Selenia, an ASH Changing Hands

The dive bar festered in a grimy corner of the station’s lower docks, a hollow of rusting steel and sour air, thick with the reek of cheap synth-ale and unwashed bodies. The hum of failing air recyclers buzzed through the walls, a restless drone that shook the scarred tables and settled heavy in her chest. A lone bulb dangled overhead, its yellow flicker casting a sickly glow across the room—half-light, half-shadow, alive with the growl of rough voices and the clink of tin mugs. She stood in the corner, small—barely 4’10”—a fragile shape swallowed by the bar’s murk. Her JBU uniform clung to her slim frame, a high-legged turtleneck leotard, its fabric meant to mark her kind: Autonomous Synthetic Humanoids, ASH, bound to wear it by law. Once sleek and white, it was now a tattered ruin—scratched, torn, streaked with grime from months of rough hands and cold nights. Her cherubic face, smudged with filth, tilted downward, grey-blue eyes tracing the floor—large, steady, catching the faint light in muted shifts. Her tousled platinum hair fell in limp strands, darker roots matted with dirt, a testament to how they’d treated her—passed around, used up, left to rot. A man pinned her there—a slab of flesh with a pocked face and a leer—his thick hand groping her chest through the leotard’s rents, fingers digging into the worn fabric. “Raise it—give us somethin’!” he slurred, his laugh a wet rasp cutting through the din, his grip tightening as she stiffened, her stillness a practiced endurance. She’d learned not to flinch too hard—blows came faster when she did. Her eyes drifted to the center table, where the game churned. Chips piled high—reds, blues, a few rare silvers—glinting under the bulb’s flicker, the pot swelling with each turn. One man sprawled there, tall and broad-shouldered, clad in a faded green jumpsuit and an orange flight jacket slung over his chair, its sleeves streaked with grease. His brown hair hung shaggy, a thick beard framing his jaw—no mustache—smoke curling from a cigarette between his lips, his green-grey eyes glinting with a drunk haze. He nudged a silver chip forward, ash trembling on his cigarette, his fingers calloused and sure. Across from him sat another, a scruffy Black man with dreadlocks spilling over his shoulders—tangled, frayed—his sharp face glistening with sweat. A broken tooth jutted from his grin, crooked and yellowed, his small, bloodshot eyes gleaming as he clutched his cards. His chips were a pitiful scatter, but that grin held, cocksure, jagged. She knew him too well—her owner, the one who’d barter her body for a discount on fuel or toss her into a bet when his credits ran dry. He’d done it before, would do it again. The pot grew—the smoker flicked in another silver. The dreadlocked man leaned forward, voice sharp. “I’ll match that, Jace,” he said, jerking his chin toward her. “Fuck her. Right here. Worth more than your scrap.” Her head dipped lower, shoulders curling inward, the crewman’s chuckle rumbling as his hand tightened. The smoker—Jace—snorted, smoke spilling from his nose, his beard twitching. “Not worth a fuck, Gav,” he drawled, voice thick with liquor, flicking ash onto the table. Gav’s eyes narrowed, his broken tooth flashing. “Fine, then,” he rasped, tapping his cards, smug. “Ownership. Her for the pot. Call it.” Her head lifted—a slight, sharp perk, grey-blue eyes darting to Gav, then Jace. Ownership. Life with Gav had been hell—blows, gropes, nights traded for scraps—and the word stirred something, a thread of confusion, maybe escape, she couldn’t grasp. The crewman’s hand slid lower, oblivious, as Jace shoved his chips—all of them—into the center, the clatter sharp. Gav flipped his cards—three eights, his grin peaking. Jace’s followed slow—a jack-high straight, lethal. The table froze, Gav’s grin cracking, his fist slamming down, chips scattering. “No fuckin’ way,” he spat. The crewman yanked her closer, snarling, “She ain’t yours yet, smoker.” Another stepped up, fists flexing, the air snapping taut. Jace rose, tall and swaying, cigarette glowing. “Don’t pay your due, Gav,” he said, low and steady, “and you won’t play anywhere on this rock again. Done.” His eyes locked on Gav’s, unblinking. Gav snarled, dreadlocks whipping, his crew hesitating. “Take her, you bastard,” he growled, spitting on the floor. The crewman’s hand fell away, her frame stumbling, gaze flickering up—brief, unreadable—then down.

Jace let the tension simmer, unbothered, his green-grey eyes flicking over the table as he reached for the pot. He moved slow—deliberate—each chip clicking softly as he gathered them, stacking them with a practiced ease, his cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, ember pulsing faintly. The air was thick with the unsaid, the crew’s sharp exhales, the scrape of chairs shifting.

Gav sat frozen, shoulders rigid, fingers curling into the table’s edge, his jaw working as if chewing on the taste of his own loss. His gang shifted around him, their presence crowding the dim space like circling dogs debating a lunge.

Jace gave them nothing—just a slow, smug smirk as he swept up the last silver, flicking his cigarette against the table’s edge, ash tumbling onto the stained metal. Only then did he move, rising with a lazy stretch, his chair scraping back, the weight of his presence shifting. He exhaled smoke, then let his gaze slide to Selenia.

“Come on, you.” His voice was low, steady despite the liquor, a flicker of sharpness cutting through the haze.

She hesitated, just a beat, then stepped forward, her feet whispering against the floor.

Gav’s gang watched her go, their eyes heavy with hunger—some cold, some dark and ravenous. A few muttered curses, spit hitting the floor like bile, resentment thick in their breath. She felt their eyes burn into her back, a weight that prickled her synthetic skin, a lingering promise of hands that weren’t done with her yet. She’d been theirs too long—an easy thing to break—and the loss stung them raw.

Jace ignored them, stepping toward the hatch without a glance back. Selenia followed in his shadow, small and silent, the heat of their glares fading as the hatch hissed shut behind them, sealing the bar’s stale air away.