Qianlong arrived at his door just as Cromie was leaning against the wall, chewing on a cheap cigarette with his hands on his hips.
"Not home?"
Milo, standing beside him, chuckled. "Not everyone's as free as you. Probably out job-hunting."
"Tch. Still so many without work..." Cromie scratched his head in frustration.
"Isn't that your usual routine?" Milo teased.
"Looking for me?" Qianlong's sudden voice made Cromie jump.
"Cough— Kid, warn a guy next time!"
"Here to check employment rates? Is that your job now?" Qianlong asked curiously.
"Technically no. But you're my responsibility since I brought you aboard." Cromie exhaled a cloud of smoke.
"Smoking damages your lungs. You'll just waste more credits on pulmonary cleanses later."
"Cough— Damn kid, ever heard of tact?" The smoke caught in Cromie's throat as Milo stifled a laugh.
"I found a job," Qianlong stated.
Cromie brightened, slapping his shoulder. "Atta boy!"
Milo tilted her head. "What kind?"
"Reaper."
Cromie's grin froze. "...You passed the scavenger screening?"
"Yes. Problem?"
Cromie opened his mouth, then closed it. What could he say? It's a death sentence? Finally, he sighed. "Once you're in, you're stuck. Not a great gig."
Milo interjected, "Someone's got to do it. And his pay might outstrip yours."
Cromie didn't argue, just gripped Qianlong's shoulder solemnly. "Survive three years. Then get out."
"Say that louder and Logistics will file a complaint," Milo warned.
"Like I care." Cromie shrugged.
"Want to come in?" Qianlong offered.
"Nah. More refugees to check on." Cromie waved as he left.
As Qianlong turned to his door, the adjacent one creaked open—a surprise. In two weeks, he'd never seen this neighbor.
A disheveled woman shuffled out, her hair matted, clothes emitting a stale odor. She vanished inside without a glance.
Strange, Qianlong thought. But only briefly.
Back in his room, he eyed the nutrient bars. They came in flavors, but weeks of the same sludgy paste had killed his appetite. With credits now, he could afford better.
He headed to D-sector's market.
The first shop's sign boasted: "Quality secondhand appliances! All 10 credits!"
Inside, a lanky clerk snored atop the counter. Qianlong browsed until spotting a solar-powered induction stove—compact, efficient, 20 credits.
"Price on this?" He nudged the sleeper awake.
The youth blinked, raising two fingers.
"Reliable?"
"Hand-built by me. One-year warranty."
"Deal." Qianlong paid and left.
As the clerk yawned, Jela emerged from the back and smacked his head.
"Ow!"
"Mom asked you to mind the store, not nap!"
"Sis, I'm a future master engineer! This is beneath—"
"Finish your exams first." Smack. "Where are your grades?"
The clerk paled. "Uh... pending? Hungry?"
Qianlong proceeded to a grocery. Unlike packed F-sector stalls, this one was spacious—and pricey.
Shoppers deliberated over essentials. Qianlong grabbed:
-4 frozen vegetable packs (50cr each)
-2x 500g pork (100cr each)
-Basic toiletries (100cr)
At checkout, he paused, then added 2 cheap beers (200cr total).
600 credits gone.
Bag in hand, he detoured through F-sector's labyrinthine halls, stopping at an unfamiliar door.
Knock. Knock.
No answer.
He waited. Two hours passed. The ship's artificial night deepened.