Amlica stood outside of the carefully dilapidated fruit stand. The owner, a squat Renoan by the name of Hedelfish Rightly, ducked his head and wrapped four of his arms together in deference. Amlica picked up what at first appeared to be a withered harrinjus, the speckled apple for which Renos was famous.
She twisted the fruit open, revealing tell-tale pink flesh. “Well?”
Hedelfish unfolded his arms and squinted.
“It’s just not very ripe,” he said. His nostrils flared open, into the position associated with sincerity.
“I don’t think so,” Amlica said. She pulled out her badge. “This stand is closed.”
Author’s Note: When genetic manipulation becomes the norm, I see a future in fruit forgery.
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