Picking up from this starter here…
Thin on creds, Echo wasn’t looking to drink too much. He was looking to celebrate, be among people, feel like he was part of something again. It wasn’t that life was all that hard for him. He kept a roof over his head most nights. His tongue stayed wet. There was a trideo in his doss loaded with the best programs and newest games. It was that he felt like outdated hardware. Hell, he was–at least he had been until the surgery last week.
Tonight wasn’t all fun though. The bartender slid a shot glass towards him, filled with whisky developed from chemicals supposedly identical to those that arrived at the end of the distillery process. He took it, wistfully eyeing the bottle of the real stuff staring out at him from behind the bar. Maybe if the meet went right he’d get himself a proper shot. That surgery dropped his credit account back to the three digit mark. It’d move to two if he ordered like he wanted to.
“Man’s been sitting back there for ten minutes.” The bartender, a gruff Orc named Paulie, nodded his head towards a lonely table far from the edge of the dancefloor. A man in a crumpled gray suit sat there fidgeting with his commlink. Echo nodded to Paulie and walked over.