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Message: <blockquote data-quote="johndaw16" data-source="post: 2835995" data-attributes="member: 12033">Industrial Cocktails…im the addict on the corner im the lawyer in the tower im the body with the coroner…An unmanned SaniTech cleaner drone sat in the middle of alleyway AA-34, just one of thousands of deserted industrial conduits in the Corr.  The drones AI paused, a nanoseconds delay, as long dormant protocols were called up.  Unused logic processes ran through sensor data, eliminating contingencies.  In a fraction of a second a message was sent, the drone settling into standby.  Thirty miles away, a BACA police router received an alert.  Three unidentified bodies: human; location: AA-34_P.id_Z., identification, removal, and response requested.  A handful of miles away, Miller leaned against the cool steel wall of a warehouse. Rain had begun to fall in the fading twilight.  Cold rivulets of water ran down the steel, down the back of Miller’s Di Meo.  He didn’t care anymore, but the rain felt d-mn good on his neck.  He ran a hand across his forehead, wiping away the rain that clouded his eyes.  Miller didn’t know how long he’d been running.  A few miles tops.  He couldn’t afford any stops but he had to stop anyway to dry heave every few minutes.  Why am I even running, you were the one attacked.  You didn’t do anything wrong.  Well maybe his toxicology would be enough to earn him a fine or two…but still.  Miller had hardly any memory of last night, and what little he could remember couldn’t save his ass.  ...…  “C’mon Miller, its Thursday night and I know damn well you want to go out.”  “Vermon, you know I would if I could, but not tonight.  I got $30,000,000 in clients assets strung across the Euro-Spread and ‘till I close those positions I ain’t going nowhere.  I want my 6 month bonus.”“Bullsh-t, dude you know there’s no one on the spread right now, no market makers at least.  We’ll hit the clubs, come back when we’re done, and hit the Bundesbank with they’re morning coffee.”“You can’t be serious; you know I’ll be totally fragged after the clubs.  No way can I hit work to trade at whatever god-awful hour we stumble out of the club.”“Nah, dude we’ll be straight,” Vermon leaned in close, that familiar glint in his eyes.  “I got some good sh-t tonight…Aimee you remember her right, she knows a guy, from the islands.  Could give a sh-t where he’s from, but she got some stuff off him that’s bangin’.  Ramps you up for a good sixteen hours, gives ya a boner for four, and you ain’t fried when you come down.”  “Chill, Vermon.  You know I’m done with that scene."  Miller stalled Vermon's diatribe.  "Wait…wait…tell ya what I’ll do bro, I’ll go get some of Mer’s modafinil hit that before we go and get a cat nap for five.  We’ll roll out hit the clubs and then come back and do some early trades before open.  Deal?” ...…It was.  Five hours later Miller found himself in Vermon’s Honda cruising the Old Town strip along Union St.  The club de jour this side of the Potomac was the Union 495, a retro dance joint that pumped anachronistic techno beats spliced with indie movie clips from the turn of the millennium.  By the time they’d paid their way to the front of the line Vermon was already orgiasticlly high off whatever designer drug he’d gotten off Aimee.  The word said the club was completely wired and that a Dutch engineer had teamed up with a Chi-town entertainment programmer to design the club like a gigantic tuning fork; attuned to resonate with the music and primal human responses, to produce stimulating responses.  Within a month three copycat clubs claimed to have perfected the technique from Tokyo to NYC.  The interior was tastefully decorated in a modern minimalist way, brushed steel, plain ipe flooring, and clean lines.  The crowd was a cross-section of the "best" the Corr could offer: young professionals like Miller and Vermon, the socialites of high fashion, and a bevy of posers mimicking whichever gang or tribal style was in vogue that week.  By the time Miller’d gotten his drink Vermon had roped himself a girl for each arm.  The women wore matching tribal tats and little else.  He’d waved them off as they made their way onto the balcony dance floor.  Miller felt off tonight, something slightly out of synch.  The omnipresent vibrations seemed to give Miller heart palpitations instead of anything remotely arousing.  He wound his to the fourth floor and out onto a deserted balcony overlooking the Potomac. Be good to give my inner ear a rest. “A fellow seeker of solitude, I see.”  “Pardon?”  The balcony had been almost deserted. “Sorry, please pardon my intrusion.  But I’ve been struck by the urge for company.  My name’s Joliette” The voice belonged to a striking young woman, of some indeterminate age.  She wore a light dress of shimmer silk, tailored in an anonymous South Asian boutique.  Loose strands of silver hair framed a beautiful face…a face perfectly sculpted according to the computer generated projections of human desire.  Miller almost choked on his Jack.  “The Joliette?”  He scanned the rest of the balcony searching for an entourage that wasn’t there. “Shhhhh…please be careful.  I don’t want to attract any attention.”  Joliette flowed to Miller’s side, twining an arm along his and led him further out on the balcony.  “And your name is?”  She turned to him with the question, smiling as if to some personal joke.“S-s-sorry.  Names Miller.” “Miller?  What kind of name is Miller?”“Dunno.  My Mom gave it to me, said I was named after the only good thing my Dad ever gave her.  I’m still not sure what that meant.”  “Mmhmm…well Miller, you’re cute and I really want your company.”  She leaned into him, standing on her toes to give him peck on the cheek.  “Why don’t you follow me upstairs in a few minutes?  There will be a man at the stairs, his name is Zampano, just tell him I asked for you.”  She slipped away with that, passing the last words over her shoulder.  Miller downed the rest of the Jack.  He stayed on the balcony for a minute convincing himself that she wasn’t the real Joliette Kane, just a look like.  But there could be no one that looked like her anymore, not since her father bought the rights to the computer models that created her face.  Miller could remember getting another Jack, and speaking to Zampano.  But the rest of it, faded away into quicksilver haze, with only the slightest hints of passion, lust, and pain.</blockquote>

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