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As Jay walks down Torrens Street, he connects to Electrowerkz. His membership ID is encrypted, verified, and beamed to the aerial above the doorway. By the time he reaches the door, the bouncers will know to let him come in. The entrance fee is debited from his account. The street still seems bright, even now at midnight. Cars and motorbikes are parked either side, and bulging PVC sacks line the pavement.
Stepping into the club doorway, the MOTD flashes before his eyes. Adjusting focus, he quickly skims the club's rules, bar tariff, and details a few upcoming special events, before blink-clicking to avoid the accompanying audio. Focusing through the text before it fades, he walks into the downstairs of the club, unbuttoning his red leather trenchcoat to reveal leather trousers and a fishnet top, through which can be seen his pierced nipples and pale, muscular, squash-playing physique.
The familiar sights of the Slimelight crowd make him feel welcome. A few people he knows are sat in the alcove by the fire escape, and plenty of strangers, both familiar and previously unseen, wander around, heading for the dancefloor, the bar, the toilets or for random other clubgoers. There's a track Jay doesn't know playing on the dancefloor, so he selects the recently-appeared Slimelight icon to find out what it is. Something from the new Maruta Kommand release. Sounds good. He makes a note to investigate it further, and then he catches Dave, slumped in a corner, mumbling. Jay's not sure whether he's just drunk, or sub-vocalising a phone-call, digital logon, or e-mail through his throat-mike. As a friend, Dave is caught in a bright bounding-box, and a few details hang in the top-left corner - when they last saw each other, the fifteen quid that Dave owes, things like that.
Dave looks the same as ever - scuffed jackboots over purple combat trousers, tight black top with fibre-optic constellations, and his home-made rig, a slab of thick black rubber over his eyes, randomly violated with shards of stainless steel like the many piercings in his ears, nose and lip. He's clearly neither too drunk nor too busy, because he stands up, and embraces Jay, his steel and latex rig snagging on Jay's considerably less impressive-looking brushed aluminium headgear. Still, at least Jay made his own, from the ground up. Dave got a mutual friend, Kyle, to do it.
"Hey, man, you got that 15 quid you owe me?"
Dave mutters to himself, rubbing his thumb against a device attached to the side of his index finger, and soon a confimatory notice of the payment appears to Jay.
Looking at one of the control points on the wall, Jay asks the club who amongst his friends is here. Katie is upstairs. Bringing the video window up to replace his own sight, Jay catches her on the dancefloor, a mass of incandescent light, a living ice-sculpture, leaving motion-blurs on the security camera as she thrashes to the music. Being a friend of hers, he can patch into her voice-channel.
"Hey Katie!"
The sudden noise catches her by surprise, and she loses the beat. Frowning, she glares at the camera and walks off the dancefloor. The camera switches to the upstairs coffee bar in time to see her walk through, her outfit subdued against the bright lights of the bar. A few other people are here, talking, kissing, or slumped in corners. Katie leans against the vending machine, folds her arms across her chest, and looks at her brightly-painted fingernails.
"You dick, Jay. You could give me some warning."
"Sorry. Didn't mean to ruin your dancing."
Aware that he's locking, - only paying attention to a virtual situation - Jay squishes the video window into his real-sight display and finds a seat while he talks.
"I suppose I'd better come down and say hi then."
"Want a drink?"
"Sure. Cider. Pint of."
Jay flashes the order to the bar and kills the video feed. While he waits, he catches sight of a tall girl in a purple velvet frock-coat, over a black corset and short skirt. The corset improves her already-great figure, and to cap it all, she's wearing an exquisite period head-rig, all faux-wooden panelling, brass and rivets. There's a slight bulge visible on her back where the main unit fits. Jay smiles - his rig is totally contained in the head-piece.
Curious, he asks her system for information, and finds out that her name is Sally, she lives in Winchester, and anything else will have to be asked directly. Just as he's standing to go and attempt to chat her up, he sees the bright glare of Katie coming round the corner. She walks up to Jay and kisses him on the lips, towering over him in her platforms.
"So, what do you want with me?"
"Well, I'd had wind of a business proposition."
"Shoot."
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