And there it was, the not-so-local watering hole on the third left from the center of nowhere. The cheesy sign displaying a flashing drink in a fancy glass gave it away, nothing in there was served in anything fancy, some things didn't even come in a glass. The Pit, he read, not a very uplifting or cheerful name, but it did the trick. One might stop and wonder why someone would name their business something like that, a slight glance to the left would reveal an incredibly deep hole in the stations floor that went through at least two levels of it. Suddenly the name was no longer a mystery, instead it had been turned into something of a joke. People in the bar swore that it was the best way for a quick getaway, in case someone nasty dropped by. To be frank, the rumor had only started because people wanted to see if anyone was brave or stupid enough to check. So far people had trusted their feet more than that rumor.
Today was the day that changed.
Prog shoved the door open and was almost blinded by a bright light that was pointed straight at the door. He swore under his breath about the idiocy of the thing, but then remembered that the light would illuminate a visitor and blind the poor fellow long enough for anyone in there to get a good head start. As his vision got back to normal (with only a few dancing spots of light) and no panicked, running feet were heard Prog decided that he was in good company and stepped over to the bar. A big Martian stood on the other side, handling three drinks at a time. As he shipped them out he sauntered over to Prog and asked him to order in that “I'm not asking”-kind of way most underground bartenders used. Prog hesitated for a second, wondering if he should order something disgusting. The general rule seemed to be that be worse something tasted, the tougher you were if you could stand it. Prog had never understood the reasoning behind it, and had never been stupid enough to order something he didn't actually want.
“just give me something fruity” he said and handed the guy a credit chip with more money than he was prepared to waste in a dank pub like The Pit. He hoped it would show confidence, like “Yeah, I don't even care about that kind of money”. He knew it was stupid, especially after ordering “something fruity” (It always made humans laugh, for some reason), but he liked fruit, no matter how cliché it was.
After drawing out enough credits for the drink (which was probably at least double what it was worth) the bartender threw the chip back and started to prepare the drink, which gave Prog a minute to observe the rest of the room. It was a pretty slow night, only a handful of people strewn across the tables, but they looked dangerous in their own ways.
”No Slythins at least, lucky me” he thought as his eyes fell upon a holo-projected image on one of the walls, the one thing that had drawn him to the pit, the mercenary job board. Not the real one, of course, that one was out in the open where respectable people could snort in its general direction and only come back after lights out to enter their ad. This was a pirated feed, about three seconds behind the real one, but you could drink yourself into a proper stupor before you accepted anything, which was a big plus for the less choosy employers.
Prog got his drink and walked straight over to the board and started to scan it with his eyes, his mind actively discarding anything that sounded too foolish or dangerous.
”Want to fight the Leviathans? Not unless I have to, no… Make a name for yourself! No, I know where my name will be written…” His eyes kept scanning the wall, big ads drew his eyes away from the small ones, paid more as well, but he had missed good work because he'd only read the big ones before.
”Hold on, here we go” He thought and his eyes read through the contents of a small blue box. ”A cushy protection-gig for a bloated rich guy? I deserve some rest“ He quickly keyed in the code to accept the job and then waited for the small box to go green, indicating that he had gotten the job. After two and a half seconds it turned red. Someone else had stolen it from underneath his nose.
At the other end of the room someone got up, a lanky human, he held some sort of device in his hand with a big, bright screen on it. It was green, and even from that distance Prog was sure he recognised the text on it. Some kind of portable data-pad that was linked up to the merc feed. Risky, it would add a few more seconds to the delay, but on the other hand you didn't have to stand out in the open to look for a job, announcing to the world that you'd like to be paid to kill people.
With a heavy sigh he turned back to the board and scanned it again. He wasn't as motivated this time, he had gotten his hopes up for that job, only to have it stolen from him. He concentrated on the smaller ones again and picked one more on the basis of being to pissed off and tired than on it actually sounding interesting.
“Gabriella Jules” His insectoid jaw had to do some uncommon work to grasp the name, but Prog was used to the Galactic Standard and was pretty sure that he had pronounced it correctly.
He shrugged and typed the code, three seconds later it turned green and Prog could read where to find the mysterious employer. Docking floor three, C281, planetside.
As he dismissed the message it once again turned blue, signifying that multiple people could accept it at once. ”Interesting” He immediately finished his drink and set the empty glass down on a nearby table and quickly made his way out of there.
”The planet side is on the other end of the station, I need to get going if I want to have a chance at that contract” He though, turned right and fell down a hole.
