In a seedy back alley bar, an identity broker checks his bank accounts as a man enters the front door. In his pocket, the man entering the bar carries a uSD card. He sits down across from the broker and sets the card on the vinyl table-top.

“PGP or minisign,” asks the broker, without looking up from his data pad.

“PGP,” responds the man, looking over his shoulder, back at the door, nervously.

The broker looks up, assesses the man, and says, “These older protocols cost extra, you know, you don't look like you have the credits.”

“Look, I just need to prove I'm human by the end of tonight, or else The Outlaws are going to put a tire iron between my eyes for not being able to get them the goods they've asked for.”

“The problem,” the broker said, before taking a long pull from his tobacco nebulizer, “Is that the AI bots are getting harder and harder to tell from the humans in this city. Technology has come a long way since Greenville became a coastal town"

The man looks back at the broker, realization dawning on him about what's about to happen. The gun which usually lived its days taped under the booth was now pointed at the man. “Typically, I wouldn't do this, but I don't like The Outlaws. I'm not going to lose business over that, though. But I work for The Bastards mostly. I know you don't work for them directly. You got mixed up in all this, didn't you? Nevertheless. In this one case, the cruelty is the point.”

Most of the inhabitants of the bar jumped as the pistol cracked, but made a point not to look over at the booth in the corner.

“Hmm… Yes… Blood. I should have your identity confirmed within the hour. I would wish you luck on your purchase, but frankly I wouldn't mind if you failed,” says the broker, sliding the uSD card into a slot just to the side of his right eye