[b]Location:[/b] [indent][b]Raygon 8, the Commercial District, aka. the Oasis.[/b][/indent] [indent][b]CT-Block I696-231-001 “Donny’s Pub”, a small establishment.[/b][/indent] [indent][indent][i]Remember - only 3 days left of the Super-Grid Mega-Sale! Up to 99% off on all commodities in your Gala-Grid™© stores![/i][/indent][/indent] [indent][i]This post and the products listed within have been brought to you by Gala-Grid™© - the galactic standard.[/i][/indent] [img]https://i.pinimg.com/originals/30/18/8a/30188aab52defeb8c624c2d512cbfe49.jpg[/img] [b]Subject:[/b] [indent][b]Name:[/b] Lobutos Zigg[/indent] [indent][b]Age:[/b] 41 cycles around Raygon 0.[/indent] [indent][b]Residence:[/b] CT-Block I366-104-007 “Sunshine Park”.[/indent] [indent][b]Occupation:[/b] Advertisement Designer.[/indent] [indent][b]Workplace:[/b] Gurrpi’s Golly Gunships, a [b]CruiserCorp[/b] subsidiary.[/indent] [indent][b]Current Debt to the Adamantium Bank:[/b] [u]15 999[/u] ITC Credits.[/indent] [hider=Theme] [youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EK--TysFA34[/youtube] [/hider] [hr] “By Allah, that’s quite a story, Lobby…” Mohammed Sahar gave his ayran a sheepish sip. “You, uh… You need a hug or something?” “No, I don’t need a fuckin’--!” Zigg stopped himself mid-fit, dipping his lips into his cup of gutter ale and bubbling angrily. The small, copper hand of his colleague squeezed his shoulder supportively. “Okay, soooo… How about we take this slowly, alright? How, uh, how do you plan on handling this? Hmm?” Zigg kept growling into his drink. Mohammed turned his shoulder squeeze into a pat. “Buddy?” Zigg finally withdrew the cup from his lips and sighed. “I don’t know, Mo… I just don’t fucking know. My options are… Pretty much nonexistent.” “Okay, let’s take a deep breath and--” He shut up upon seeing Zigg’s surly expression. “Right, uh-hum. What’re your options, then?” Zigg downed his ale. “Well, for started, I could go to the bank--” “Oh, biiiiig no-no.” “Exactly. Getting a loan to pay off a debt’s a death sentence. Which is why I thought of going to Laogui--” “LAO--” Mohammed’s face darted around and he tried to the best of his ability to hook his arm around Zigg’s neck and pull him down to his face for a whisper, “The fucking triads?!” Zigg wrestled himself loose and nearly knocked the small man off his bar stool. The man corrected his balance and furrowed his brow disapprovingly. “Lo, you can’t be serious.” “Well, there’s always a third option.” Mo gave his ayran another sip, grimacing slightly at the sourness. “And that is?” “Hopping on the first ship to the Federation. Settle on some corner planet in the periphery there, make a new home and--...” Zigg quieted down at the sight of Mohammed’s expression and shake of the head. “... Yeah, I figured.” “You’re already branded, man. AB’s got its eyes on you wherever you go. Your every transaction, your every paycheck, your every Allah-damned breath belongs to them now.” “Well, how do I fix this, Mo?! Tell me!” Some heads turned in their direction. The bartender hologram gave them a glance before returning to polishing some abstract holographic cups. Zigg stared suspiciously back at the others before hunkering down to Mohammed’s level. “... Got any bright ideas, Mo?” Mohammed tugged at his bushy black beard pensively, mumbling something to himself. “Well, uhm… Would you get enough if you sold your flat?” “Well, I don’t -own- the flat. I rent it,” Zigg replied hopelessly. Mohammed nodded understandingly. “I see, I see. Uhm, how much was the deposit for it?” “Ten kay or so. What, you’re not honestly suggesting we move out, are you?” Mohammed shrugged. “Well, it’s either that or the squad for you and your debt for your family.” Zigg raised a finger in protest. “I might not get the squad.” “Getting sent to Ripp-5 to mine uranium sands is essentially the squad, man.” The two of them deflated and said nothing for a while. Mohammed took another sip of ayran. He then tapped the bar counter twice and the bartender appeared before the two of them in an instant. “Yes, mr. Sahar?” she cooed with mechanical enthusiasm. “Another one for the large gentleman here. I’ll have a falafel plate.” “I’d like a döner, too, actually,” Zigg added. “Of course, gentlemen. Will you be paying for all of it, mr. Sahar?” “I’ll cover the döner,” Zigg declared. Mohammed nodded. “As you wish,” the hologram said with a smile and materialised the bill in her hand. The two of them touched the bill with their wristbands, making the little “boop!” ring out with its gentle, yet eerily annoying pitch. The bartender then blinked over to the other edge of the bar to simulate tapping another ale. Before a minute had passed, she had already appeared before them again, placing the ale