Back in the Aeramo, Terna stared at the wall, shaking her head. The process of securing credit had been its own hellish torment, ghostly voices and shadows interrogating her, assessing her potential for financial ruthlessness and her lack of morality.

The BuyMort hadn’t just wanted her to owe it. It wanted her to be a part of its vicious culture, to be one of the horrors that haunted its layers.

It had started innocently enough—or at least, as innocently as any interaction with BuyMort could be. When she had agreed to Veltrin’s detail, she was sent to another place and greeted by a system message.

“Welcome, valued consumer! You have been pre-selected for a BuyMort Prestige Credit Evaluation!”

Confused and overwhelmed, she twirled and gaped as the world around her shifted. Shadows stretched unnaturally, flickering and dying as gloom overwhelmed them. The air shimmered, and the sterile tang of dusty rubber briefly tickled her nostrils. A dark hall materialized around her, vast and cavernous, filled with empty chairs that seemed to multiply the further she looked. At its front stood a stage, its surface shiny with polish.

Above it, a floating screen flickered to life, displaying simple commands that led her toward its center. Terna complied.

Then came the questions. Endless, exhausting, soul-draining questions, all asked by an echoing and devilish voice that came down from the void above, their letters and words writing out in fiery script in the air before them.

“You discover an abandoned, dysfunctional BuyMort delivery pod carrying 1,000,000 morties worth of goods. Do you:

(A) Take the goods and use locator services to find and return them to their rightful owner.

(B) Sell the goods for morties.

(C) Keep the goods for yourself

(D) Ignore the pod and move on

“Keep the goods,” she stammered, looking wildly about for some indication of the speaker. She didn’t have long to look, though, before the next question boomed from above.

“You have the opportunity to liquidate a failing affiliate. This will displace 2,000 workers but generate 400,000,000 morties in profit. Do you proceed?”

“I do not understand the words?” she asked, wilting under the invisible glare. “How does The BuyMort wish me to answer if I cannot know the meaning?”

Another question boomed, her previous dialogue apparently recorded and weighed against her.

Every answer felt like a test. A test not of morality, but of how well she could think like BuyMort. One question had asked if she would sell faulty life-support modules to underdeveloped affiliates at a 200% markup. Another had demanded she calculate the most cost-effective method of outsourcing labor while avoiding worker compensation penalties. Each scenario pushed her further from ethical reasoning and closer to the merciless logic of profit maximization. And the process didn’t come free—of course it didn’t. To even enter this hellish place, she’d had to pay a credit application fee. BuyMort didn’t just grant status—it sold it. A relentless cycle of payments, each designed to make her feel like she’d progressed and grown.

The questions had gone on and on. Did she splurge on high-end affiliate gear? Would she scam people for morties? Was she willing to put the stockholders and herself ahead of those who worked beneath her?

When she had finally emerged from the credit labyrinth, her new ranking was displayed in bright, glowing letters:

“Congratulations, Terna NoMort! You are now a Level 30 – Poor Shopper! Your spending habits indicate an inability to financially plan. It is recommended that you contact a financial planning affiliate or engage in the BuyMort Financial Consumer Services and Consulting for just 750,000 morties a month!”

She had screamed into the void. And the void had answered with an ad for DogeTech’s Ultra-Premium Financial Security Package—now with AI-driven spending alerts, customizable debt reassignment and negotiation services, and an emergency 'liquidate assets' quest manager that would lead members to the best-paying missions for the least amount of time worked.

Now here she was, staring at the wall, Aaron sleeping on the sofa as Dizzy+ entertainment flashed kid-friendly cartoons coupled with loads of product placement to the cockpit.

No one had said that working with BuyMort was going to be easy. But Veltrin had assured her it was worth it.

Now she wasn’t so sure. She wanted to believe him, but what if he was lying? Belief was another thing BuyMort had monetized.

Still, she couldn't just sit here doing nothing. She'd paid morties—huge morties. Morties she didn't have. And in doing so she had services available for her use. The decryption would take 2 days. But there was the location service, the one that would help her track down species as she entered them into the system. She could use that to start her search, look for hobbs in the area. Even if they weren't her people, she could try to warn them. Maybe save them.

Her eyes measured the cockpit, her mind tallying the space and figuring how many could live and work within. The Aeramo cockpit was large and accommodating. She could fit twenty for sure.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

She made to speak, but a tickle in her throat led her to cough instead. Immediately, a new ad appeared, worried about her health.

“Concerned about your respiratory wellness? Upgrade your life with New Goryeo Health+ for 499,999 morties a month and receive real-time medical monitoring, respiratory diagnostics, and personalized wellness recommendations! Don’t let an unchecked cough cost you your future!”

A secondary prompt popped up below it.

“Would you like to try a trial version of FluShield NanoMist for only 199,999 morties? Clinically tested to reduce the impact of non-approved airborne contaminants!”

She swiped the ad away. “Aeramo, access the Hantech Precision Locator and scan for hobbs please.”

A different view screen released from Aeramo's many panels with a mechanical whirr, its backdrop light blue and pulsing faintly. A flicker ran through it, followed by a brief moment of static before stabilizing. A soft chime played, overly cheerful and far too loud, accompanied by a floating message:

“Optimized for your convenience! InstallShield! - Brought to you by Aeramo Technologies.”

The words, “Installing Hantech Precision Locator . . . Please wait”, appeared overtop. Beneath it, a bar appeared, growing longer at an agonizing pace. A smaller window popped up below it.

“New software update available! Required for optimal performance. Estimated download time: 2 hours, 43 minutes.”

Terna groaned. “Skip the update. Just run it.”

“Skipping update may result in reduced functionality. Are you sure?”

