“You look like someone who enjoys a good match.”

Bobson was desperately avoiding eye contact with the man next to him at the bar, a man who had chosen, out of all the open seats in the otherwise empty lounge, to sit on the stool directly next to his. Even worse, he had already inched the stool closer to say, “Just want to see the game, don’t mind me,” as he gestured to the projection smeared behind the endless rows of bottles behind the counter. All Bobson wanted, after a shit cycle on the clock and another shitty fight with his latest lover, was to have a few rounds alone before beginning the loop all over again. One of the few pleasures of his third-cycle shift was that the station's primary lounge was nearly always empty when he was released. He hoped the man had taken the hint. Maybe not.

“Have you ever watched a booly match? I tell you, we’re in for something special today,” he continued. Bobson finally gave him a proper look. He was a tediously typical Dervid wanderer, someone who made a career of flitting in and out of stations like this one, pushing a deal on someone and then moving on as soon as the deal soured. His charismatic face transcended speciesist beauty standards – big, bright eyes, wide omnivore teeth, laugh lines on his leathery skin that was nearly the same color of the cheap Earth wine he was swinging in front of Bobson’s face in a cheap, unbreakable goblet.

“No. I'm not much for sports,” replied Bobson. He eyed his glass of amethyst liquor and made a mental calculation. He had splurged on the good stuff and couldn't yet bring himself to chug it down and escape. Nor could he stand to walk away from four hundred kotals of decent booze.

“Wesry,” said the man, holding out a hand. “Pleased to meet you.”