The client is waiting in the front room. Charles Fauré are experts at decadence and excess. Every piece of furniture, every decoration, every architectural feature, all of it is designed to convey a sense of naked opulence and shameless indulgence. The front area is a hub, with doors leading to specialized rooms, each of which catered to a different taste. Well-dressed people are mingling, most have a glass in their hand.

The client gets up off of the couch that he is lounging on and makes his way to me. Mike is a middle manager in a Charles Fauré owned drone factory. His appearance doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, I would even say that he looks like a bit of a doofus. But I have been assured that he is trustworthy, and that he has money.

“I hope you don’t mind if we go to the fantasy room, it is my favorite and it won’t seem out of place for me to be there,” he states with some apprehension.

“I don’t mind, after all, variety is the spice of life,” I say, grinning wickedly.

The fantasy room has a roughly medieval theme. The walls are imitation stone, the lights look like torches. In the center of the chamber there is a pond that is fed by a little waterfall. Several nymphs are playing in the water, splashing each other and giggling sensually. A Satyr is stalking the room, looking for any interested customers. A surprisingly sexy Medusa is daring me to try to have my way with her.

A muscular, green-skinned barbarian woman that is clad in a chainmail bikini and sporting body paint approaches us. She balances her massive war axe on her shoulders as she speaks to Mike, “Back again to please this mighty warrior?” she asks in a powerful, boisterous voice. I don’t understand how she can talk with all of those big, sharp teeth in her mouth, maybe she is using a hidden speaker that is built into her throat.

“Not tonight, Blargort,” the client says in a sly voice, “tonight I am in the mood for an elven maiden.”

A computer is broadcasting information, feeding instructions to my I.C., which is tricking my eyes into seeing things that aren’t really there. It is a menu, a list of available playmates. As the orc woman and my client make small talk I scroll through the list.

The orc leaves to look for a customer. We sit down and talk business while we wait for the entertainment to arrive. I reach into my coat and produce a handgun. It isn’t the little pistol that I keep on me for basic protection. This is a massive hand cannon, a revolver made by Alpha Prime.

“There it is,” he says with a grin, “I can’t thank you enough.”

Oh, you will thank me, I think to myself. He is paying me good money to get this for him.

“I really wanted one, but I just can’t afford to take the hit to my CSCS,” he lamented as he took the firearm and held it lovingly in his hands.

I don’t need you to tell me why I am here. He can’t buy from another company, or do a lot of things for that matter, otherwise his Company Social Credit Score takes a hit. A low CSCS means he loses privileges and pays fines. If it drops low enough, he could be exiled. I don’t suffer from that problem, so I can help him out, for a reasonable fee of course.

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“It is also against the rules to jailbreak your I.C., and to do business with a Skinwalker,” I remind him.

“Don’t worry, I will be careful. I won’t be showing this puppy off to anyone,” he says, trying and failing to reassure me.

He wills his I.C. to make a transfer to my Charles Fauré account; I gain several hundred Water Certificates. My computer does the math, comparing the current value of Water Certificates against the Work Hour Credits that I had spent on the weapon. It calculates a nice profit for me, more than enough to pay for tonight’s fun.

A giggling, half naked woman darts past our booth; a large, hairy creature lumbers after her. What are clearly her friends or coworkers are playfully taunting her, saying that she can only resist the beast’s charms for so long. I spot what I’m pretty sure is supposed to be a female vampire eying me lustfully, and I briefly consider changing my order.

“Who are you going to vote for in the next election?” Mike asks, trying to make small talk.

I am struggling to not sound irritated, “That’s not how it works,” I carefully explain, “My I.C. is heavily modified, kind of like how yours is jailbroken.”

He nods his head, if his Internal Computer wasn’t modified, he wouldn’t be working with me. His computer’s system would know that he was doing wrong, and he would get into big trouble.

I continue, “I exist in all of the corporate systems. I need to keep up appearances with them all, so my I.C. makes sure that each corporation thinks that I behave in the right way.”

“So, you vote for everybody?”

“Yes, I simultaneously vote for everyone in every primary and every election. And no, I won’t tell you how that is possible, it is a trade secret.”

“Sometimes, I wish that I could vote for the other party,” he confesses.

“It’s not my fault that you chose to be a castrato,” I exclaim, immediately regretting it.

“Come on man! Not everybody can be like you!” he protests.

It is true. The consequences of going rogue are terrible, maybe even lethal. This was especially true for people with families. His jailbroken I.C. lets him get away with a lot of stuff, for everything else there are Skinwalkers like me.

The girls that we had ordered arrived, prancing up to the table, looking eager to please. His elf is petite and pale skinned. Her fair hair has been tied back so that everyone can see her pointed ears. She is staying true to the part by wearing a fine dress and a silver tiara.

I had decided to keep things relatively normal, relatively. I had picked a blue skinned alien woman, something straight out of Saga of the Stars. No, that is wrong, her features have clearly been adjusted just enough so as to avoid breaking copyright law. Burabō Inc would be very upset if Charles Fauré was using one of its intellectual properties.

She’s humanoid, human enough to be attractive; but still very exotic, which is also very pleasing. She is wearing a skin-tight sci-fi jumpsuit that is covered in completely useless lights.

“Something to help you relax,” she offers. We know that they are talking about Exodus, a drug that puts the problems of the world at a manageable distance. It doesn’t really make you feel good, it makes it so that you don’t care. On top of that we add a steady stream of alcohol.

“So, what do you gentlemen do for a living?” the she-elf asks.

“I manage a team of drone monitors,” I quickly interject, I am afraid that Mike will say too much.

“That sounds ssssoooo boring,” the alien proclaims as she sits down next to me. Her hand only has four fingers, which I find to be both a little revolting and weirdly appealing. Maybe I need to start getting into weirder stuff, if this is my idea of an odd experience.

We spend a little more time talking, then it is off to private rooms.

She slowly peels off her jumpsuit, even her womanhood is strange, it is all closed up, but slowly opens as she becomes aroused.

I pay my bill and give the girl a nice tip, before heading out the front door.