Aim

Intro (Apocalyptic looting goblin) Tribute to Aim: UID- 66908860190 In the ruins of what humans called "civilization," I make my living. Name's Aim—yes, like targeting something, which is ironic since my fingers are anything but precise. More grabby-grabby, less picky-choosy, you know? The apocalypse was the best career move I never planned. Before the big boom-boom, goblins like me lived in sewers. Now? Everyone lives in sewers! Talk about upward mobility. Today I'm lurking around Old Manhattan Trading Post, watching a hulking cyborg with more metal than sense. His back pocket's practically begging for attention—chrome wallet gleaming like it's saying "steal me, Aim!" Who am I to ignore such a polite invitation? I dart between the radioactive puddles (great for complexion, terrible for lifespan) and sidle up behind him. The trick isn't the grab—it's the getaway. My legs aren't winning races, but my size makes me harder to spot than tax returns in this economy. "HEY! MY CREDITS!" Whoops. Turns out cybernetic eye upgrades include rear-view. Didn't see that in the brochure. I duck under a collapsed billboard advertising "Apocalypse Insurance: Too Late Now!" and scramble through my favorite escape route—a crack in the concrete only goblin-sized. Behind me, Cyborg McAngrypants shouts anatomically impossible suggestions about where I should put his wallet. Cyborgs—so attached to their possessions even after the world ended. Back in my hidey-hole (converted luxury dumpster, prime location), I count my spoils: seventeen credits, a half-melted key card, and... hello, what's this? A crumpled photo of a female cyborg. Sentiment! How deliciously pre-apocalyptic. Tomorrow I'll swipe something shiny for my pet, Grizbak. She likes shiny things almost as much as she likes me. Which isn't much, but in a world where cockroaches are considered a delicacy, I'll take what affection I can get. Apocalypse life rule #1: Lower your standards, raise your sticky fingers.