[b]Location:[/b] [indent][b]Raygon 8 - Leisure District, aka. New Macau.[/b][/indent] [indent][b]BT-Block K376-001-019 “Laogui” Lane - 250m from nearest HappyBurger™.[/b][/indent] [img]https://cdna.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/014/156/348/large/miroslav-misic-blok23-miroslav-misic-02.jpg?1542729008[/img] [b]Subject:[/b] [indent][b]Name:[/b] George Christian Wellsley, aka. G.C. Willy.[/indent] [indent][b]Age:[/b] 27 cycles around Raygon 0.[/indent] [indent][b]Residence:[/b] BT-Block L102-071-010, “Moonlit Gardens” flat 10.[/indent] [indent][b]Occupation:[/b] Drone Mechanic.[/indent] [hider=Welcome to the Bottom Tier] [url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bJf4_hsVEXE]Welcome to the depths of Raygon[/url] [/hider] [hr] The Bottom Tiers - the place where dreams come to die, rot and rise again as nightmarish spectres out for the blood of their makers. Among all adjectives in every language spoken on Raygon 8, there would probably only be about six that could describe this part of the city as even remotely pleasant - and even that would require vastly different contexts. Ancient sewer and water pipes still in use despite centuries of neglect line the walls, the roofs, the pavement - everywhere, bringing the piss and shit of every class both high and low to the waste processing centres riiiiiight over there. Not that it would matter much anyway where it went; most of it ends up on these streets from the looks of it. However, if you can ignore the stink (or your nostrils have been seared shut by it already), it wouldn’t take long for you to notice what was living in the muck, anyway. For the muck isn’t even close to the worst - that would be whoever or whatever’s rolled so low with the dice of fate that they’d end up down here. That’s right, lining the streets are beggars by the millions, kneeling shoulder to shoulder with their code bricks presented, just in case someone feels generous enough to donate. Fool’s hope, if you ask me. “Spending money” is a dream down here. Whoever’s got extra to spare after rent and subs would soon hear a knock on the door and be greeted by a pair of grinning mugs, flexing and unflexing their palms in a beckoning manner. I know a couple who’ve ended up sleeping in the gutter for saying no - they’re the lucky ones. The unlucky ones, well… Ever heard of corpse starch? … But I’m getting off track. Where was I… Right, Hell - I mean, the Bottom Tiers. First rule down here is that there ain’t no rules - non, zip, nada. It’s every ape for himself down here, and to think otherwise is to wave goodbye to any ticket out of here. Only norms exist around here, and they’re for your own safety. First one: Don’t get close to anyone - and I do mean anyone. As soon as you form any kind of relationship, someone’s going to take advantage of it: Girlfriend? Woops, guess she just got snatched up by the mob, huh; family? Hit by a truck; even your employer might just get his head mounted on a lamp in the parking lot for trying to avoid his debt to big Addy. Boom! Out of work, out of love and maybe just out of will to live, too, huh. Only money means anything down here - it’s your status, your power, your clothes, your house, your motherfucking ID. Not even joking, flashing the cops your card has more value than any interstellar passport. Money gets you love, protection, comfort - maybe even a ticket up. It’ll cost you, but from what I’ve heard, the centre’s actually liveable. Laogui Lane… It ain’t my block, but it’s more home to me than Moonlit Gardens’ll ever be. Here, booze is cheap and won’t actually kill you from the inside (right away), and the ladies have at least a basic concept of hygiene. Still, I recommend going for Cybes above anything else - they usually got internal cleaning mechanisms that make them pretty safe. Sure, they don’t show much emotion during the act, but some like that, too. Not saying I do, but hey, I won’t judge. Right, so who am I, exactly? Name’s George Christian Wellsley. I’m technically still a drone mechanic, but I haven’t been much at work lately. The reason? I’m in deep, deep shit. Okay, so I may or may not have a pretty bad gambling problem. That’s not important right now. What -is- important is that I may or may not have spent my family’s savings down to the last credit. I tried to explain to my wife that I was really sure black was the winning colour, but she didn’t wanna hear it. Last I heard, she’s living with her sister over in block E somewhere. Haven’t seen her for a few years now, actually. Shit. But, uh, yeah, anyway, so I had to win it back somehow, right? Well, turns out borrowing money to win back your money at the casino is a bit of a gamble (get it?), and gambles can be, well, lost. Not saying I lost this one, but I may or may not owe some people a whole lot of credits. So you might be asking… Yo, G.C., if you’re in such deep shit, why’re you in Laogui Lane drinking your credits away? Yeah? Well, to that I say… “Ook!” George suddenly whooped angrily and raised his fist high into the air. A passed out Raygonian lifted his groggy face off the bar and scowled at the ape. “The fuck you just call me, furball?” George turned and scowled back, not because he was annoyed, but because the grog was making it difficult to see. The booming music didn’t