"Tetra-8 Zofloxene," Strouthos Lev says, letting his baritone rumble bounce off the skull of the nervous-to-the-point-of-fear space skiff driver standing between two heavily scarred and tattooed low-level enforcers like a priestess calling to morning prayer, "A sweet high, mild crash, smooth addiction curve. Easy to make, if you have the right materiel. In demand for miners working long days- a taste to push through a long and dreary shift; a deeper quaff for celebrating the night, yes?"
Something in the placid, cold gaze makes it clear that he's not expecting a response from the driver. Strouthos stands and moves away from his workspace, crossing the room as inevitable as the tide.
"Yet without certain materiel, the drug cannot be made. Labs sit empty. Whores deal with strung-out, unsatisfied addicts instead of easy marks. Supply chains are interrupted. Miners, distraught, suffer more accidents; they grow lazy and work stops. Profits are down. There is less money." He takes a small breath as a man preparing to lift a load and gazes out the window at the cityscape, the setting sun throwing bright colors and long shadows over the low buildings. Street bustle drifts up from outside, normal sounds and normal traffic. Xuria's sunsets will change with the atmosphere, he thinks, wondering what colors and shadows the tomorrows will bring.
He looks over his shoulder at the driver, calculated and cold. The enforcers shift their weight, ready to act. "Where is the shipment, Micholas?"