Planatae

Seeking

"Caedum?" The woman's eyes glazed over for a moment as she checked her feed. Then her eyebrows shot up. She peered at Ricardia far more closely than she had before. "That's a full-Factor world. A body-type Factor. You really had your head up your ass, eh?"

Ricardia felt twin spots of pressure on her face, and knew it was tears building. Onyx was supposed to be separate from the cult, but she should have known better. And with her physically-visible Factor, her genetic origins... she wouldn't last a second if she boarded one of their ships.

"I've heard the stories," Ricardia mumbled. "The labor sites."

"They'd flag your application for passage in a second. Hopefully you're not that naive."

"Are there any other options? Something else I can do?"

The harbormaster gave her a long, hard look. "This is not a place that welcomes mistakes, but you have two choices ahead of you." She held up a finger. "You could beg your way onto a ship, or trade your labor for passage. However, I doubt you have the skills." Up went the second digit. "Or, you could find work on the station, and stick to it until you have enough to leave."

"But wait, isn't there anything-"

"Good bye, Miss," the harbormaster drawled, eyes half-lidded in disinterest. "Wish I could be of more service." She rose to her feet, her bulk easily ellipsing Ricardia's own. "Let me do the honors of escorting you out of my office.

Left with nothing but a few, brusque well-wishes, Ricardia found herself dumped in a spot eerily close to where she stood upon her initial arrival to the station. The glitzy promenade that thrusted out from the harbor was sinister in a way it hadn't been before. Ricardia now knew how fragile the illusion was that surrounded her: the too-warm, shrieked-greetings of shopkeepers and hawkers, the neon displays and holo-artwork depicting huge, anthropomorphized playing cards and gambling chips. The mascots swirled together, their movement erratic and terrible over the heads of the crowd.

It was a veil that hid the true grit of Onyx. Ricardia had once thought that the people passing her were tourists, adventurers. But they were gamblers, sex-addicts, tycoons seeking an outlet far from home. They knew the truth about a place like this, expected and thrived in it.

Onyx had become a maw, one that yawned, eager to consume her with the slightest slip-up.

Sink or swim, Ricardia thought, battling the pangs of homesickness, the fear and abandonment. Still, she'd find a way to tamp it all down, to find it in herself to step back into Onyx. Because what other choice did she have?

She knew she could have spent her time wandering the port, hoping for some charity. She could have even tried her hand at infiltration, taking the stowaway route. But Onyx had her in a chokehold now, and she was very much aware of her position now; the kinds of people she'd be asking for help - or the things they'd do to her if she were caught sneaking around.

So instead she found herself being pulled back into the maw, engulfed by one of the bright, electric avenues. The side-streets weren't an option after what she'd just gone through, but maybe there was something on the main thoroughfares that could help her.

Ricardia toyed with the idea of gambling, briefly, but she had no money and no experience. So what else could she do but find some work, and earn enough to pay her way off this forsaken hulk of rock and steel?

She ignored the huge, sprawling casinos, but stopped periodically at the peacock-bright restaurants that flanked them.

It was often dark inside these spaces, the air spiced and heavy. She navigated massive, rowdy tables, sidled up the waiters that circled them like vultures. But when she would inquire about employment, Ricardia was either ignored or brushed off. These slick, elegant men and women wanted no part of her; she was a spectacle: a strange, silly tourist asking to work? She felt ridiculous, and Ricarida was sure that every maître'd she approached, every host, assumed she was joking.