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"Do it."

I pressed the token to the panel. A pleasant chime sounded. Payment accepted. My entire chest filled with ridiculous pride.

"I did it, Daddy!"

"You did, baby," Daddy said, in approval. "Good work, little one."

The handcraft section overwhelmed me with colors and textures. Fabric that changed pattern when you looked at it from different angles, jewelry that hummed, carved items made from materials that didn't exist on Earth. One elderly vendor had arranged hundreds of tiny figurines, each depicting a different scene from Aconchian history. They were beautiful and alien and completely incomprehensible to me, stories in a language my brain couldn't process no matter how long I stared.

Other pets walked around. A woman about my age walked past, her posture perfect, her leash held loosely by an Aconchian in elaborate robes. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second before she deliberately looked away.

Further ahead, I spotted two boys struggling with packages nearly as large as themselves while their owner browsed a stall selling what looked like musical instruments. When one stumbled slightly, the other compensated immediately, keeping the packages balanced.

A hovering carrier floated past at Aconchian waist height, its transparent sides showing a human girl curled inside on thick cushions. She looked comfortable but distant, bored. She must be very spoiled not to be made to walk. Her owner pushed the carrier with one hand while examining produce with the other, occasionally glancing down to check on her.

The pet supply section made my stomach twist. Displays of collars ranging from basic to ornate, leashes in every possible material, cushions and crates and toys designed for human needs but alien aesthetics. A young boy, probably fresh from the pet store at twenty-one, was being fitted for his first proper collar while his new owner watched with an expression of fond possession.

"Hungry, little one?" O'li asked, and I realized I'd stopped walking, transfixed by the sight of a food stall where something was sizzling on a flat cooking surface. The smell was incredible, spiced meat maybe, or something pretending to be meat, with that sharp tang that Aconchian cuisine favored.

"Yes, Daddy," I admitted, though the daycare meal still sat heavy in my stomach. This was different. This was real food, prepared with care.

"Let's find you a treat," he said, and I bounced in place, excited. My favorite word.

Chapter 14. O'li

The crystalline figurine stall stood at the intersection of two main thoroughfares, a poor location for such delicate merchandise, in my professional opinion. The vendor had arranged their wares on stepped displays that caught the filtered light, casting rainbow refractions across the walkway. I'd already identified the hazard: a young human pet standing too close to the lowest shelf while their owner examined a piece, the pet's natural fidgeting bringing them dangerously near the precisely balanced arrangement.

My hand remained steady on Lucca's neck as we approached, automatically adjusting our path to give the display a wider berth. Through my peripheral vision, I tracked the other pet, a male roughly Lucca's age with sandy hair and the type of nervous energy that suggested insufficient exercise. His owner, a younger Aconchian with elaborate horn decorations, was engaged in animated discussion with the vendor about a particularly intricate piece, their attention fixed on the transaction.

The accident, when it came, seemed inevitable. The pet shifted his weight, probably unconsciously, his elbow catching the edge of the lowest display platform. The first figurine teetered and struck the second. Then the cascade began, each piece striking the next in a horrible symphony of destruction that seemed to last forever but was over in seconds.

The silence that followed was absolute for exactly one heartbeat. Then the vendor's vocal chambers produced a sound of distress that harmonized with the owner's sharp intake of breath. The pet had gone rigid, his face draining of color as he stared at the glittering shards now scattered across the stone.

"I'm so sorry," the pet whispered. Apologies wouldn't restore the merchandise.

His owner's response was immediate and practiced. One hand closed around the pet's upper arm, not roughly but with the firmness of established protocol. "You will take correction," they said.

The vendor was already calculating damages on their handheld device, their initial distress shifting to professional assessment.

I felt Lucca's entire body go still against my leg. His breathing had changed. My fingers found the spot at the base of his skull where tension always gathered, applying gentle pressure that acknowledged his distress.

The discipline platform was one of several installed throughout the marketplace, as common as waste receptacles or water fountains. It was simple in design: a raised section perhaps three feet high, featuring a padded bench and minimal restraints, intended for immediate correction rather than prolonged punishment. The owner guided their pet toward it with the efficiency of someone who'd done this before, though the pet's shocked expression suggested it didn't happen often.

"Position," the owner commanded, and the pet responded with trained obedience, bending forward over the bench. His hands gripped the supports designed for that purpose, knuckles white with tension. A pet who struggled during public correction would face far worse consequences later.

The owner unfastened the pet's pants with practiced efficiency, letting them fall to mid-thigh before removing their own belt with a soft hiss of leather against fabric. The first strike landed with precision, the belt making contact with bare skin. Lucca flinched against me at the sharp crack, his fingers digging into my side. I maintained my steady presence, my hand a constant weight on his neck.

The correction continued. Five strikes, then ten. The pet remained silent except for sharp intakes of breath. His owner showed no emotion, neither anger nor satisfaction, simply carrying out a necessary task. Other Aconchians passed by, some glancing briefly at the platform, most ignoring it entirely. A vendor at a nearby stall continued calling out their wares, their rhythm unbroken.

Lucca's fingers had found the leash, twisting the leather in a pattern I recognized as his self-soothing behavior. His scent had shifted subtly, the anxiety pheromones that humans produced unconsciously, undetectable to their own species but clear to Aconchian senses. I could parse the complex mix: fear, sympathy for the other pet, relief that it wasn't him, guilt about that relief, and underneath it all, a tremor of something else. Interest, perhaps. Arousal, even.

At fifteen strikes, the owner stopped. They helped their pet straighten, checking his face briefly for signs of genuine distress versus simple discomfort. Finding whatever they sought, they nodded once and guided the pet back down from the platform. The whole incident had taken perhaps three minutes and was already forgotten by most of those around them.

But not by Lucca. I could feel the aftershocks running through him, the way he pressed incrementally closer with each passing second. His breathing hadn't normalized, and when I glanced down, his eyes were still fixed on the platform, wide and processing. The other pet was being led away, walking stiffly but otherwise appearing unharmed, the crystalline figurine disaster already being cleaned up by automated maintenance systems.

"You've been very good today, pup," I said. I chose the words to remind him of his own position, his own safety, the vast difference between that public correction and our private dynamic. My hand moved from his neck to his hair, stroking with enough pressure to ground him in the present moment.

He looked up at me then, those expressive black eyes searching my face for something, reassurance, perhaps, or confirmation that such a fate didn't await him. What he found there must have satisfied him because some of the tension leaked from his shoulders, though he remained pressed against my side.