Eddy Kras set his instacake down as the backdoor alarm overtook the thrumming dance music which filled his ears. Glancing at the biosensors he spied a lone woman shrouded in a raincoat, a hood shading her face, pounding upon the entrance to the club in the backalley. He flicked on the speaker system and spoke into the panel set before his affin console.
“I’m looking for work.”
“Were not hiring.”
“Oh? I heard Loa was always looking for new talent. Anyways. Its raining. Are you really going leave a girl out in the rain?”
“No one’s forcing you to stand there.”
“I just want an interview with the manager.” She paused a moment, measuring her words, “I can make it worth your while.”
“Use your imagination.” The woman replied cooly.
Kras arched a brow and chuckled.
“Oh yeah? Well… maybe we can work something out. I’ll be down in a moment.”
He straightened and swiftly rose from his swivel chair and walked the short distance from the security hub to the back entrance of the club. He opened the door and gasped.
Surrounding the woman was a detachment of soldiers, clad in albescent ceramics and sychitin. Before Kras could close the door one of the soldiers, distinguished from the rest by the vermeil of his mail, grabbed the door and held it ajar.
The woman lowered her hood, revealing a pallid face and long, dark hair tied elegantly back with a gel-frosted argent band.
Kras remembered the face. He backed up against the right of the doorjam, mouth agape.
The doorman grinned halfheartedly, bemused.
“I take it you’re not really gonna make this ‘worth my while.'”
Kras winced as Straker took a step forward, her gaze fixed upon the darkened recess of the club. She spoke without looking at him. As if here were not even there.
“Truth is not owed the profiteers of its malformation.”