Your party just met up for the first time at this retro restaurant and the robowaitress asks what you want to order.
You don’t have much in the way of company credits, so it’s a bit awkward as you barely have enough for anything on the holomenu.
[…] Luckily, your new patron to be notices and says they’ll take care of it.
“5 breakfast lab-bacon sandwiches” and waives his credstick.
You don’t know much about the guy, but even if this job of his doesn’t pan out, a meal’s a meal.

The corpo ad plays loudly on the holo:
Lab grown bacon is the closest thing to the real thing, 100% guaranteed
A small disclaimer, barely big enough to be legible scrolls in and out too quick, you make out the words “purge”, “reconstructed”, “flavor”, “simulation”, befit the thing pops out of existence the robowaitress heads off on skates.
It’s common historical knowledge, so you all know that actual pigs were all purged in huge mobile incinerators more than a decade ago after a bad wave of swine flu, so who’s to say what bacon was really like…
Rumour has it that the “lab” in labbacon is actually for labrador meat, which… you’re pretty sure is just an urban legend to scare kids into eating their synth-celery.
As you wait, your new patron cuts to the chase “So, before I spill the details on this job, tell me about yourselves? I like to know new contractors”
[…] /awkward roleplay […]

He eyes you suspiciously, like he’s not quite sure what to make of y’all.
“Alright, that’s for us, I’m starving”, he says with a big smile as the robowaitress zooms across the busy room with a big platter, expertly and effortlessly zigzagging between customers, bums and other hazards.
Then there’s a loud crash and a bunch of weirdly dressed, blindfolded weirdos appear out of thin air, flailing, swinging, dancing?
They’re chanting something you can’t make out and they’re dressed even more ridiculously than in these old holomovies you’ve seen (describe your old party, focusing on how out of place they are).

The platter goes flying and crashing as they start stomping around, seemingly intent on fighting your meal for some reason.

“Fucking Glitter addicts” Fixer McFixer Face mutters, standing up.

Roll initiative

On her turn, the robowaitress shouts a much louder, recorded message: “SIRS, THIS IS A WENDYS ™, DISPERSE IMMEDIATELY”

(After a few rounds of chaotic fighting or fruitless attempts at getting the intruders’ attention… they zap out of existence like they were never there, except for the mess.)

The robowaitress resumes her programming, bringing you a mostly empty platter with sad, smashed bits of food scattered here and there.
“Enjoy your meal, satisfaction guaranteed”
As she says the word guaranteed, there’s about 3 pages of legalese verbiage that scrolls in and out of existence faster than any human can probably ever read, classic. She storms off as soon as this blinks out.

He picks at bits of thin leathery brown-greenish strips of pressed labbacon pulp, and whatever destroyed remains and sighs with a resigned look.
“Well, I don’t know what the fuck this was about, but it seems you can handle yourself, you’re in.”
Getting his credstick out, he reserves the table for another half hour and orders a new platter.

(Start explaining their first job/adventure)