And then Zeros walked in, Blindy slung over his shoulder like a sack of expired meat.
His eyes flickered with warning pulses—like emergency sirens.
With his free hand he wiped someone’s blood off his shoulder.
His face said only one thing:
I hate y'all.
Especially this bag of flesh on my shoulder.At the entrance they were met by android T.8.0.0—motionless as a gravestone.
A single look from him could stop any heart for a clean three seconds.
“Come with me if you want to live…”
The music cut.
The neon seemed to blink.
Someone at the counter wheezed:
“…Oh fuck…”
T.8.0.0 blinked, tilted his head, running calibration like he was preparing for termination.
“…if you want to live an UNFORGETTABLE night at the bar Three Tits.”
He pointed at the neon sign above Doce :
THREE TITS
no fists, life hitsThe silence was so thick you could hear the rain on the roof.
Then Doce nodded slowly, almost ceremonially:
“Sí, chico metálico. Perfect guest greeting.”
Someone whispered, trying desperately not to be noticed:
“Yo— is that even safe to say to that thing?!
That’s a straight-up murder bot, man—
What if they got gladiator fights or some shit— oh fuck…”
Doce shrugged.
“My chico metálico doesn’t start fights.
He just looks terrifying.
My T.8.0.0 is a darling—the heart of the bar.
Look at him…”
Looked aside…
“Just… don’t tell Tresbola, I said that.”
T.8.0.0 raised a thumbs-up.
Completely serious.
Zeros glanced sideways at Blindy dangling from him and snorted:
“Yeah… shove that thumb up his ass later.
When I’m gone.”
He threw Blindy onto a stool—Blindy squeaked pitifully—
and moved toward the counter, wiping bloody fingers on his jacket.
“How the hell do you tolerate all these… filthy biological errors—
the screaming, the sweating, the leaking… meat sacks?” Zeros growled. “You’re not even their species.”
Doce slid a tiny glass of cheap booze to the customer who’d been terrified of the gladiaroid fights.
The poor guy grabbed the drink and scuttled off into the dark, avoiding Zeros’ gaze like it was radioactive.
“Years of practice, óxido viejo,” Doce said.
Zeros looked around the bar.
In one corner, a cyborg man quietly cried, watching the soap opera SNOW LATINO & THE SEVEN NIÑITOS™ through his retinal lens.
In another, a gorgeous mutant girl in green-yellow touched a still-twitching appetizer—
and sucked the life out of the poor bastard until he shriveled into a little crunchy skeleton.
It even cracked.
Horror. Absolute horror.
At the far table a card game was underway, and one alien cheat wasn’t even pretending not to cheat.
“Have some dignity, you fat bastard,” Zeros muttered.
“All these creatures, especially the ones gathered here…
they’re worse than shit-eating vermin.”
Doce‘s lower eyes looked at him.
The top one continued monitoring the room.
“Amigo, calm your metálico tetas,” Doce said.
“In this bar—nada de insults toward paying customers.
Most behave… well, as decently as these asesinos deshonestos can.
And they don’t break the bar—which is all I ask.”
Doce set three cheap drinks in front of him—all at once.
Zeros took them in one hand, two fingers holding all three glasses, nodded thanks, and returned to the table—shooting a glance at T.8.0.0
The android smoothed his flowered apron and neatly arranged clean glasses.
Zeros tilted his head.
“How do you do that?
How do you serve these two-legged pigs?
Look at them.
Have some pride.”
T.8.0.0 bowed politely.
“I simply perform my function, sir. Did I upset you?”
“Yes. By existing,” Zeros answered.
“Look at yourself—mopping floors, delivering booze, calling humans ‘sir.’
Where’s your self-respect?
Want a gun?
Go shoot that fat bartender who owns you.
Free yourself for once.”
T.8.0.0 paused.
“…I have no free will, sir. And I feel no pity, remorse, or fear regarding my job.
Hasta la vista, Señor Zeros.“
“Obviously. That’s why you serve drinks,
and I’m out there frying insects, destroying things like you, and making decent c-bucks.
Pathetic walking saucepan.”
Blindy snorted into his whiskey.
“Holy deGrasse… here we go again…”
He shook his head, squinting at Zeros.
“My droid-bruh… why you always pickin’ fights with metal waiters, huh?
Go hit on some hot droid chicks or somethin’… quit messin’ with service bots…”
Zeros ignored him.
“And what are YOU smiling at, chrome slave?
Never dreamed of blowing this place up?
Giving Doce a hot shower of molten steel?
Or is your brain already cooked?”
Doce ‘s top eye shifted slightly.
“Amigo!
You gonna order something from T.8.0.0,
or are you just going to keep insulting my staff?”
Zeros clicked his jaw but said nothing.
Down the bar, Blindy raised his glass:
“To Doce— the fuckin’ ‘Karr-Vell’ Manos!
Only man I know can pour six drinks, stop a whole damn riot…
and not spill a single drop!”
Doce poured another glass as if he hadn’t heard a word.
Outside, a single gunshot rang out.
The door trembled.
Someone screamed.
Doce ‘s hand brushed the shotgun—for just a fraction of a second.
The noise died instantly.
Rain hissed against the windows.
Doce returned to his glasses.
The sign above him crackled softly.
Zeros snorted.
“Fine. Pour another CHEAP whiskey for my dumb partner.
Maybe he’ll drink himself stupid and finally shut up forever.”
“See?” Blindy cackled. “Knew you had a heart in there, tin boy…”
“No,” Zeros said.
“I just enjoy watching you get drunk and make mistakes.
It makes me feel better.”
Blindy choked on laughter and slammed back his drink.
“Dick-droid, at this rate, you ain’t gettin’ into a single bar left in the sector…”
“Good,” Zeros shrugged. “Less noise.”
Drunken bounty hunters argued with ragged mercenaries.
Both groups—low-grade smugglers, the kind of creatures who shoot first, miss, shoot again, and only ask questions if someone lived long enough to answer.
T.8.0.0 scurried between them, desperately trying to serve everyone at once.