Some dumbass billionaire decided that we should all live on the moon. They said that the earth, that they themself helped destroy, was a lost cause. Some equally shortsighted but substantially poorer folk decided that this guy was right and so would volunteer themselves for the mission to the moon. Two of those people were my parents. My parents couldn’t pay off the expense of the trip, so they had to negotiate some kind of agreement. This resulted in my gosh darned parents signing themselves and every generation of their family afterwards to some thinly veiled indentured servitude until it’s paid off. 

Which is why I am here in this cafe on the moon. Kade Rapscallion, the last of the Rapscallions, only son to Zach and Gwen eating zero-g doughnuts in an artificial recreation of a typical American diner on the main boulevard of Artemis City Base I. A sterile environment where the servers are plastic automatons ingrained into the back wall, itself a plastic, 2-D approximation of a diner bar. The only place to sit is on the highchairs overlooking the street, forced to stare out of the window because of some corporately mandated hope for an authentic experience. 

The window all of us humble patrons are given the opportunity to court is in reality a screen. I’ve opted to keep it off but the loaf next to me has a moody setting with rain turned on. No doubt trying to send a message to the rest of us. The kid further down the building seems to have a live feed from London on the go. The live feeds are popular since this city is usually empty, the mood is as dire as this other fella’s screen and the community spirit here is less of an excited pixie sprite and more the ghost of a soul that never existed in the first place.  

Regardless, I’m only here to wait. I’m supposed to be meeting with a man named “French Olix” in an access alley across the way. I’ve been looking out for people walking there but haven’t seen anyone. Our meeting time is fast approaching and, due to the antisocial norms of this orbital iceberg, if we were to be seen meeting up together or walking into the same hidden place simultaneously, the rats will be suspicious. I want to confirm a buffer but I might have to step over sooner rather than later. I’ve been playing with my leftovers for too long now. Whatever, I’m going over there now.

Stepping past the automatic doors, the same kind I’m told are seen as archaic even on the earth, I step onto the sheer concrete of the boulevard. Extravagant buildings form a steely valley on either side, composed of different colours of plastic in a messy and inconsistent patchwork kibble. It’s an attempt at culture but nobody buys it. Impractical lighting strikes up and down each tower in between this awful greebling. The architecture here is obnoxious almost by design. I’ll be free of it soon.

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I saunter over. It’s dark down there. Perfect. Nobody seems to be out on the streets tonight so maybe I’m fine to wait. French should be here soon anyway. I lean up against a grey panel wall. Hidden away from the road the architecture becomes bland, ironically aesthetically preferable to the alternative. I pull out my pacifier, an electronic smoking stick we all suck on here. I was given one of these as an infant. It’s use to me is second nature, an act I learned before I could even read, so I fill the air with vapour as I wait.

French arrived ten minutes late. I could’ve heard his steps from all the way over on the dark side of the moon because it was so quiet here. It let me stand up and prepare myself. This man was getting me off of this rock, be it through a job with his smuggler connexions or even a ticket to Earth, I was leaving this skull of an astral body, parents be damned. 

Almost like a drum roll the cold and precise footsteps anticipated the man’s arrival. Silhouetted by the dead street lamps at first all I could see was the long coat and trilby hat. Initially I was impressed, but the closer he came the more he looked like he was wearing a costume. Pastiche. He stopped ten feet from me and wobbled into a position opposite. I tried to approach but he raised his palm to halt me. 

“Rapscallion?” he said in a raspy voice, as fake and referential as his garb. I tilted my head and nodded. I asked him for his name and he confirmed it to be French Olix. I grinned.

“So you want off?” he stated, clear as day shift, “You want out of the deal your parents signed you up for?” I was shocked at how direct he was. I should have left, told him he had it wrong, should have sussed that this was a stitch up. But I didn’t do any of those things. My eyes welled up, I wanted to hug him, kiss his boots and pray to him. I needed off and in a brief moment of infantile emotional quality I squeaked out a yes.

“Well there’s only one way off. And You’re lucky I have room.” he said whilst beginning to inflate. I lost my cool and thought I really was going to embrace him but stopped at this sight. He was already tall, casting a shadow over me, but now he was taller. Now he was wider. The belt on his coat unwrapped like the bandages of a rotten mummy and the coat slipped away. Before I knew it he was touching the sides of the alley. No escape. Formless and transparent, soon all I could see was the neon glow of the street lights stained green by this slime of a creature. 

He poured forwards. 

Spewing over me. 

I was digested.