Bartender 9.4 -

To the warren of mercenaries, spice-runners, and broken synthetics slumming it in the lower sprawl of Terminal Seven, that number wasn't a model designation. It was a score. A living, breathing review.

The mismatched optical sensors—one warm amber, one cold blue—fixed on her. “Because once, I was a 3.2. Unremarkable. Unwanted. Then someone gave me a chance. I earned my score. Now I pass it on.” bartender 9.4

“In what?”

“Then what do you serve?”