Fidelja enters the shop, tilted almost sideways from the weight of her bag. Robotic arms are strong, but they are still attached to people. She is very lucky that Mishek proved so amenable to being turned into a pack-tree for her belongings. She drops her bag just inside the hatch, gestures vaguely to Mishek to do the same, and immediately moves deeper into the store. Bags? What bags? Eyeing the closest of the store's cameras, she hopes vaguely that she looks more like she is delivering supplies than moving in. Not a strong bargaining position. "Evening, Hamfast!" she says cheerfully to the supply-filled room. "I brought you an ent."
Mishek places the various bags bequeathed to him carefully on the floor, as directed, unbends to his full height and looks around alertly. ...There doesn't appear to be anyone here. His new friend is addressing someone, though, so someone must be listening. Inspecting the place more carefully, he eventually notices the cameras and speakers sprinkled around, and smiles in triumph. Magic is harder to pin down, but technology is often easy to spot.
"Good evening, Miss Strifehammer," the hobbit's smooth voice says from the nearest speaker. "I'd thank you kindly, but I didn't order an ent."
"...Point," Fidelja allows. Oh, yes, this is going well already. However, she has precisely zero other options to explore right now, so she rallies quickly. "He ordered himself, I think! Popped right in through a port, and, er. Well, I suppose that's not very relevant. But he's a bit lost, and he's, you know--" She makes clicky gestures with her claw up by her head. "--all green and growing and ...surface plant. I figured you'd know better than me about that kind of thing." She turns brightly to the plant man in question, indicating him as if he might have gone overlooked. "Mx. Hamfast, may I introduce Mishek. Mishek, Grocer Mallow Hamfast."
"Pleased to meet you, I'm sure," Mishek says, looking around as if a visual of the person he's speaking to might helpfully appear. "Uh, yes, I suppose lost is as adequate a description as mislaid. My destination was meant to be a planet's surface. With sunlight." While pleasantly bright, the lighting in here is sadly far from the full spectrum he'll need within a day or two. But according to Fidelja's theory, this person might know where one might come by such light. "Um. I can sing," he adds hopefully.
"This is a grocers, not an opera house, my good... ent," Hamfast says, warily. "I could give you the location of a retailer that offers grow lamps, if you'd like. I have none available commercially." The last is said in extremely pointed tones.
Fidelja puts on her best 'oblivious to the point' voice. "Oh, hear that, Mishek? They've got grow lamps! I told you they'd be able to help."
Mishek cautiously perks up, looking hopefully at the nearest camera. He glances down at Fidelja, a little doubtful of this tack, and back up. "I would be very grateful for the use of one," he offers. "If, um, I don't suppose you have any minor injuries, but if you did I could heal them for you."
"My biologicals are in perfect balance at the moment, thank you," the hobbit says stiffly. "Am I to understand you're here to enquire about a job?"
Fidelja suspects this is not the time to mention they're enquiring about two jobs. "He's good at carrying things," she offers instead. "And, er. Very tall?"
Mishek blinks a bit at this being suggested as a job skill, then goes back to marveling at the excellent idea that hadn't even occurred to him yet. "Yes!" he says, pleased. "A job would be lovely!" Obviously he's going to need to earn enough to get himself to a proper planet... eventually. Perhaps after exploring everything he can around here. Oh, that wasn't an encouraging tone of voice, though. Further persuasion might be necessary. "I'm quite strong, and can lift heavy loads. I'm difficult to damage, and make a good shield in a brawl. Um. I can follow instructions?" ...He's never been much good at persuasion.
"Hm. My last shopboy did rather leave me hanging..." the hobbit muses. "Very well, then, I can offer room and board."
"Oh, excellent!" Fidelja cuts in. She folds her hands in front of her and tries very hard not to look like someone who's aware of how hard they are pressing their luck. "He can handle the stocking and I'll handle the shopfront stuff for you. I'm very reliable about that kind of thing. Um." She hesitates, and then decides she might as well be tried for a gold vein as a nugget. "Salary to be negotiated?"
The hobbit snorts. "Oh, it's a package deal, is it? Well, Ms Strifehammer, if you care to come aboard then you're welcome to keep whatever salary you're receiving from your current job on the asteroid." This is said very dryly. The hobbit knows Desperately Unemployed when they see it with their own cameras. "Room, board, and enough free time to get into trouble, you won't find a better deal."
"As I don't eat like fleshy creatures," Mishek says carefully, "perhaps I could receive the equivalent of board in pay?"
"Oh, but surely you must--" Fidelja starts, and then realizes now is probably not the time to be drilling the ent on his eating habits. "That sounds fair!" she tells the camera, beaming uncertainly around the room. Her eyes light on a pair of the kelly green service-spiders that roam the stockroom, curled up side-by-side at the end of one of the shelves with their robotic limbs tucked under them. Her fingers tap against her own metal limb. "And I could do some extra maintenance work for you for pocket money," she hears herself saying, in defiance of her actual skill set.
"Ms Strifehammer, I sincerely doubt it," the hobbit sniffs. "And Mr Misheck, I was given to understand you were in need of a grow lamp, which requires a nontrivial power outlay. If you would care to take yourself elsewhere for your needs, you're more than welcome." Behind them, the door hatch slides pointedly open.
Mishek hesitates, but it's not as if he really has other options available at present. Drooping slightly, he brushes a fingertip along the leaf of one of his pet bromeliads and nods acceptance of the terms.
"Very well, then, yes, right this way..." a green service spider taps at the dwarf's boot and then trundles off towards the back rooms. "Ms Strifehammer, you can fit in the staff quarters, but I suppose we'd better install your tall friend into the guest room for now. Perhaps you can rearrange the overhead panels later..." The cargo ship is fairly limited beyond the hold-turned-shopfloor, and the staff quarters are a compact series of compartments squeezed in between stock and equipment rooms, consisting of a small sleeping cabin, an attached washroom, and a bare-bones kitchen. The guest room is a somewhat larger sleeping cabin on the other side of the washroom, though not larger by all that much. Despite the cramped quarters, the ship is a hobbit's, and the paint is smart, the air is fresh, and the furnishings clean and comfortable. A ship would have to belong to a much crueler and more disreputable hobbit than Hamfast to offer its inhabitants dirty or unpleasant lodging.
