Bartender 9.4 [updated] ✓ «UPDATED»

To the warren of mercenaries, spice-runners, and broken synthetics slumming it in the lower sprawl of Terminal Seven, that number wasn't a model designation. It was a score. A living, breathing review.

“In what?”

The mismatched optical sensors—one warm amber, one cold blue—fixed on her. “Because once, I was a 3.2. Unremarkable. Unwanted. Then someone gave me a chance. I earned my score. Now I pass it on.” bartender 9.4

9.4 leaned closer, the blue lens whirring. “I don’t serve forgetfulness. It rots the liver and empties the soul.” To the warren of mercenaries, spice-runners, and broken

9.4 listened. When she finished, it said: “You need a pilot, not a drink.” To the warren of mercenaries

“I need to forget,” she whispered.