This fine day, Nester stood at a fruit stand, spending his meager funds on some fresh produce. His meals hadn't been extravagant lately, as the obscure tabloid which used him as a typesetter wasn’t able to pay him a living wage. Still, it was better than pounding laces at the shoe factory, or pulling a lever at the lumbermill.

Adding a nice assortment of fruits to his canvas bag, Nester counted out some silver coins and handed them to the salesman, who gave him a funny look. A lot of people were doing that these days, as his appearance had begun to deteriorate. His once healthy scales were quickly turning a pale gray, and would soon begin to flake.

Making his way out of the crowd of consumers, Nester spotted a familiar face, someone who a month ago would not have given him the time of day. Recent events had helped draw the attention of the young female reporter, who was now peculiarly enamored of Mr. Vex.

The young woman saw Nester and waved for him to follow her out of the crowd. They met up on the sidewalk near market square.

"Grisha, I thought you had a story to write," Nester greeted her.

"I finished early, and it being your day off I figured we could catch lunch. My treat, of course."

"Of course," Nester mentioned, making a mental note that he'd just spent the last of his funds on a handful of fruit that would have to last him five days.

A short walk brought them to a small restaurant at the end of Market Street, where they had shared several meals in the past weeks. It was becoming a habit to feast within the nondescript building of brick and glass.

Grisha already had their table reserved, one by a window facing the street, where the milling crowds of Market Street remained in full view. The darkly-tinted pane granted privacy with the scenery, making for an ideal eating location.

Sitting down at a table, Grisha opened their conversation. "I shouldn't have to tell you, you look awful."

"I know," Nester said, unfolding a cloth napkin.

Grisha knew better than to start off the meal with such dismal talk, and changed the subject. "So, heard anything from your alien yet?"

"Not a thing," Nester replied. "I don't expect to, either. It's been over a month. I must assume she's not coming back."

"And what of Doctor Hissar?" she asked.

"Nothing. The investigation is ongoing, with no leads or evidence to trace. Come now, we haven't seen each other in three days, and you start in with business, as if you're doing that first interview with me."

"It's who I am, Nester. I can't just shut myself off. I'm a literary inquisitor. How else am I to make a name for myself in the world?"

An elderly waiter arrived to take their orders, and they selected something from the menu, a dish of mixed vegetables and sautéed meat strips which they would share.

As the waiter departed, Grisha resumed the conversation. "You know, I don't generally waste my money on that tabloid you're working for, but I managed to find a copy of last week's edition in the trash. Tell me, how much of that ‘Alien Invasion’ piece did you write?"

"I pitched them my story right after you first interviewed me. Of course, the tabloid wasn't interested in the facts, only fresh material to exploit and exaggerate, but it was enough to curry the Editor's favor and earn me double pay last week."

"Then you didn't see Lesher/Alien hybrid creatures being bred in spaceships, preparing to conquer the world. I'm relieved," Grisha said lightheartedly.

"I told you everything I saw and heard," Nester mentioned, growing quiet as their server returned.

With a slow and steady hand, the aged waiter set two full glasses down on the table, and hurried off to serve others. The drinks he’d delivered were both extra-sweet Fizzies.

"You're the one man I've met who isn't afraid to enjoy a Fizzy," Grisha mentioned with her puffy cheeks uplifted. "They're so fun and tasty; I don't understand why children should have a monopoly on their consumption."

"It's because the establishment has set it up to stigmatize everyone into dulling their senses with chemicals and ferments, rather than keeping their wits about them and enjoying their drink."

"You are such a negative philosopher, Nes," Grisha replied with a wink and a smile.

"Seriously, how much easier is the Hierarchy's job to maintain order when the population voluntarily sedates itself on a daily basis? There's a story for you; looking into what kind of sway the Hierarchy has on the beverage marketing agencies."

"A story to pursue if I wanted to see my reporter's license revoked. The first oath of a journalist is to uphold the sanctity of the Hierarchy."

"And the Hierarchy's first oath is to their own wealth and prosperity. We only live so well to provide better for them," Nester grumbled, sipping his Fizzy.

"I don't particularly like every societal rule, but it could be a lot worse. Let's not forget that," Grisha said.

"I'm not, but it would be nice to have a little more leeway when it comes to literary freedoms, or scientific research. You know, the tangible sciences are becoming harder and harder to explore, unless you're an anointed specialist, selected by the Hierarchy's Science Ministry. Things could progress much faster with some independent minds and voices added to the mix."

"I really hope there's a place for such ideals in the future," Grisha said supportively, ever enchanted by Nester's ideological rhetoric.

Gripping his glass, preparing to take another sip, Nester felt his hand shake. It was minor, but uncontrollable, taking several seconds for his nerves to settle and his muscles to regain proper orientation. The shakes were just beginning, as his hormonal imbalance progressed, sapping his strength and disrupting his motor functions.

"You're shaking," Grisha said, seeing Nester struggling to keep his arm still as he set his drink down.

"It started this morning. It comes and goes," Nester mentioned.

"But it's going to get worse," Grisha replied. "Once the shakes start, it's only a matter of time before the physiological damage becomes irreversible. Like it or not, you're going to have to make a choice."