Justice in the Void

The flickering neon of "The Drifting Star" cast long, distorted shadows across the grimy alleyway. Rain, a perpetual mist on Xenotopia, slicked the ferrocrete, reflecting the garish glow of advertisements for synthetic stimulants and off-world vacations. Inside, the air was thick with stale synth-ale and desperation. I nursed my drink, the cheap burn a familiar comfort against the gnawing unease that had become my constant companion. My left arm, the gleaming chrome and hydraulics of my prosthetic, felt heavy tonight, a silent testament to past battles and the price of my stubbornness.

Pibo’s holographic face, usually a picture of serene, sculpted handsomeness, flickered at the edge of my vision. "Jason," his voice, a smooth baritone, cut through the din. "We have a visitor."

I grunted, not bothering to turn. "Another dame with a sob story? Or worse, a bill collector?"