02-24-2020, 05:11 AM
"Laid off? I mean, really? Seriously?" Aubrey stormed through his Newark apartment, thoroughly trashing the place while gathering up his few important belongings and stuffing them into a surplus Navy seabag. First to go was a small Ageira-made hold-out pistol, perfectly sized for his (admittedly small) frame. "How many years did I bust my ass with Synth, just to get laid off because some corporate stiff decides the Hotshots aren't making enough money? Bunch of dicks." Wandering eyes caught a glimpse of his two "Employee of the Month" certificates, and a quick swipe of well-manicured hands sent them to the floor in a crumpled mess. "Assholes."
Quick on his feet, the svelte young man turned on his heels, bringing a pair of raised middle fingers to bear at the datapad propped up on his desk, currently set to 'record' mode. He'd always kept a diary, originally in a pad of paper, and then, once gainfully employed, an interactive tablet. His second brain, he called it, and right now it was receiving the full ire of a recently-fired Synth Foods employee. He'd been called to the local office on Anaheim earlier that morning, to be informed by the regional manager that his services were no longer required. Of course, he'd given the older man an earful, and was escorted (rather roughly) by a pair of private security contractors off the premises before things got too violent. They'd even taken his Garanchou, the one that had carried the young man through dozens of pirate encounters, including a particularly hairy interaction with Mildred Wolfe of the Lane Hackers. "So much for my severance package. Cockweasels."
Following the pistol were a few sets of clothes. The apartment closet tended to be mostly devoid of personal effects, occupied primarily by Synth Foods uniforms. Aubrey couldn't help himself as he dumped the uniforms, hangars and all, down the garbage chute recessed into one wall. "Didn't even fit right..." He grumbled, tucking a pair of high heels into the bag as well, before turning to the still-recording pad. "So yeah, here I am. No job, no real appreciable savings... No idea where I'm going once I'm off this station. Rochester? Buffalo? If I knew where it was, maybe I could schmooze my way into a deal with the Rogues. Nah, we'll try Rochester, a trip there shouldn't be too expensive."
Last into the bag was a picture of Aubrey's parents, after a quick breath removed most of the dust from the glass. Oddly enough, he'd always been proud of having parents that were still alive. It was a strange thing to take pride in, but every Navy and LSF pilot seemed to have a family that was killed by Outcast scum 3 seconds after their birth. "Probably shouldn't tell them I lost my job. They'll get worried." Slipping the picture between his socks and panties for safekeeping, the noise of a zipper being done up echoed through the devastated apartment. "Guess that's all of it, 'cept for you. I'll record something else when I get to Rochester."
He spared one last glance at the datapad before powering it down and tucking it under his arm, the heavy seabag straining his back as he began the short trot to the landing bays. Once there, the young man spent a few nervous moments tapping at one of the arrival and departure consoles, and after some aggressive negotiation, chartered with a visiting Junker for a trip to the slightly less-legal parts of Liberty.