Zeros and Blindy sat in the pilot seats while their rusted bucket tore through space in a hyperspace jump.
Blindy’s eyes were glowing like he’d just been handed the keys to the galaxy—and had every single CosmoNet™ adult filter turned on at the same time.
A notification chimed.
GOGLE SPACE-MAIL™.Blindy opened his holo-phone and, without thinking, went straight into the SPAM folder.
Because where else would he go, when his inbox had exactly two messages,
and spam had 30,752—including three new ones he proudly considered fan mail?
He started reading out loud.
“Enlarge your—
Nah, I’m good. I’m happy with what I got. Size ain’t what matters, right, buddy?”
He winked at Zeros.
Zeros would’ve sighed if he still bothered with unnecessary functions. Instead, he processed silent contempt.
“Alright… here’s another one.
'Ancient Sigmalite method for liver cleansing! Only Ꞩ7,000.'"
Blindy paused for a second, then snorted.
“That’s bullshit. My liver’s still got, like… twenty-seven percent left.”
“My doc, Shaelissa—she’s from Ogrevlosh—she told me
that stuff grows back.”
He lowered his voice like he was sharing something sacred.
“She… kinda scary, not gonna lie.
But damn, she fixed like ten degenerates on Mold’pony with psychic stuff.
So yeah, I trust her more than these Sigmalites and their ‘ancient methods.'”
Zeros didn’t look up.
He was disassembling and reassembling a plasma blaster with the apathetic precision of a surgeon who had long since stopped caring about patients.
Suddenly, Blindy yelled:
“ZEROS! BRO!
YOU’RE NOT GONNA BELIEVE THIS!
WE’RE RICH AS HELL!!!”
Zeros didn’t move.
“You sold the remaining twenty-seven percent of your liver?”
Blindy shoved the holo-phone right into The android’s face.
“No! Better! Look, look!!”
On the screen:
"CONGRATULATIONS!
You have won 15,000,000 C-BUX in the IMPERIAL OFFSHORE LOTTERY!"Below it, in tiny print:
"Please reply with your full name, birth coordinates, genetic ID, banking hash, and proof of sanity."Zeros closed his eyes like he was rebooting, then dragged a hand across his face as if trying to wipe stupidity off reality itself.
“Blindy…”
Blindy bounced in place, glowing with hope.
“I KNOW, RIGHT?! Fifteen MILLION! We just gotta reply!”
Zeros slowly turned his head like a turret locking onto a target.
“This is a scam.
You are a boneless slab of meat.”
Blindy missed the key he was aiming for but kept typing anyway, nodding to himself.
“No, no, no—look. They used three exclamation marks.
That means they serious!”
Zeros clenched his fist so tight the metal creaked.
“Your survival instinct is on the level of a moldy sandwich
you eat for breakfast.”
But Blindy was already fully absorbed in the screen, tongue sticking out in concentration—his fingers drumming the keyboard like it owed him money.
“C’mon, man! What’s the worst that could happen?”
Zeros leaned in, glanced at the screen, and said flatly:
“They will steal your identity.”
Blindy paused for a second, looked at him with challenge… then grinned.
“Ha! Joke’s on them.
I ain’t got no identity.”
Zeros blinked.
Slowly.
With the quiet despair of a thinking machine.
“You are hopeless.”
The android exhaled so heavily that three stress sensors on the ship flickered at once, and a notification flashed across his system:
TRACKING SPAMMER #30,752…
... ... ...
TARGET ACQUIREDZeros froze.
His eyes narrowed—cold, precise—like a predator that had finally spotted prey too stupid to hide in time.
“Oh. Excellent.”
He rose slowly from his seat.
Blindy leaned back, inching away like a volcano had just stood up next to him.
“Uh… buddy?
What you doin’…?”
Zeros snapped his fingers like someone activating a kill contract.
“Providing a public service.
The one I hate most in the entire universe.”
Target data streamed across his pupils like a tactical display:
ROCHEFORT—TRAPPIST-1G
ultra-cool dwarf star system,
fifth planet, ice-bound,
rusted orbital comm station,
civilization level: below the floorboards, under the tile—buried in the frosty dirtZeros muttered quietly:
“They wanted your data.
I’ll return the favor.”
He had already opened BlackNet™—that particular marketplace where “freelancers” compete by number of convictions—and began dictating as calmly as if he were filling out a warranty form:
"Group of losers.
Scamming idiots.
Potential target for robbery.
Estimated profit: 15 million C-BUX.
Coordinates attached."Blindy howled like someone was vacuuming his soul out of his body.
“NO-NO-NO-NO-NO!
Don’t do it!! Man, it ain’t that serious!”
Zeros didn’t even turn.
“I hate scammers.
So I consider it appropriate…”
He paused just enough for the thought to settle.
“…when one group of degenerates eliminates another.”
He pressed SEND.