Graves' attention was abruptly diverted by a distinct voice, harsher and more assertive than the flirtatious calls he'd just shrugged off. "Hey you, American," it rang through the noisy atmosphere of the club.
He pivoted to find the armed guard who had escorted him earlier, his stern face cutting through the clamor of the crowd. The guard held out ten purple casino chips toward Graves. "Courtesy from the Boss," he stated plainly. "For fixing the generator."
Graves, cautious but curious, accepted the chips. He weighed them in his hand, unfamiliar with their value within this isolated economy. "What can I get with these?" he inquired.
