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Mason stepped over the still form of a gang banger, flung from the centre of the energy strike.
 
He looked down at the body, shaved head face down against the dirty floor, then scanned the rest of the room.
 
The radius of damage was from where Mason had been sitting at the bar, more or less.
 
His optics drew a line on the overlay back to the booth that was the point of origin.
 
No sign of the
ganguro
girls that had been there, the booth black and empty.
 
A fluorescent light stuttered briefly to life, then went dark as the sprinklers kicked in.
 
Muddy water trickled listlessly from the ceiling for a brief moment before dying out, loose drips of dark water sticking to the ceiling nozzles.

He found the bartender sprawled backwards against a broken table.
 
The bartender’s chrome arm was gone, the stump smooth and pale — cheap work without anchoring.
 
Or maybe the guy just didn’t want to get that close to the metal.
 
Mason did a scan, his HUD picking out the injuries.
 
He knelt down.
 
“Hey.”

The bartender coughed, the sound ragged and wet.
 
“I tried to…
 
Anyway.
 
Did you get the address?”

“I got it.”
 
Mason nodded at the door.
 
“It’ll keep a few minutes longer.”

The bartender grabbed at Mason’s bicep with his flesh hand.
 
“You don’t understand.
 
They’re killing us.”

“Killing you?”

“The rain.
 
Your
buyer
.
 
That’s what’s for sale.
 
Don’t you know?”
 
The bartender coughed again.
 
“Will you—”
 

“That’s the plan.”
 
Mason stood up.
 
“Who was it?”

“What?”

“Who did you lose to the rain?”

The bartender looked up at him, the firelight playing across his features.
 
The blue had faded out of the
hanzi
, leaving grey marks like scars.
 
“My brother.”

Mason nodded down at him.
 
“Try not to move.
 
A medivac’s coming.”

“I can’t afford that.”
 
The man’s eyes turned pleading.
 
“I — just leave me here.
 
I’ll be ok.”

Mason looked down at the Tenko-Senshin, the weapon’s hum a gentle touch against his hand.
 
He moved towards the door.
 
Before he stepped out onto the street, he looked back.
 
“It’s on the house.”

“Which house?”
 
The bartender tried to push himself upright.
 
“Who’m I gonna owe for this?”

Mason didn’t reply as he walked outside into the hissing rain, the door scraping shut behind him.

“I just don’t know if I love you anymore.”
 
Sadie tightened her garter straps and grabbed at a shirt from the pile on the floor.
 
“That’s all I’ve got.”

“Seriously?” Aldo looked at her from the couch.
 
“You’re doing this to me now?
 
We’re on in five.”

“I know baby.”
 
She shrugged the shirt on over her shoulders.
 
They hadn’t taken the time to unbutton earlier.
 
“But that’s the way it’s going to be.”

“Well, shit.”
 
The drummer rummaged around the pile on the floor, grabbing a pair of black leather pants.
 
He felt in a pocket, pulling out a rumpled pack of cigarettes.
 
He offered her one, lighting it for her with an old style Zippo, the skull motif etched on the side worn with time.
 
“When will you know?”

“Know what?”
 
Sadie was working on some black eyeliner.
 
A rush job would have to do.
 
She pursed her lips at her reflection in the mirror, then took another drag on the cigarette.

“You know.
 
Whether you love me.”

“I don’t know.”
 
She took a final drag, then put the cigarette down in favor of a comb, teasing her hair.

“You don’t know?
 
How can you not know?”

Sadie sighed, her shoulders sagging a little.
 
She didn’t turn away from the mirror.
 
“It’s not that easy.”

“It’s easy for me.”

“No kidding.
 
That was the fastest round we’ve ever had.”

Aldo looked down at his crotch, then back up at her reflection.
 
“Hey.
 
You said you wanted it quick.”

“I said I wanted to get it done before we had to go on.
 
It’s not the same thing.”
 
Sadie gestured over her shoulder with a free hand, still wrangling her hair with the other.
 
“You should put those on.”

“Why?
 
What if I don’t feel like playing tonight?”
 
Aldo started putting a foot into the leather pants anyway.

“What are we, five years old?”
 
Sadie shrugged.
 
“I guess I play without a drummer tonight.”

“What?”
 
Aldo stumbled as his other foot got caught in his pants leg.
 
A year ago, he’d filled those pants out; now, not so much.
 
“You don’t have a band without a drummer.”

There was a knock on the door.
 
“You’re on.”
 
It was Bernie, the stage manager.
 
The man carried too much stress for his own good.
 
“Don’t do this muso shit tonight, Freeman!
 
I got a hundred people out here who’ve paid—”

“Shut it, Bernie!”
 
Sadie turned to face the door, a hair spray can raised in one hand.
 
“I’ll be on when I’m fucking on!
 
Don’t you have an ulcer to go work on?”

“Damn musos.
 
You’re all the same…”
 
The voice drifted off away from the door.

Aldo was pushing an arm through a black sleeve, his movements sharp and angry.
 
“You haven’t answered.”

Sadie gave a last flourish with the hair spray, and pouted at her reflection.
 
Maybe too much grunge, Sadie
.
 
“What?
 
About the drummer?
 
I don’t need a drummer.”

“Every band needs a drummer.
 
But no — the other thing.”

“I played two years without a band, let alone a drummer.
 
What makes you think I need a band?
 
Christ.
 
Bernie’s right, musicians are all the same.”
 
