia 'fore the job. Thumbs're useful for settlin’ disputes.” She shrugged, as if explaining a common kitchen tool. “Everything else was a guess. Every demon that deals fuel out here’s been in Mek’s gang at some point. And you’d be surprised how many of ‘em have lost a thumb doin’ something stupid. Always grows back, of course, but sometimes the old one don’t get disposed of proper. Makes ‘em real superstitious. They see a dried-up thumb waggin’ at ‘em, they think of those crazy glue-sniffer shamans up north, they assume the worst.”

  Arbor processed this. The tactic was not in any way morally correct. It was, however, undeniably effective. “Carrying biological waste is a health code violation in seven of the eight municipal districts of Gehenna.”

  “Good thing we’re not in any of ‘em.” She pushed off the bike as the pump clunked to a stop. She turned to Arbor before she continued her thoughts.

  “The exception is Gluttony, right?"

  "Affirmative."

  "Knew it. C’mon, let’s get some road snacks.”

  Rhaene snagged Aren off the ground, seperating him from the pile of oil he was seconds away from tasting, and taking him to the next stall over.

  Arbor grabbed their gas can, paid the dues, and followed quickly behind, hoping to stop Rhaene before she made any irresponsible financial decisions.

  By the time he made it to the two of them, Rhaene had already snagged two dubious meat-on-a-sticks from the next stall, dropping a few credits on the counter and not waiting to see the shopkeep’s reaction, handing one to Aren, who immediately started teething on it, trying to break through the gamey meat.

  Arbor saw the shopkeep’s reaction. It was joy, because Rhaene had paid him almost triple what the standard rate was. Arbor tried to keep his disappointment contained, which actually wasn’t that hard given he was a robot.

  Aren had given up on getting any progress on the meat and resorted to trying to eat the wooden skewer. The actual wood of the skewer.

  “No, the meat part, you moron.” Rhaene flicked Aren's head to grab his attention and took a huge, performative bite of her own. “Mmm! Tastes…!”

  Good was not the word she was looking for. Not bad either. Rhaene paused and thought. She didn’t think she’d ever find the word for it. So she improvised.

  “...Yeah! It tastes!”

  Aren watched, then took a large, violent bite of his. He managed to break a piece. He chewed thoughtfully, his gaze distant as he chewed, critiquing the flavors. After a long deliberate chew, he swallowed, nodded, and took another vicious bite.

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  “See? He’s got refined tastes,” Rhaene said, scarfing down the rest of her skewer in a single swift motion and throwing the wooden skewer behind her with such force that if it hit someone it’d take their eye out. Luckily, it came shy of murder. A few inches shy, embedding itself into the pole behind the shopkeeper, who didn't dare yell out, lest Rhaene see him and realize she had paid him too much.

  “He is consuming an unidentified protein of probable scavenger origin. His digestive resilience is… notable.”

  “But we already knew that, didn’t we? Probably the same way he ate the...”

  Rhaene grimaced and looked at Arbor then back to Aren. They'd almost forgotten what happened at the station.

  Shaking off those thoughts, supplies were next on their plan of action. This was where the efficient plan began to unravel. Rhaene didn’t shop. She fancied herself a kind of magician with a very unique kind of magic. The kind where a can of beans vanished from a shelf and reappeared in her jacket.

  “Rhaene, you have not paid for the hydration tablets,” Arbor said, tracking the bulge in her bomber jacket, that grew by the second as they walked past shops. He couldn’t catch her in the act no matter how hard he tried, but he could definitely catch her trying to hide her spoils.

  “The pills were a public safety hazard! Rolling around! I was helping! Imagine if a nice old lady tripped over them and died?”

  "You would laugh."

  "Hey hey. If we sweat the small stuff, we'll be here all day tinman."

  Meanwhile, Aren had found a few display baskets of fruit. Unlike Rhaene, he wasn’t very keen to stealing. He was more interested in organizing the fruits, throwing the wrinkly ones all into one basket, organizing the fruits by their color, vibrancy, and shape. The only downside was that he stopped anybody from taking any unripe fruit, hitting their hands and handing them the better produce instead.

  “Aren. You are impeding commerce,” Arbor said, trying to pull Aren away from the stall before its owner snapped.

  The fruit-stall’s owner, an old human woman wearing a sunhat, just shrugged. “He’s got a better eye than me. Leave him. ”

  “No, we really do have to be going.”

  Aren attempted to voice his discontent between being dragged away by one arm from the stall, still reaching back to the stall with his free arm. The stall-lady smiled and waved him goodbye.

  “Wonderful. Now we’ve lost Rhaene.”

  Aren was almost inconsolable as Arbor dragged him along on the search to find Rhaene, pouting and walking with his head down. That was, until he caught a heap of broken tech in the corner of his eyes, the scrap of a tech shop. Aren zeroed in on a small, dented cylinder, a dead hologram projector. He picked it up gently, like it would shatter into a million pieces.

  “It is non-functional,” Arbor said. “A paperweight.”

  Aren pressed the button. Nothing. He shook it. Held it to his ear and listened to it. Pressed the button again, his brow furrowed with profound concentration.

