Lodestone TLR-99

Customer dispute

"What's the big idea, double-billing me for your last op?" demanded Chief Moll, a man of Dwarven build as well as personality. Mehr looked at him sidelong, very much needing to not get distracted from this wiring job. "I thought my contract was clear that it'd be 2 grand per--"

"Chief!" Mehr snapped at him. She used the title begrudgingly, knowing as well as most of the colony by now that Moll was only a "chief" because he said so. Even still, calling him by it did get him to shut up. And were it not for the fact that he had the funds to back up the title, she'd just as well tell him to fuck off right now. "I'm sorry, but I can't discuss these matters myself. You probably want to speak with the Customer Service desk, up front."

The chief said nothing, unsure how to process having had his buck passed, but marched over to the counter where Kath was sitting and clipping her fingernails. "I was hoping I wouldn't have to deal with you, Niemeyer."

"Did you find everything you were looking for today?" The forced sweetness in Kath's voice was her way of saying she wasn't in the mood for bullshit.

Moll slapped a carbon-copy of the bill from Op 223 on the counter. "You're double-charging me." He jabbed a finger somewhere between the third and fourth line of the itemized list of targets. "We agreed to 2,000 a kill, the last time we negotiated your contract, and you're billing me 60 grand for 15 targets destroyed."

"I'm sorry to hear that your experience hasn't gone well. But that's our sale price, half-off for the week of your...what was it, harvest festival?" Kath dutifully scrubbed her nails with side 3 of her 7-in-1 nail file. "Special rate was good for that week only, and our service is no longer discounted."

"I'm not paying 60 grand for one op!"

"Unfortunately, sir, our service cannot give refunds or exchanges."

"The latter of which would be logistically impossible unless you'd be okay with us rebuilding hostile attack drones within city limits," Mehr chimed in.

Kath nodded curtly. "She's right, y'know. And, well, you not wanting hostile attack drones in your city was kind of the reason you chose us as your defense squad in the first place."

Chief Moll could only growl and scrunch his face up like he'd eaten something sour.

"Would you, perhaps, like to sign up for our Financial Assistance Program? You don't have to pay us all at once."

"I want to pay you thirty grand and be done with it."

"I can happily take your thirty grand," Kath began, "but as that's only half of what was itemized, that leaves you with an outstanding balance of another thirty grand."

"You'll get the other thirty grand as soon as you kill another 15 of those damn drones."

"We'll get the other thirty grand, plus interest," Kath corrected in the same saccharine-sweet voice, "dependent upon how long it is before the next attack."

Moll's face went sour again, but finally, he reached for his wallet. "There's got to be someone cheaper."

"You want the best, you're paying for the best. Anything less is Wage Theft, punishable by Galactic Royal Decree Number 72."

"Damn those royals anyway, if they can't be bothered to make an appearance on their own damn planet..." He grumbled and groused, but he still fished a few polymer notes out of his billfold.

Kath cheerfully counted the wad out loud. "Five, ten, fifteen, twenty, and...I'm sorry, you still owe us another ten thousand."

"You'll get the rest later," he grimaced nastily.

"I'm afraid that's not going to work with me, sir. Oh, Loss Prevention?"

In an instant, Mehr was standing behind the stout Chief, towering a head and a half over him, arms akimbo.

"...Fine," the chief grumped. He extracted another 10K bill from somewhere else on his person and pressed it into Kath's outstretched hand.

"Thaaaaank you," Kath almost sang, "I do hope you'll come again."