Chapter 2

“You look like shit,” the bartender said.

“I feel like shit,” Kayden replied, sipping his beer.

“You want to talk about it?” The bartender asked.

“Not really,” Kayden said.

“Come on, man,” the bartender said. “I’m a bartender. Talking about shit is kind of my job.”

“Fine,” Kayden said. “I got set up by this girl I was fucking. She stole something from me that’s very important. I don’t know how to get it back, but I have to try. I can’t just let her get away with it.”

“What’d she steal?” the bartender asked.

“A medallion,” Kayden said. “It’s very valuable to me, and I can’t let her get away with it.”

“That’s a tough break,” the bartender said. “Sorry to hear it.”

“It’s okay,” Kayden said. “I’ll figure something out.”

“You want another beer?” the bartender asked.

“Nah,” Kayden said. “I gotta go.”

“Come on, it’s on me.” The bartender insisted.

“Damn Zlara, you’re too good to me.” Kayden said, taking the beer. “You’re the best bartender in the world.”

“I know,” she said, grinning. “And I’m the only one who can get you to smile when you’re in a shitty mood.” Zlara was an exotic alien, from a race known as the Zorpan. She had deep blue skin, pointed ears, and silver eyes. Her hair was long and black, and her body was toned and fit. She wore a tight white blouse and a short, black skirt. Her breasts were small, but perky. Her waist was thin, and her hips were wide.

“Did I ever tell you how hot you look?” Kayden asked.

“Only every time you’re drunk,” Zlara said. Kayden had been coming to this bar for a long time now, and he and Zlara had developed a friendship. The Dark Nebula Bar had become his refuge on countless nights when the weight of his illicit dealings pressed down on him. Its neon sign flickered in the perpetual twilight of the Neo-Olamen commercial district, a beacon drawing in souls like him, those who operated in the gray areas between legality and outright crime. Zlara, with her striking cerulean skin that seemed to absorb the bar’s dim lighting, had been a constant presence behind the counter for years, her silver eyes missing nothing as she polished glasses with practiced efficiency. Their interactions had evolved from curt bartender-patron exchanges to something more genuine. She’d watched him come in swaggering after successful heists, and slinking in after near-disasters. She was the one constant in his otherwise unpredictable life.

“Seriously, Z,” he said, sipping his drink, the bitter taste grounding him, “thanks for being ... well, thanks for being you.”