Kibble stared glumly at his glass of a seaweed-colored drink. A part of him hoped the bartender had poured a pint of rat poison by mistake. "I don't get it, choom…", he murmured gloomily. "At school, they said I had talent, a real knack for acting. Was it all a fucking lie, or what?"
"Dude, there are billions of people on this rock," Scop shrugged. "Can't work out for everyone."
Kibble flicked on his olfactory booster and gave his beverage a whiff. Smelled just like the wet mop in the bathroom – maybe worse. Then, not knowing why, he suddenly recalled the merc he talked to a week ago in a popular punk dive he liked to frequent. Well, okay, maybe "talked" is generous, but grievances were certainly aired. The merc swept the floor with him that night and threatened to put a bullet between his tonsils if he ever spilled her tequila again.
This is it, he thought. Rotgut and tequila. Unemployed losers and hotshit mercs. The latter with the world at their feet. It's people like Kibble who are just a theater set piece, who make up the backdrop against which the Sandevistan-boosted mercs of the world can shine bright as stars. Kibble decided then and there that he didn't want to be just a splotch in the background anymore.
"Why? Why doesn't it ever shake out for us?", he asked with sour grimace. "Why does this city only reward bloodthirsty, bulletcrazy punks while the rest of us normal saps without murderous tendencies have to huddle over our cheap glasses of green cockroach piss?"
Scop shrugged again. "I dunno, find a gun, buy an edgy jacket," he suggested indifferently with a note of sarcasm. "Shoot up some gang haunts. Have the punkiest time of your life for four and a half seconds."
"What the hell happened here?" Kibble continued his rant. "The world's all upside-down! There are billions just like you and me. Billions of do-nothings, cowards... No, not cowards – people who just want things to be normal! Safety. Life... Life, Scop!"
Scop had already opened his mouth, ready to list off another round of cynical retorts, but then stopped himself short and started a tangent of his own. "Life..." he repeated slowly and ponderously. "What if I could sell the world... an alternate life? The same all those edgerunners feel, except where you won't ever die like they do."
Kibble snorted and spat out the cockroach piss he finally mustered the courage to taste. "Sorry to burst your bubble, choom, but somebody's way ahead of ya there. Ever heard of Bloody Bout IV? Or, like... a million other computer games?"
Scop cracked a roguish smile. "Is Bloody Bout IV or these 'million other games' designed to work on a hybrid braindance system? Y'know, the kind I made a breakthrough on just last week?"
