The Joy Street Market Curry House

It had started, as many disasters did, with Maltz the Vargr saying "Trust me."

The crew of the Morrigan were at the Joy Street market on Jesedipere, a place that smelled like burning fruit, diesel romance, and precisely seventeen kinds of illegal optimism.

The whole strip was a riot of colour and shouting - stalls piled high with knockoff vacc suits that would protect you from the vacuum of space for upwards of eight seconds, iridescent fungi that promised enlightenment but delivered mostly rashes, bootleg media crystals containing Bollywoof shows that hadn't even been filmed yet, and things in jars that were filing paperwork for personhood status.

Music blasted from three competing loudspeakers, each apparently convinced that volume was a substitute for talent. Somewhere, someone was juggling knives. Someone else was trying to pawn off what might have once been a starship's black box, now mounted on a necklace and advertised as "guaranteed to contain the final thoughts of someone important, or your money back."

It was alive, in the way only the really good border markets are - chaotic, crowded, and humming with the kind of entrepreneurial madness that made insurance underwriters wake up screaming and Imperial customs agents develop sudden career interests in floristry.

Somewhere between the vat-grown jewelry stand (offering earrings that helpfully changed color when you were being lied to, poisoned, or overcharged) and the woman selling genuine artificial antique memory chips (all guaranteed to contain memories that definitely happened to someone, somewhere), they found the curry stand.

It wasn't a curry stand. It was the curry stand. Run by three Vargr in identical aprons that had once been white but now told colourful horror stories of sauces past, and absolutely no concept of volume control, it offered a rainbow of bubbling sauces, raw meat you could still argue with, and a spice rack that looked like several centuries’ worth of war crimes in powdered form.

Caitlin, captain of the Morrigan, eyed the laminated menu, which was written entirely in angular Vargr glyphs that looked like a heart monitor recording someone's last tango with cardiac arrest. "This one says 'Howling Testicle Inferno Surprise,'" she said with the confidence of someone who regularly piloted ships through asteroid fields for fun. "I'm getting it."

Morwen the Sword Worlder, who could gut a man in three seconds and once wrestled a malfunctioning jump coil into submission with her bare hands while reciting ancient battle poetry, eyed the offerings with a swordswoman's grim confidence.

"How bad can it be?" she said, echoing the last words of countless brave fools throughout history whose gravestones might as well read "Found Out."

She selected something that looked entirely innocent - a pale, creamy concoction with the soft green-yellow of spring meadows and gentle pastoral scenes. It sat in its bowl radiating an aura of harmlessness, garnished with delicate herbs and called "Mother's Comfort" in Galanglic. The Vargr chef who served it, however, developed a sudden twitch in his left eye and quietly moved the fire extinguisher from behind the counter to within easy grabbing distance, avoiding eye contact with everyone present.

Scarred-Snout the Aslan ordered something that hissed and, if one looked closely, appeared to be trying to escape the bowl. Maltz went full chaos and pointed at something glowing with the kind of radioactive enthusiasm usually reserved for unstable isotopes.

Morwen took one bite.

There was silence. The kind of silence that falls when the universe itself is holding its breath, wondering what happens next.

Then, slowly, her face transitioned through the five recognized shades of Sword Worlder discomfort: stoic, squinting, regret, betrayal, and tactical retreat. Had there been a sixth stage, it would have been labeled "apocalyptic revelation."

She coughed. Once. The kind of cough usually heard just before war breaks out or a star goes supernova.

"I..." she rasped, with the voice of someone discovering new fundamental states of matter in their mouth, "I think it's eating my tongue."

Her pupils had dilated to the size of small moons. She was sweating like the spice was trying to negotiate terms with her bloodstream, and her bloodstream was losing badly.

Quinn the Android, sitting beside her with unnerving calm, offered a glass of water. " This will do nothing." he said, tone clinical. "But tradition is important."

Morwen downed the offered water. The water tried its best. It failed spectacularly. She grabbed Caitlin's cider. That failed too, retreating in the face of superior firepower. In desperation, she reached for a basket of fruit and bit into something spiky and blue. It shrieked in what sounded suspiciously like outrage. She didn't care. She was beyond caring. She was in a realm where caring was a distant memory.

"I am fine," she said, in the voice of someone who was absolutely not fine and might start weeping blood within the hour. Her tone suggested she was prepared to fight anyone who disagreed, including her own nervous system.

Maltz was crying too, but from laughter that threatened to dislocate something important. "You picked a dish with Bloodfire Krrak Sauce," he chortled, nearly falling off his stool. "That's traditionally served at Vargr funerals. On the deceased. To scare them into staying dead."

Scarred-Snout, calmly chewing something raw with visible fangs, nodded approvingly. "You have earned honour. And possibly a new esophagus. I shall compose an epic poem about your courage."

Morwen sat very still, eyes unfocused, gazing into dimensions previously accessible only to theoretical physicists and certain species of deep-space jellyfish.

"I can taste colours," she announced with the bewildered dignity of a scientist making a breakthrough discovery. "I regret everything. My ancestors are laughing at me."

"Welcome to Joy Street," said Caitlin, patting her gently on the back while discreetly signaling the Vargr for another round. "Next round's on you. Also, your hair seems to be smoking."