I jerk awake to the rumble of AVs and distant sirens leaking through my cracked walls. The afternoon sun is too bright, slanting through twisted blinds and catching the dust in the stale air of my apartment.
I cough, salty drag of cigarette smoke curling in my mouth, my lungs burning. My brain struggles to come online as I knock the bitter ash into a dented tray. I'm late, again but fuck it. It's the only life I've got.
Sitting on the edge of my sagging mattress, I splash ice-cold water on my face at the grimy sink. The tiles are half-broken, the mirror streaked with grime. I stare at my reflection: dark circles, a bruise coloring one cheekbone.
As Velvet, I'm supposed to be sultry and in control, but Lyra wakes up every afternoon feeling like a zombie. Caffeine can fix that for a while. I light another smoke, the acrid buzz settling behind my eyes.
I scan my neural comlink feed for any new messages, my vision flickering with faint overlays in the corner of my eye. Nothing but an empty schedule and last night's low-rated vibes. No one cares if I live or die and bills still come due. My stomach growls. I've got half a moldy noodle packet left in the cupboard, enough to dull the hunger.
I flick through my messages with a thought, checking for anything from Stairways to Heaven. The black credit card I pulled out at the club the other night still burns a hole in my wallet. I drag my thumb over its etched logo. Something about it felt heavy, dangerous.
On a whim, I sent a mental search through the comlink: "Stairways to Heaven club black card." A glossy website flashes in my mind's eye, all neon gold and smoky mirrors. It's out of my league. The membership alone costs more than I made last month. My chest tightens just looking at it. I blink the site away. Not ready for that world yet.
The day ticks by in secondhand moments. Between puffs of cigarette and that last cup of instant sludge-coffee, I stare at the cracked wall and wonder how I got stuck in Megablock 8. The walls are closing in with the stink of onions and desperation, but I'm too tired to give a damn.
Then a pulse flickers in the back of my mind, a comlink alert. The club pushes a message into my feed: Emergency call-in for tonight, 9 PM. It's a quiet weeknight; the regulars must have dried up. But fuck, I need the credits. I dismiss the notification with a thought, slide the holo-tab under my mattress, grab whatever cash I've got hiding in the drawer and start getting ready.
The shower is cold; the water pulses from barely warm to freezing and back like some broken heart. I scrubbed last night's makeup with a grimy washcloth, water running pink with smudged eyeliner and cherry lipstick. My hair sprays back into my damp face, frizzy and tangled. I spit at the drain water and step out, shivering. No time for nice things.
Back in my room, I pull out my "Velvet" gear: high-waisted leather briefs, a fishnet mesh top with holes carefully torn and a pair of sky-high platform boots that make me hunch to walk. Tights with runs and a choker necklace, my armor.
The wall-screen sputters in the corner, volume just high enough to be annoying. Some talk show blares—City Spin: Policy or Piss-Take?—with two New Angeles politicians arguing about drone garbage pick-up and curfew laws while a grinning host eggs them on. The studio audience claps on cue. I let it play, eyes fixed somewhere past the screen. After a minute of campaign slogans and fake smiles, I grab the remote and kill the sound mid-sentence.
I blink twice, call up my comlink and let music flood my head,a heavy beat, something to drown out whatever passes for news in this city. For a few heartbeats, it's just me and that bass in the dark.
Velvet is smoother, more confident. I press my hands to my chest and chin my head, closing my eyes. Inhale. Exhale. When I open them, my voice is coated in a velvet tone, deep and slow: "Time to play."
The neon sign of Chrome Daisy buzzes to life as I enter. The club's grimy walls are lined with holographic posters of past shows, peeling at the edges. The air smells like spilled whiskey and body sweat. A couple of dancers are milling in the back; some have tech-augment glints in their eyes. The place is half-empty just a few tables and a dull, muted stage. Weeknight special.
I tuck a fringe of hair behind my ear and let my eyes find the bar. There's your typical mix of lowlife: a bored bartender with cybernetic forearms, a drifter nursing synth-beer. No jackers tonight; too dark for big spenders. Just enough to make breathing here worth the trouble.
Velvet stands before the mirror in the green room, smoothing her stockings. I twist on a bit of frosty pink lipstick and a streak of black under one eye. I think of myself in third person now, her routine helps me get out of Lyra's head. The music starts downstairs, a slow pulse of techno bass humming up through the vents. I nod to myself in the cracked mirror. Let's see if Velvet can still dance.
On stage, I don't feel like myself. I grip the pole as lights wash over me... Green and blue shafts cutting through the dusty air. The music swallows my heartbeat. Hip to the left, sway to the right, spinning on the pole until the chorus hits. Velvet moves like water; it feels better when I'm moving, spinning and sliding. The warmth of cheap lights glows on my bare skin; the weight of last night's exhaustion falls away with every step.
I caught the eye of a skinny guy at the bar. He grins like he's seen this a thousand times before, but even he looks bored. I flash him a showy wink; the punk just nods and takes another sip. Someone tosses a coin on the stage. A single glint on the floor catches my eye. Nobody else really looks impressed, the crowd's too thin to care.
Until I see him.