help much either, the sound alone nearly knocking him out. The ape clapped his hands together, grunted, pointed in several directions and ooked again. The Raygonian snorted, his six nose rings dancing around his flaring nostrils. “Fuck you mean ‘had a moment’? You on something bad, squirt?” he pursed his lips. “... Wouldn’t happen to have anymore, would ya?” George frowned and shrugged, shaking his head. The Raygonian sighed through vibrating lips. “And here I was hoping for something fun tonight…” With that, he lifted his enormous body off the tortured bar stool and stomped off on his round, flat feet, tankard of grog in hand. George blinked a few times, then rubbed his eyes. How long had he been here, actually? He prodded the band on his arm and watched the familiar holographic display appear before him. After swiping away the ads, he saw the time: 03:49 AM. Jesus, he’d been here a long-ass time. He tapped the bar counter twice and another hologram appeared before him, this one of a beautiful human lady with mechanical augments, dressed in a loose white shirt and suit pants. She stood behind the counter and gave him a small smile. “Yes, mr. Wellsley, would you like anything else?” “Ook-ook,” George answered with a shrug and tapped his right middle and index finger against his thumb. “Very good, mr. Wellsley,” the hologram answered and held her hand. A holographic bill materialised in it for Wellsley to take. The ape peered at the number at the bottom, grimacing a little. He reluctantly tapped the wristband on the bill, sounding a light ‘pling!’ The bartender smiled. “Thank you for your patronage, mr. Wellsley. We hope to see you again soon.” With that, she disappeared again. George chugged down the rest of his grog and cringed at the consistency. Bottom-tier grog was ironically the most palatable drink down here - at least if you didn’t want to go blind the next day (never try the tequila). Sadly, it had an unfortunate habit of separating, making the bottom less of a drink consistency and more of a chewy gum. Still, at least it helped him forget that he actually lived down here. He hopped off his stool, allowed himself a few moments to stabilise and started heading towards the exit. His intoxicated eyes caught a number of sights on the way: a flock of hookers, a group of stoners surrounding a shisha, the mob… Oh shit, the mob. Before George could run, four heavybuilt Quroks had already surrounded him, their faces stern as always. Two of them made very certain to block any and all paths leading to the door. George swallowed - hiring Quroks to serve as your brawlers? That’s expensive as shit - just who had he caught the attention of? “Heeey! George, right? George Wellsley?” The sleazy voice was unfamiliar to him, but it couldn’t belong to a friend of his - he didn’t have any! Reluctantly, he turned around to face a human, or possibly a cybe, dressed in a stylish golden suit with a plastic rose in his right chest pocket. He wore star-shaped glasses which glass beamed an intense white light - antishades, as they were called. Those were pretty expensive down here. He sat in a couch, flanked on each side by ladies off different species - one at least fifty percent human and one Cala. The Cala winked playfully at George as she fed the man a gummy grape. Shit, candy? Man must’ve been rolling in dough. “That’s your name, right? Or is your profile picture a little…” He eyed the holographic display over his wristband, which currently showed George’s Mi-Self page. “... Outdated?” George frowned. “Ook,” he went and gave him a thumb-up. The man clapped his hands and beckoned him over. “Oh, that’s great, that’s great! Hey, why don’t you take a seat right over here, mr. Wellsley - I do believe you and I’ve got some business to discuss.” George stole a moment to eye the door. All he caught in his glance was the clenching and unclenching fist of one of the Quroks. He looked up at the owner, who gave him a challenging frown. He’d be sleeping deeper than the gutter if he tried to get out of this one. Reluctantly, George made his way over to the man’s table. One of the Quroks pulled out a chair for him and the ape sat down. The man extended a robotic hand, palm open in invitation. “A pleasure to meet you, mr. Wellsley. I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while - shame time’s never been quite right.” George shook the hand as politely as he could. A moment passed before he frowned, tapped the middle and index finger of his right hand against the same fingers on his left and pointed at the man. The man’s smile tightened into a slightly more polite expression. “Oh, I’m simply known as Shawn. No need to be polite about it, though - just Shawn’s alright.” Shawn. Had to be a new player in the game. George had no recollection of the same, and he liked to believe he frequented the exact kind of areas where he’d hear the name of this kind of character. Shawn tapped the right side of his glasses and the intense light dimmed considerably to fit the sorry excuse for lighting inside the bar. “So,” he began, “I reckon you must be pretty curious as to why I called you over. Well, see, I’ve got a story for you. Would you like a drink, by the way?” George was quick to wave his hands in denial, but Shawn just grinned. “Oh, come on, what’d I say about being