I’m in a Jackson Clone Workhouse. It stinks, they always stink. The working conditions are deplorable, but who cares, they’ve got less rights than the rats in the walls.
A skinny looking Grey with a nasal voice stands nervously too my right. He’s wringing his hands and looking persecuted. Fuck him.
”I hope everything is satisfactory.” he whines at me, I hate him. In that second I hate him with every fiber in my body.
”Yeah, it’s fine.” it’s not, if I was here on inspection he’d be in the slammer before I could say: day old meat.
I step over a dead Jackson Clone, and light a cigarette. Of all the Jackson Clone Workhouses in the city, this was the only one under suspicion of selling. Selling was a bad thing, unless you were a supplier, you didn’t sell.
I ask it plainly: “You selling?”
He freaks, his brain getting torn between running and fighting. I get a mild headache, greys are like that.
”You’re not in trouble, calm down.” I grab his shoulder, “just answer the question. Off the record.”
He’s still nervous but he answers, “…yes. Yes we are. We sell them at half retail price.”
I sit down on a bench next to a Jackson Clone, he’s cutting fabric. “Hello!” his idiot voice grates, “I’m making pants!”
I light a cigarette on his face and turn to the grey.
”You ever sell Alphas?”