[hr]Episode Two: Mass Rave[hr]

The elevator doors opened with a hiss of condensed air, opening itself to the sensory assault that was Layer Q. It was immediately apparent that it was a much warmer layer, and a more foul-smelling one, with a stale smell of sweat in the air. It was also [i]dimmer[/i], lacking the fluorescent lights in the ceiling, though there appeared to be scattered fires in oil drums in the distance. Where Layer J was uncomfortably crowded, Layer Q was uncomfortably [i]empty[/i], with scattered figures shuffling in the dark in between tents, campfires, and constructed buildings made of plywood and unpainted sheet-rock. It was hard to make out faces in the dark, though the visible details; gelled mohawks, gas masks, long coats and threatening, spiky boots, gave each of the layer's denizens a uniform ugliness to their appearance. Directly in front of the elevator, waiting to make his way back up, stood a young man wearing only leather pants, a brown fedora, and cowboy boots, with his nipples visibly pierced by golden crucifixes. As the trio made their way past the cowboy, it was Poole who spoke first, perhaps incited by the man's choice in jewelry or to comfort his comrade, who had unintentionally lead the group from safety.

"You see what kids think they can wear on hot planets? You wouldn't see guys in rodeo clown getups on Titan, no sir."

Poole chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck for a moment, peering out into the distance. The layer seemed more like an infinite parking garage floor the more he looked at it, with small, trash-covered shacks congregating around the rows of support pillars. Before either of his comrades could  respond to his poor joke, one of the shadowy figures walked towards them from [i]just one such[/i] of those trash covered shacks. It was a man in a green windbreaker, with a shaggy grey beard and black shorts. In one hand he brandished a meat cleaver, and in the other a bottle of [abbr=A popular brand of Venusian alcohol, boasting both a sugar and alcohol content of 40%]Black Eel[/abbr] in the other. His teeth, and most of the stains at the top of his shirt, were black where they had hardened and gray where they were still wet. Despite his drunkenness, he made his way to the group through the shadows quickly and quietly enough that by the time he had been noticed, he was within feet of the trio.

"Hey man, you got any spare change? My girlfriend just kicked me out of our house and I'm trying to get another 600 yen for the bus to my mom's."

Poole looked down to the man's knife, and then to the drunken softness of his face, and finally to the electronic "ONLY 5.75¥" tag flashing on the man's inky black bottle.

"Sorry brother, only got a bank holocard on me."

"That's okay, I got a swiper on me." The bearded man said, pulling a small black box from the pocket of his jacket.

"That's..." Pool said, scrunching up his square face with a pause, "Questionable."

Poole turned back to his two comrades, nonchalantly grabbing the drunkard's knife-wielding hand with a white-knuckled grip, causing him to drop the cleaver almost instantly. Fortunately for Poole, his only response was to give a half-hearted whine of disapproval.

"I'm gonna talk to Mister Eels for a second. The only signs I can see are for the Sakura Club and the, uh. That one." Poole grumbled, pointing to a painted red-and-yellow sign that simply read "[color=red][b]CHEAP CHIX HERE[/b][/color]"

"Of the two, the "Sakura Club" sounds like a better place to get information, so you two should check it out while I find out what I can from this guy." He nodded his head towards the club in question -- built into the ceiling and floor from what looked like several welded-together shipping containers. On the outside, a man in sunglasses wearing a leather vest decorated with long silver spikes stood reading his cellphone, smoking a cigarette. He had slicked back hair, dyed bright blue, and had his cigarette-hand on the leash of a hairless black hyena, who paced in front of him frantically. Of all the details, the hyena seemed the least unnatural.

[hr]

"Six million?"

"Nine and a half." Beeftips said, puffing away at a cigar. He and two other suit-clad men sat in the dark of his study, illuminated only by the wall of cameras in front of them. In front of them was a long coffee table, wider than it was tall, holding up a small flower and vase, two bottles of beer, and a tropical coconut drink, umbrella and all. Mister Beeftips could be discerned from the other two, even in the near-invisibility of the darkness, by the red paisley pattern of his suit in lieu of a traditional grey, black, blue, or even [i]pinstripe[/i].

"[i]Tipbuktu: Nightmare of The Surface World[/i] was five years ago, it cost half as much and gathered six million. This is [i]Tipbuktu: Return of The Jade Empire[/i], and it has gathered nine and a half million." Beeftips said, running his fingers through his hair and leaning back. "With two days left, mind you."

"Incredible. What about the juice?"

Beeftips peered past the smoke of his cigar at the fluorescent blue screens. "Funny you should ask, I spoke to the guy one last time this morning, and he said to not use juice on account of the sugar. He advised hiding the taste with bitterness instead."