“Yes!”

The loading bar stuttered. Another message appeared.

“Processing request . . . Checking server status . . . Assigning priority level . . .”

A timer began counting down from five minutes. Then, as if on cue, a banner stretched across the screen.

“Want to accelerate your download? Unlock Hantech Priority Access for just 300,000 morties!”

Terna clenched her jaw and waited, her hands balled into fists. The timer hit zero. The screen flickered and a new message appeared.

“An important security patch is required. Would you like to install now? Y/N”

She stabbed at “N” with a frustrated grunt. The locator stalled, then finally, reluctantly, moved forward.

“Installing base services . . . Configuring biometric scan . . . Retrieving planetary data . . .”

Each step took an eternity. A new ad popped up, this one featuring a smiling corporate executive holding a sleek, glowing version of the device.

“Upgrade to Hantech Update+ and experience real-time scanning without delays! Only 999,999 morties per month!”

Terna slapped her console violently, nearly tipping over in her chair. Her head throbbed, a dull ache pulsing behind her eyes as she clenched her fists so tightly her knuckles ached. She exhaled sharply through her nose, jaw tightening with frustration as the endless cycle of ads and updates taunted her with their manufactured inefficiency.

“Just—find—hobbs!”

“Installation Complete! Thank you for supporting Hantech!”

A prompt appeared.

“Tracking active. Please enter species.”

“Hobbs! For the love of the ancients, find me hobbs!”

The locator beeped. Finally. A map flickered to life, dots appearing in scattered clusters. The closest signal pulsed near a location marked Man-Santo Agricultural Site, a site just 50 kilometers away.

She exhaled, rubbing her temples. “Thank you. Aeramo, let's go.”

She set course for the Man-Santo Agricultural Site. The journey was frightening in its absence of ruins—there had been plenty of holy sites not so long ago. Now they were gone, marked by cracked earth and patches of young brush growing up from the newly-exposed soil. The Aeramo’s treads ground over uneven paths, its reinforced suspension absorbing all of the jolts, and in no time they were within visual range.

The vista that greeted her was quite beautiful. Large clear domes, so many in number, within which crops stretched in perfectly uniform rows. Despite the time of night, globes of light bathed everything within in a perfectly sunlike radiance. Massive machines rolled lightly through the fields, their blades flashing as they sliced through stalks with mechanical precision.

And as she got closer, she spotted them. Hobbs, hundreds of them, clad in matching grey jumpsuits, swarming over the land in monotonous toil.

“The workers are chanting something, Terna,” Aeramo stated. “Would you like to hear?”

Terna nodded, and a song drifted up to her, voices harmonized in unsettling precision. Aaron's eyes popped open as the words rolled over them. ”Harvest with faith, reap with love, BuyMort smiles from above. Give your all, spend today, Debts will fade if you obey.”

Terna’s stomach turned. The Aeramo came to a grinding halt at the edge of the nearest globe, swirls of snow-dust kicking up around it.

“Warning — a small droid is flying in our direction. No weapons detected. Should we engage weapons systems?”

Terna shook her head. “I see no threat. Let them come. Let us see what it is here to do.”

A sleek, insectile drone entered into view, its thin metallic limbs twitching as it adjusted its balance against the wind. Its rear carapace gleamed from the glow of the domes, adorned with the bright yellow branding of Man-Santo, complete with a cheerful, winking stalk of grain logo. A single red optical sensor pulsed at its center, scanning the environment with mechanical precision. Small vents along its sides spit steam, tiny stabilizers firing in precise bursts to keep it aloft. As it neared, a speaker module whirred to life, crackling slightly before settling into a smooth, synthetic tone.

“Welcome to Man-Santo Agricultural Site! Please remain within designated visitor areas. Violators will be fined.”

Aaron gaped at the view screen.

“Just stay here. I have to go out and talk to these people. Maybe they can help us find ours.”

As Terna exited the Aeramo, a portion of the dome before her cycled, creating an aperture. A hobb stepped through, giving her a quick up and down as he approached. She noticed that his jumpsuit was immaculate, despite all of the dirt and dust she saw being kicked up by the work behind him, and he was smiling in a way that his eyes did not reflect.

“Ah! New visitors!” he said cheerfully. “Be you investors, come to share in the joy of BuyMortian profit?”

Terna crossed her arms. “I’m looking for hobbs. Ones not tied to BuyMort.”

The foreman blinked, confused, then chuckled. “Poor child, there are no hobbs outside of BuyMort’s grace. All things belong to the Path of Prosperity. And here, at Man-Santo, we spread those blessings far and wide, lifting everyone up with the deliciousness of our organic produce.”

Behind him, a series of winged drones flew over the field, spraying it with a purple liquid mist. The workers paused, their faces upturned toward it and locked in joy, though a few of them collapsed and stopped moving.

Terna stared at them in horror. “What is this? You have people that are hurt!”

“The Market rewards those who give freely of themselves! Look around you—no hunger, no fear. Just work, blessed work, before the chariot takes our souls and brings us to the blessed home. Should we not work hard, toiling hard labor, we shall not receive the blessings to which all markets bow.”

Terna scowled. “You are happy that they are dead?”

“The Chariot has collected them, and by their bootstraps shall they be lifted to a place of eternal satisfaction. Now their morties are bountiful.”

She stared silently, looking over the death fields of Man-Santo, before turning back to the Aeramo. The demon BuyMort owned these hobbs, and she had no business with them. But they were just the first of many that her location services had found and she wasn't about to give up hope. Sitting down in her command chair, she locked onto the next signal and gave Aeramo the word to proceed.

Somewhere out there were real hobbs. Survivors. And she was going to find them and save them, however long it might take.