"What did I tell you about these cheap knockoff sonic plugs?” Quig takes the charred scrap in his paw, turning it in front of Iseph so they can see. “They tear like paper under a little arcanospheric turbulence!”

Joganer's head pounded, all memories of last night's party washed away. He knew he should've gotten the Sopeth liver scrubber to go with his ultimate cardio mod system. Maybe after this paycheck, he could hit the clinic for another upgrade.

“OK, self,” Dae said to their reflection without realizing they were speaking out loud. “You’re about to knock the socks off this planet! You’re one lucky cat, you know, but you’ve also got nerve and plenty of raw talent—the makings of a real star! Now let’s get out there and make Miiyu look even more amazing than she already is!”

The fifth time he saw the same grey-furred ysoki hawking her basket of cosmic cratannes (laser-fried dough, hot off the therm, dipped in some kind of sugared orange), Zemir had to admit he was hopelessly lost. No matter the path he decided to walk, all roads in the Spike seemed to bring him back here – the same makeshift food stand in a nook off an alley, the same would-be chef touting freshness and flavor, the same bits of dough stacked tight in a basket that smelled like his kind of delicious. Maybe he’d buy some to bring back upside. Once he figured out where he was in the station. In this version of it, anyway.

The village was scared, that much Grimmyr could sense. While by now he was used to many of the peoples of Golarion being intimidated by his towering form, this fear had nothing to do with him. It had clearly seeped into the community long before he arrived. The faces of the townsfolk were pale and tired. Their movements were slow and languid, as if a heavy weight pressed down upon them. It even seemed to affect the atmosphere—dark clouds gathered overhead, and the flowers ringing the small stone plinth at the center of the village green were wilted and dying. Grimmyr’s heart ached to see such distress.

Iseph pulled their hand away from their side. Their fingers were sticky and purple with their own synthetic blood. The android winced and calculated the odds of completing the contract: 67.3%. Suboptimal.