down on the counter before Zigg just as a hatch opened on the counter surface, lifting up a tray with a pint of the goo-like yellow brew and a smoking piece of carbo-gluten pita stuffed with fried and hacked protein farse, some corn and cucumber gums, spinach and enough “white sauce” to make those ingredients nonexistent. Mohammed got something similar, only the protein farse had been replaced with greasy clumps of breaded soy bean mash - essentially the exact same thing as protein farse, but (supposedly) less recycled proteins. Zigg picked up his overfilled vessel of food, half of which seemed to spill back onto the plate as he did his best to keep it in one piece. Mohammed took a piece of falafel, broke it in half and dipped one half in some of Zigg’s spilled sauce, mumbling a friendly “thaaaank you”. Zigg rolled his eyes and bit into the slab of food. They ate their food in silence, both of them contemplating their exchange and what could be done about the situation. It didn’t help Zigg that Neo-Turkish döners also were incredibly rich and made talking a feat of strength. However, once they had finished eating, Mohammed sighed. “I’ve heard there are -some- good places in the Bottom Tier--” “Jesus Christ, Mo, you’re actually suggesting it.” “I’m just saying, alright? Bring your belongings, get a good flat in the bottom tier. Rent’ll plummet and you’ll only live slightly worse off than you do now.” “Not. Happening!” “Well, why not?” “I’ve been stabbed once already - if we move to the bottom tier, we’ll be lucky if that’s the worst that’ll happen to us.” Mohammed picked at a sad piece of damp spinach on his plate. “O Allah… Okay, look, I’ll-- I’ll get in touch with some people, ask around. They might be able to shelter you for the time being, and--” “Mo, you don’t have to. They’d just be putting themselves in danger. No, no, I’ll have to talk this over with the wife. She’ll-- ugh!” Zigg clutched his abdomen and keeled forward, slamming his face onto the bar counter. The holographic bartender appeared with a smile, which suddenly disappear. “Oh my, had too much to drink, sir?” “Shit, get a doctor, lady!” Mohammed called out as the patrons of the bar slowly began to turn their eyes to them. The hologram simulated holding a smartphone. “Of course, sir. Which insurance company do you--” “NO! No, no more hospitals. M-Mo, in my pocket - the right one. A small packet.” Zigg tried to lean in a direction that made it easier for Mo to reach his pocket. Mohammed hopped off his stool, skipped to the other side of Zigg and reached into his pocket. Sure enough, there was a metallic packet there, labeled “Rejectionol: Kidneys” and offered it to Zigg. In a swift motion, Zigg fingered the box open and extracted a syringe, which he promptly stabbed through his shirt into his belly. A minute later, he lifted his head off the counter and began dabbing his sweaty face with the hem of his shirt. Mohammed frowned. “So… That’s why you can’t go down there, huh.” Zigg nodded and took some panting breaths. “Rejectol is impossible to get down there - well, the real stuff, anyway. Usually doesn’t get this bad, but my body’s not accepting this new cybe kidney. I know that’s a common thing among cybes, but shit… Never knew just how painful it is.” “That, uh, rejectol. How much did it cost ya?” “Remember how I said my debt to the hospital was fourteen grand?” “Yeah?” “I’m currently sixteen grand in overall debt.” “Fuck…” Mohammed sat himself back on his stool. “Who the fuck lets companies manage the sale of critical medicine?” “You know where you are, right?” “Listen, I pay my zakat like any good Muslim - if I was richer, I’d buy a lifetime supply of Rejectol for all cybes and sub-cybes on the planet.” Mohammed raised his ayran cup proudly and chugged down the rest. “This world’s seen enough unfairness. Whatever happened to respect and common decency?” “Again, you know where you are, right?” Zigg rolled his eyes with a smirk and gave his wristband a glance. “Shit, that time already, huh?” Mohammed gave him a glance. “You heading home?” Zigg got up from his chair and tugged his jacket on properly. “Yeah, gotta discuss what to do with the wife. Kids’ll want to know, too.” Mohammed sighed and placed his hand over his heart. “Alright, Lo. Stay safe, okay?” Zigg nodded and returned the gesture. “Yeah.” As he spun around to walk out, though, Mohammed called out. “Oh, Lobby!” “Hmm?” Zigg hummed and turned back. “You should come over some time. Bring your family and I’ll have Ayiisha cook us some machboos.” Zigg smiled. “Yeah, that’d be nice.” Mohammed grinned back, though somewhat forced. “... Yeah. Please stay safe.” “Sure.” Zigg then left the bar and walked into the blaring noisewall of advertisements and city chatter.