Eights slunk into the pub and nearly collapsed at the bar, unfazed by all the edgy looks he was getting from other customers. A droid, in a bar? What could he even do there? Eights wasn't there for drinks. He dropped a few credits on the bar wordlessly, but the bartender knew what a droid wanted here. He came back with a platter of haze-chips, pockets of code that, when installed in his port, released a temporary virus causing intoxication and slight euphoria.
Eights sighed in relief. It had been a long day, no, a long week, of stressful negotiations, and he needed a break.
Suddenly, Eights saw a shady looking character at the side of the bar. He was creeping up on a woman passed out drunk, sneaking a hand into her wallet. It might have been the haze chips that triggered it, but Eights's damaged decision-making cortex sparked, then went wildly haywire. Eights pushed himself up from his stool with a passion, wrists buzzing with electricity.
"Stop, thief! You step away from that woman and drop those credits before I hit you with 750 volts of pain."