“C’mon man, you know I can pay you tenfold once I have it. That deck in these genius hands will print money,” the scrappy-looking console jockey claimed. He looked desperately at the man in the suit, who was uninterested.

“Listen, kid, if you’re so good, then print some money on a cheaper deck and then come talk to me.” The corpo leaned back and took a sip from his Manhattan.

A refined man with a refined drink would seem out of place in a dive like Terminus. The bar was dingy and rough, and its unassuming nature made it a popular place for everyone in Neon.

“Ugh, my buddy can get it for me for half the price! Do me a solid; I’ll be helping you hit your quota.” The “kid” persisted. He looked more at home in Terminus. He wore a band T-shirt, jeans and boots which was the perfect contrast to the corpo he was talking to.

The corpo leaned forward. “Your buddy has it for less? Then get it from your buddy.” He looked over at the bartender and leaned back again.

Cordova walked over with authority but with no chip on his shoulder. He stared at the console jockey. “Get outta here kid, kid. Don’t come back til tomorrow.”