  Rhaene,who was haggling for a discount on getting her gun cleaned on the next stall over, glanced over and caught Aren’s gaze at the cylinder. Her face did a weird, soft thing.

  “How much for the kid’s fancy rock?”

  “Two credits. It’s scrap. Camera still works, but the projector's busted”

  “Did I hear you say it was one credit?”

  “Fine.”

  The shopkeep handed Aren the broken projector. “Yours. It’s sleepy, though. No magic pictures.”

  Aren clutched it to his chest. It was his treasure.

  That’s when the law showed up. Well, a law. A single, bored municipal enforcer with a vague stain on his shirt and a not so vague dislike for his job.

  “You! Nuisance tax on haggling. Five credits,” he droned, pointing at Rhaene, who had returned to haggling the price of her gun cleaning down from 500 credits to something in her ballpark. Like 10 credits.

  “That’s no fair! This is daylight robbery! I have a half a mind to-”

  “Tax is for being nuisance. Pay up.”

  “That’s the dumbest thing I have ever hear-.”

  “Insulting officer. Ten credits.”

  “Let me finish my fu-”

  Arbor stepped forward, cutting Rhaene off again. “Officer, bylaw 12-B of the Mercenary Guild’s handbook concerns haggling. The liability lies with the vendor to shut it down and report it, not the bystander.”

  The enforcer blinked. He wasn’t paid to think. His eyes landed on Aren, who was silently trying to reflect a sunbeam onto the cop with the shiny side of his new broken projector.

  “Is that… attack on officer!? That’s holding offense. All you, come with me. Now”

  It escalated quickly. Rhaene protested and yelled obscenities about the officer’s mother, but followed along compliantly. Arbor continued cited codes and bylaws as they walked, reminding the officer of their rights. Aren, sensing tension, rather than follow the law-abiding example of the two role models in front of him, decided to escape. When he saw his chance, he darted between the enforcer’s legs on all fours. The man stumbled, grabbed a stall canopy for support, pulling it out of the ground, causing the whole canopy to collapse.

  It crashed onto a cart of “authentic” pre-collapse pottery.

  The shatter was loud. Shards flew every which way. People yelled. The pottery cart tipped, hitting a stack of tires. The tires rolled.

  They rolled into the path of a passing cargo trike piled high with squealing, pig-like creatures in mesh bags.

  Porcine, squealing, magnificent chaos.

  The trike toppled. Bags burst. Clay and porcelain flung everywhere. A dozen pig-creatures stampeded through the market.

  The enforcer blew his whistle. Two more arrived, looking confused.

  “Well, I suppose now’s a good time as any to run. Whatchu say Arbor?” Rhaene said as she grabbed a scampering Aren by the collar of his gown.

  “No, we are not in the wrong here.”

  “Suit yourself!”

  What followed was a ballet of sorts, just a little less graceful. Rhaene, with Aren on her back, vaulted over a sock stall, but was stopped by an array of flying goods. Every direction they tried to run in was blocked by a different chaos. A stampede of pigs, a particularly angry chicken, the cops. Meanwhile, Arbor briskly strolled behind them, calmly stating, “I must protest this detention,” as melons and poultry flew past his head and he sidestepped livestock.

  The chaos ended when a particularly ambitious pig launched itself off a ramp that just happened to be there, sailed through the air, and landed squarely on the head enforcer, knocking him into a mountain of packing peanuts. He emerged, sputtering, covered in white static-cling fluff.

  He pointed a trembling, foam-covered finger.

  “JAIL! ALL OF YOU!”

  The cell door clanged shut. The lock thunked.

  Inside, it was quiet. Stone walls. One bench. A high, barred window.

  They had gotten the foreigners cell. Everybody else at the plaza was crowded in the residents cell next cell over. You could see the wall starting to crumble and strain under the pressure of so many bodies locked together.

  Rhaene sat on the bench with a sigh. Arbor stood beside it, perfectly straight. Aren sat on the floor. He held up his broken projector, and pressed the button.

  Click.

  Nothing.

  He nodded, satisfied, carefully put it down, and began drawing in the dust of the ground.

  Rhaene looked at Arbor. Arbor’s optic lights met hers.

  “Well,” she said. “This is cozy.”

  “Our schedule is delayed by six hours and forty-three minutes. This is inefficient.”

  Aren finished his dust drawing, a lopsided circle with dots in it. He looked up, held his projector, and made a soft, hopeful “prrt?” sound.

  Rhaene stared at Aren, then Arbor, then the jail cell and the bars, a small grin creeping up her face. Then she barked a laugh, her head thumping back against the wall. “Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

  “Your amusement is illogical. We are incarcerated.”

  “We’re in jail, Tinman!” she wheezed. “Because of a haggling tax, a broken toy, and a pig explosion!” She grinned, a real, wide grin. “It’s WAYYY better than any Carpark family trip I’ve ever been on!”

  Arbor processed this. He didn't get it.

  But as he looked at Rhaene laughing in a cell, and at Aren, contentedly clicking his broken treasure in the dust, a quiet, glitch crossed his mind.

  This was, perhaps, not the worst way to waste six hours and forty-three minutes.