Sadie stood, grabbing her jacket from the back of a chair where she’d tossed it earlier.
 
The leather was real, a parting gift from her father.
 
It was the only thing he’d ever given her.

Aside from the guitar.
 
She looked at it, leaning in the corner next to the door.
 
A shiver tapped its way up her spine.
 
God, but she loved to play; her hands itched to hold it.

“Jesus.
 
You’re breaking up the band?”
 
Aldo’s mouth hung open slightly.

“What?
 
No.
 
Well, not unless you’re a child and stay locked in your room tonight.”
 
Sadie pulled on her boots, the metal clasps jingling against her hands, then moved to the guitar.
 
She almost reached for it, but turned to Aldo instead.
 
The edge of her lips quirked, black lipstick against the pale white of her skin.
 
“So.
 
You playing tonight, lover?”

Aldo pulled the edges of his vest together, then ran a hand through his hair.
 
He dropped a lopsided grin at her, and she almost wanted to take it all back.
 
“Yeah.
 
Let’s go, Freeman.
 
I’ll play for you.”

She grinned back, then turned and picked up the guitar.
 
“Ok.
 
Let’s rock this house.”
 
Sadie grabbed at the door, yanking it open, letting her boots clank and stomp their own way to the stage.
 
It was time to
play
.

⚔ ⚛ ⚔

Her lips brushed the old style mic, the air charged with the smell of liquor and sweat.
 
Only a spark would be needed to ignite it.
 
Ancient incandescent lights, bright and hot, shone down on her.
 
Her fingers touched the strings, the sound almost gentle as it leaked and flowed from the speakers.
 
The crowd hushed, like an indrawn breath, like the feeling before a storm.

She could feel the band behind her.
 
Aldo with his electronic drum kit — Sadie knew the sound wouldn’t be quite right.
 
Janice with her guitar, the digital board doing all the hard work.
 
Fakes, impostors on her stage.
 
That wasn’t music.
 
She played at
The Hole
because it let her play for real people.
 
Off the grid.
 
The mic in front of her smelled of excitement.
 
Music was —

Sadie brought a hand down against the strings, her other hand letting fingers skip against fingerboard.
 
The crowd surged against the stage as the steady beat of the Seattle sound mixed with air.
 
The room grew heavy, the people grinding against each other, jerking and dancing with the beat.
 
She forgot about Aldo, about Bernie and his cut, about how she was going to make rent.
 
For a little while, the strings under her fingers were all that mattered, and she sang alongside her guitar until her voice grew hoarse.

Then she stopped, the crowd stumbling against the fallen beat.
 
Sadie breathed in and out into the microphone, her pulse pounding.
 
“Heh.”
 
Her voice echoed back to her from the back of the room.
 
“Sorry.
 
I’m just, you know.
 
Tired.”
 
She glanced to the side and saw Bernie in the wings, a scowl blooming on his face.
 
A grin caught against her teeth.

“So.”
 
Sadie turned back to the crowd —
my people
.
 
“Do you think I should stop?”

NO
.
 
The roar washed over her, and she closed her eyes in the face of it.

“Ah hah.”
 
Her fingers touched the guitar again, the sound dancing around the stage.
 
The crowd hushed for her.
 
“Well.
 
Is anyone going to at least buy a lady a drink?”

Some hero in the crowd raised his bottle up towards the stage.
 
More followed, the press of bodies almost urgent.
 
She held a hand up.
 
“Thanks.
 
Just pop it on the edge.”
 
The hero put his drink on the lip of the stage.
 
“What’s your name?”

“Mark,” said the hero.

Sadie smiled at him over the sound of the guitar.
 
“No shit.
 
Mark.”
 
She stepped forward, grabbing the bottle from the edge, the glass sweating against her hand.
 
She lifted, tilting it towards Mark, then tipped it back.
 
The beer was cool and clean, and she finished the bottle in a moment, tossing the empty to the side of the stage.
 
“Thanks.
 
Mark.
 
Someone buy Mark a drink!”

There was some cheering and a subtle shift in direction as people moved to the bar.
 
She glanced at Bernie.
 
His scowl was struggling to hold.
 
People buying liquor always increased profits, especially in a place like this.

Sadie moved back, plucking at the strings again.
 
She’d lied.
 
She never felt tired when she played.

⚔ ⚛ ⚔

Sadie shuffled through the wad of dirty paper, counting the notes.
 
“Where’s the rest?”

Bernie shrugged at her.
 
“That’s it.
 
That’s your cut.”

“Bullshit.”
 
Sadie kicked off her boots and sent them tumbling across the room into a wall.
 
“They were on fire, Bernie.
 
They bought beer.
 
And a cover charge.”

He shrugged again, his belly rising and falling with it.
 
“What can I say.
 
It’s hard, you know?
 
Cash, it’s a rare thing.
 
If only you had an uplink, you could see for yourself.
 
Check the books.”
 
A smile worked across his face, but found it foreign territory and left.
 
“You think I’m trying to cheat you?
 
You’re my star!
 
C’mon.”

Uplinked — hell with that
.
 
The thought came quick, almost instinct.
 
“I think you’d cheat your mother if you thought you could get away with it.
 
And I don’t want shit in my head.
 
Gets in the way of the music.”

“The band doesn’t think so.”
 
Bernie nodded at the door.
 
“They’re happy digital.
 
You’re the one with an ancient guitar.”