Jocasta had acquired several strings of beads by the time she reached the end of the first street, the glass ornaments clicking against each other atop her unbuttoned jacket. The mood of the crowd was festive though there were signs, a few overturned patrol cars and smashed store fronts, that suggested that high spirits took several forms. Makeshift bars had been set up, usually by piling liquor bottles atop ground cars or simply rolling barrels of ale out onto the street where one could simply scoop a cup of booze as one passed. Enough people were openly carrying guns to make Jocasta think that after a few more hours of drinking this place was going to be considerably more lively.


The place had the garish magnificence of an explosion in a bordello. The habs and shop fronts were colorcrete in attractive soft pastel shades, though poverty and lack of maintenance meant not two colors matched exactly. Some of them had awnings of pressed thermoplastic which were printed with patterns ranging from the simple geometrics to advertisements for beers and canned soups. Beyond that, ever structure was draped with whatever colorful articles the residents could find, dresses, bed sheets, rugs, clothing, even a flag though Jocasta couldn’t identify the world or organisation it might represent.  


“Hey girlie have a drink with me,” a drunken man called to Jocasta, thrusting a bottle into her hand. She smiled and slid past his attempt to grope her, taking a polite pull from the neck of the fluted liquor bottle. It tasted strongly of passionfruit but must have been well north of fifty percent alcohol. She rounded a corner into a small square where the crowd was particularly energized.

“Vol! Vol! Vol! Vol!” they were chanting in a variety of tempos that blended together to uncomfortably remind Jocasta of an unstable warp field. She felt her heart sink as she heard the chant.


“Who is this Vol?” she asked a woman who had taken her top off completely, her impressive chest mostly obscured by strings of beads. The woman blinked in confusion and then brightened.

“He is a hero!” she burbled drunkenly before throwing her arms around Jocasta.

“He stole millions from some crimelord and just gave it away,” she snickered.


“Everyone on the level got like ten thousand credits,” she said in a tone of stunned wonder.

“They cops came to try and take it back but…” she made a gesture towards one of the smashed patrol cars with a champagne bottle.


“Where is this hero now?” Jocasta asked.


“D’know,” the woman chirruped, “Staying out of sight I guess.” The woman frowned at Jocasta, apparently having caught a glimpse of one of the little drones concealed beneath her jacket, but too drunk to be sure.


“Rumor is that assassins will be coming to kill him… we arent… going to let that happen,” she hiccuped drunkenly.