Blindy kept drinking his garbage alcohol,
openly ignoring the entire event
like this was just another Tuesday.
Zeros sat at the counter.
And when the bar slowly returned to its usual rhythm—
loud, drunk, meaningless—
he turned his head toward Doce.
Slowly.
“Hey, Doce.
That last job? Total disaster.
Lime Mashers are gone.
And nobody’s paying.”
He leaned in slightly.
“Got work?
Something that actually pays?
Any of our old clients still breathing?”
Doce leaned forward slightly.
Two of his eyes fixed on the android,
while the third—set higher—continued scanning the bar,
tracking every idiot who might start a fight.
“Chico metálico… there is work.
But you’re not gonna like it.”
His voice dropped—the tone of a bartender who had seen far too much.
“Gotta deliver live cargo to some loco scientist.
That cabrón is asking for “material” again… for his sick little experiments.”
He tilted his head.
“Cargo’s already selected. Packed. Waiting.
¿Te encargarás?”
Zeros shook his head—short, irritated.
“Tsk… I hate that bastard’s face.
Last time, I almost killed him.
This idiot who calls himself my partner—”
he jerked a thumb vaguely toward Blindy,
“—stopped me.
Said he ‘pays well.’
Said ‘killing clients is bad for business.'”
Doce snorted softly and returned to work—
six arms moving at once,
pouring drinks,
taking payments,
counting change,
cleaning glassware—
A level of professionalism that could only be described as
a genetic mistake… in the best possible way.
“Tu compañero has a point,” he said.
“If you start killing clients… nobody hires you.”
He winked—with the lower eye.
“But… you know, chico metálico…“
Words failed for a moment.
“I’ve got a soft spot for chico metálico.”
He nodded toward T.8.0.0, who moved through the bar
with dry, mechanical grace—
like an assassin temporarily employed as a waiter.
“So here’s the deal.
I’ll give you a double job.You finish the first—
you call me.I pass you the second.”
Doce leaned in closer, lowering his voice to a whisper
that somehow everyone could hear:
“The client asked for you specifically.
Pay’s a few million c-bucks.
Worth it.”
His gaze shifted toward Blindy,
who was currently attempting to pour something that looked faintly radioactive.
“…Though for him?
That’s about a week’s worth.”
Zeros gave a small nod
and slowly rose to his feet.
At that exact moment—
four new arrivals approached the bar.
Fresh local trash.
A rookie gang from the old disposal zone, Sector B–12—
and like every criminal group on Mold’pony,
they had chosen a name that sounded like it was assembled backwards through an butt hole:
The Stinky Four.
One of them the leader of the gang —Bug-eyes—stared constantly,
like he’d just seen a ghost
or suddenly realized he’d left his brain implant at home
and walked out anyway.
Long-Fingers clutched a stack of stolen credit chips—
lifted from HallMart™ customers—
so tightly it looked like he was about to play Texas Hold’em
for his own life.
Loudjaw twitched and clicked his teeth
like a faulty pressure valve
already aware it was about to burst.
And Brainrot—
a name gifted to him by Bug-eyes,
derived from “brain” and “freak,”
and somehow accepted as a compliment—
muttered something incomprehensible,
trying to plan a “grand heist” at Save&Pray™…
leaving everyone else wondering: What the hell is he even saying?
But the moment the Stinky Four saw Zeros rising—
all four of them instantly reconsidered their life choices.
They turned.
And began moving toward the exit—
perfectly synchronized,
as if they had spent their entire short, humiliating lives
rehearsing tactical retreat.
Unfortunately—
T.8.0.0 was already there.
Loudjaw clicked his jaw once—like a dying vibrator.
Long-Fingers instantly shoved the stolen cards into Brainrot’s pocket,
betraying him with the natural ease of long tradition.
Bug-eyes dropped to his knees.
Just like that.
Collapsed—
as if the universe had decided
his criminal career was over
before it even began.
He started crying.
Loud. Wet. Desperate.
Like his entire life had just flashed before his eyes—
and even there, nothing worth saving had appeared.
Then, in a low mechanical rasp:
“What happened to your eyes?”—a pause, a soft internal hum—
“…I know why you cry.
But I can never do that.”
The kid shook even harder.
A line of snot stretched toward the floor.
Another second—and he might’ve simply dissolved from fear.
T.8.0.0 stepped closer.
Slowly.
Dangerously slowly—
like a machine approaching termination.
And then—
gently took the boy’s head
and wiped his nose with the apron.
Helped him up.
Gave him a light pat on the shoulder.
And said, calmly:
“You should try our house special.
You’ll feel better.”
The rest of the group nodded immediately—
so fast, so synchronized
they looked like broken mechanical toys
running past their design limits purely out of fear.