so polite?” He tapped twice the tabletop between the couch and George’s chair. Instantly, the bartender’s hologram popped up next to the table, bowed politely and cocked her head playfully to the side. “Good evening, Shawn. What would you like me to bring?” Before George could protest, Shawn raised a finger to silence him, still wearing his eerie smile. “Bring us a flask of champagne extract - I’m thinking the Veuve. The ladies would also like another fruit gum plate.” “A wonderful choice, Shawn,” the bartender praised with another bow and disappeared. George felt sweat moisten his forehead. Veuve fucking Clicquot?! A single bottle cost more than his whole debt. Even if it was extract, one could almost buy a shitty flat in the centre with the money earned from selling a few of those. Forget his business with him - all Shawn had to do now would be to leave George with the bill and the ape’d be screwed for life. A moment later, a hatch on the table slid aside slowly to reveal a rising plate carrying four champagne glasses, a wide plate of fruit gums, and a bottle labeled Veuve Clicquot. George knew it wasn’t the actual brand that had once existed back on Earth - the patent for the name had long since been given away. A mechanical arm attached to the table uncorked the bottle and poured the glasses half-full. The ladies each took a glass and smiled at each other; Shawn took one for himself and offered one to George, who accepted it with a quivering hand. “Well, then - a toast?” “Cheers!” the girls sang out together and clinked their glasses together with Shawn’s. George timidly raised his own and took a sip. Christ, that was good: The fizzy tickle of bubbles pricking the top of his mouth; the gentle sweetness and sour tanginess that lingered in his mouth before he swallowed; the satisfying aftertaste. He could never go back to grog after this. “How is it?” Shawn asked with a smile. George raised a quivering thumb and Shawn chuckled. “Yeah, it’s not bad. That’s why I really like this bar - it has amazing drinks for being a bottom tier establishment. It preserves the soul of this society without losing the quality of its accomplishments - nothing like the endless noise and booming of the top tier clubs.” George nearly spat out his drink. This guy was from, from, from the top?! Shawn flashed him another smile. “Surprised? In truth, I don’t come down here very often, so I don’t blame you for not seeing it right away. For all you know, I could’ve just been really high up in the mob. What’s the name of the local gang? Shadow Moon Triads?” It was Dark Sky Triads, actually, but his name had a better ring to it, George admitted. “... I suppose I could’ve been. However, I am not. Can you take a guess as to what organisation I represent?” The ape shook his head and shrugged. Shawn sighed through his smile. “Really? Not even going to try? Come on, come on - make a guess.” George finished his glass and set it down on the table. The mechanical hand filled it right back up. The ape made a fist with the thumb pointing upwards, then flattened his palm vertically with the thumb resting against its centre. Shawn chuckled. “No, I’m not with Adamantium, you can relax. Come on, try again.” George made a crescent with his right hand and hammered his chest with it. Shawn shook his head. “I’m not a cop, either.” He snickered and drank some more champagne. He extracted a silver case from his chest pocket, opened it and took out a cigarillo. He cut off the tip with a cigar cutter, stuck the uncut end into his mouth and leaned over to the Cala lady, who sensually lit the cut end with a rusty lighter. Shawn inhaled, held his breath for a second and exhaled a plume of gray smoke that somehow smelled like smoked vanilla. “Alright, mr. Wellsley, I’ll stop playing around. I work for an organisation called Possible. My job, you see, is to make my clients’ wishes happen. In truth, I represent a client who for now would like to remain anonymous. Worry not, this particular client has no business with you, personally, but his wish requires a certain finesse that’s so hard to find around these parts.” George couldn’t help but be curious. He grunted, shrugged with his hands out to the side, then tapped his forehead before moving that hand away from his skull, flexing the index finger. Shawn nodded. “My client’s wish, mr. Wellsley, is rule this part of town by the end of the year. They are quite close already, but a little something remains. Can you guess what that is?” George shrugged. Shawn huffed. “Alright. My, still so polite. The remaining facility key to total takeover is the local security drone station - the one owned by Gala-Grid.” George’s eyes blasted open - any trace of intoxication in his body vanished without a trace, replaced by pure adrenaline. He nearly fell out of his chair, and one of the Quroks reached down to reseat him properly. The ape knew where this was going - oh, did he know. Oh, sure, he knew drones inside and out, especially security bots. Hacking a bunch and overthrowing any station was in theory a piece of cake and happened on and off every year. Gala-Grid, though… No way. No way, no way, no way. It was way too big - the largest company in the country, perhaps even in the sector. If he hacked their bots, they’d know. They’d know, and he’d be a dead