“Yer sweet Sandy won’t refuse us, Cray,” the wizened man said as he pushed through the bamboo doors, “‘cuz we’re offering her a pair of rocket boots of her own.”

Sandy glanced up at the two from the corner of the bar.

“Sandy’s not my sweet,” the boy griped as he followed along, tying his hair with an oil streaked rag and slipping his arms out of his jumpsuit.

Sandy roiled her drink until the crystals fizzed. Plumes of lavender smoke streamed up into her face, her tousled blonde hair; she inhaled the opiate.

“My own boots, ye say?” she sung.

The younger man spun to face her; his brown eyes widened before he caught himself. “Forget it Sandy, don’t let Pons’ schemes get ya – we don’t have enough glyth for a rocket toe, let alone another boot.”
“You just don’t want another rocketeer to compete with.”
“Sandy, I-”
“Don’t matter,” she smirked, “I wouldn’t-”

Pons cleared his throat from his perch at the bar. “Three colliders, Lee,” he snapped. “Make those doubles. We’re going to sell this girl on an adventure.”