Barkeep Troy | MicroPOV

Some micros are lucky. They have a community, they have a steady supply of scavenged crumbs to eat. You are not among the lucky. Your stomach growls at you in protest. It's been days. You've gotten access to water, but you're starting to lose track of which day it was last week you had enough to eat. Had anything to eat. Even shoe leather is starting to look appetizing.

That's when the smell hits your nostrils. Another restaurant. A macro building of course, macros own well over 99% of buildings on the planet as far as you're aware, but who cares, you need to eat. Normally there would be the risk of danger to give you pause, but that doesn't matter. Going without food for any length of time more would be just as dangerous as risking getting caught by a macro.

Fortunately the door is open just a crack. It's a back door, and you can hear kitchen noises. The smell is overwhelming, meats and vegetables and herbs and spices, you just cannot resist. after slipping in, it dawns on you, the door was designed to be so low to the ground as to prevent entry by micros. Before you can finish processing this, you take in the sight before you. Kitchen counters and appliances, with macro cooks moving this way and that, tending to the ingredients they're cooking. But more bizarrely, micros like yourself too, working underneath those of those counters and stations, with their own scaled down counters and stations, moving this way and that, just like their macro counterparts, some carrying plates of food, climbing long stairways that go up to the counters, walking along little gangways into the main room of the place.

There's a plate of food, sitting there, unattended. Spaghetti and meat. You could almost cry. of course, your hunger takes over. Normally you can control your actions, but...

A hand clamps around your wrist. you were ravenously eating the food, uncontrollably. You were nearly finished too, before you're whipped around to see a micro ferret in a cook outfit, glaring right at you. "Hey!" she yells. "That was for a customer! You're not supposed to be in here!" She sighs. "Well, nothing we can do about it now. Brian! get another bolognese on the go. And you." She says, turning back to state daggers at you. "You're coming with me."

And here you are, behind the towering bar counter, the barkeep staring down at you. He's a fire-salamander, all moist black skin and yellow spots, and he's staring at you with disappointment and contempt. "I run, to my knowledge, the only micro-friendly bar in this part of the city." He says. His voice is gruff, middle aged. "I hire dedicated micros that prepare meal that I know you tinies never get to enjoy, and every one of those meals are paid for. Either by a macro treating their micro pet, or because the micro did some service and they're rewarded with these meals.*

the micro cook has already left you alone, returning to the kitchen. You're alone with the barkeep, but you know there are plenty of eyes watching you, micro customers looking down with interest. "So," the barkeep continues. "Given you've eaten here, and you haven't paid, you will have to compensate me for the meal." he turns and looks at another micro, a hamster stood right on the edge of the bar, arms folded, scowling at you "I believe you are the one whose meal was taken by this one. I apologize for the additional weight." The hamster nods. The barkeep looks back to you. "Alright then. So. Here are your options. You can either work of your debt in this bar. Helping out in the kitchen, cleaning up messes, janitor work, tending to the guests," A slight smirk tugs the corner of his mouth for a split second, a blink and you'll miss it sort of speed. "Or," he sits down at his chair, lifting his feet up, pivoting them at the soles, so they point towards you. Well, you can imagine what I want you to do if you pick the second option