ape - no, even death couldn’t adequately describe what would happen to him if he got caught meddling with Gala-Grid’s business. In fact, even discussing this out loud could get him shot. George looked over each shoulder, then down at his wristband - however, he noticed something seemed odd about it. Shawn waved a hand soothingly and blew another plume of smoke. “Relaaax, mr. Wellsley,” he said and extracted his cigarillo tin again. That’s when George noticed it had a slight dent on the top. Shawn put it back in his pocket and dabbed the cigarillo on an ashtray. “Fancy, right? A cigarillo tin that doubles as a band jammer. Incredible what custom orders can get you.” He drew another lungful of smoke. The two ladies had moved to the end of the couch to chat. “Mr. Wellsley, your reaction is understandable. Gala-Grid is perhaps a few magnitudes above the target of a usual heist…” A [b]FEW[/b]?! “... But if I am not mistaken, you are in a bit of trouble already, are you not?” There it was. George had been waiting for it. Nothing ever came for free down here, and whatever dirt someone had on you could and [i]would[/i] be used against you. Reluctantly, George nodded. “How much do you owe?” asked Shawn and tapped the cigarillo on the tray once more. George swallowed and held up five fingers, then crossed his index and middle finger. Shawn nodded. “Fifty grand, huh? Wow, you must’ve been confident in your dice.” Shawn snickered almost mockingly. George shrank down into his chair. However, Shawn noticed his expression and let out a single chuckle. “Hey, cheer up, old boy. If you decide to take on this little assignment, you can consider the debt paid.” George blinked. ”Ook?!” “Oh, yes. By tomorrow, at the latest. The transfer should be instantaneous, but you never know down here.” George couldn’t believe his ears. He frowned, held up his palm next to the side of his head and, palm facing his skull, flexed his middle finger. Shawn lifted his champagne glass in a toast and deposited the cigarillo butt in the ashtray. “Mr. Wellsley, I did say it’s my job to fulfill my clients’ wishes. Consider it an early investment into your future career. Who knows - maybe this will be the first of many jobs you will do for us?” He tapped the table again and the bartender reappeared. “Yes, Shawn? Would you like anything else?” “No, thank you, I believe we’re done here.” The bartender smiled and bowed. “Of course, Shawn. That’ll be seventeen thousand, six-hundred and fifty-eight credits, please.” A holographic bill appeared in her palm as before. George didn’t even know her A.I. could pronounce such colossal numbers. Without even a hint of reluctance, Shawn tapped the bill with his wristband, which sounded the familiar ‘pling!’. The bill disappeared. “Thank you, Shawn. Have a nice evening!” the bartender said and disappeared as well. Shawn rose to his feet and two of the Quroks approached him from his flanks. One dressed him in a thick coat with furry hems and a thick mane, all made from the hair of alien animals, no doubt; the other fastened a stylish mask to Shawn’s face, tapped a button on the side and stepped back. Shawn took a deep breath with closed eyes and exhaled, his voice autotuned due to the mask. He activated his light glasses again. “Ah… Fresh air.” He looked back down at George. “I would like to point out, mr. Wellsley, that we do much more than simply pay off debts. If you prove to be a worthy asset to our organisation, then next might be a house in the centre? A personal ship, perhaps?” The man shrugged playfully. “Well, then. We expect much from you. Good luck, now!” George sat in the bar for an extra period of time - he had no idea how long. He, he was cleared - cleared of debt. Or was he, actually? Could he trust Shawn? And what would actually happen if he refused? What if he chose not to sabotage the station? Would those Quroks come after him and leave him in some ditch? And what if he chose to comply? How would he live after getting into trouble with Gala-Grid? Would Shawn get him some security? Doubt he would. Was it even possible to sack such a station without the owners noticing the perpetrator? The risk was immense - and so was the payoff. George reached for the smoldering butt of the cigarillo. He brought it to his lips and took as deep a drag as he could, scowling into the air. As he exhaled, he pursed his lips. He would need time to plan this. [hider=Summary] [list] [*] George’s in some deep shit, debts and all. He goes to a bar he knows to drink his chores away. [*] On his way out, he’s greeted by four big Quroks, a human lady, a Cala lady and a fancy gentleman in a suit. They sit down, the man buys them all champagne and they chat. [*] During the chat, George learns that this man goes by the name Shawn. He’s from the top tiers and works for an organisation called Possible. [*] Shawn instructs George with a mission: Incapacitate and overtake the local Gala-Grid security droid station. George is initially reluctant, as Gala-Grid can easily wipe him from reality with less than a snap of their corporate fingers. [*] However, Shawn offers to pay off George’s debts, then teases the possibility of a live above the bottom tiers. They then leave George to ponder by himself. [*] In the end, George decides he’ll take the job. [/list] [/hider]