Megumi could feel the music of the club a few blocks before she saw its entrance. Deep bass frequencies, moving through the air, through the ground, were hard, rhythmic, relentless. Blanket clad and barefoot, she crept towards the origin of the sounds, the higher frequencies of sound, known as singable music, had the musicians had a modicum of talent, pitches that were normally sung (or in this case, screamed apparently) became very audible.
Grimacing, Megumi took in the screeching, electronic gong show that was modern music. It was, at least to her sensibilities, deeply messy stuff. Lips pursed, she looked down at the cat that had followed her this and way that down back alleys of New Meiji. “What do to you think?” she asked wearily.
The cat, being at cat, said nothing, but sat down in the alley and promptly started licking its butt.
Megumi laughed. She couldn’t help it. The cat had better tastes when it came to music than the people queued up at the club to get in. Carefully, Megumi took a peek around the corner of a building so she could get a better idea of what was going on.
ごみ (GOMI CLUB)
Again, a laugh escaped her, this one though was all pithy sarcasm. “Garbage Club. How utterly accurate.” The eye watering neon signage pulsed in time with the driving bass rhythm, bathing the line of would be attendees in a sickly watercolor wash of electric purples, yellows and greens.
Poking her head out a bit further, Megumi made careful note of the young men and women in queue. Most of them looked worse than she felt, their clothing in tatters, makeup smeared. Gods, demons and SPF 50, she was baffled as to why anyone would WANT to dress like they were destitute, hungry and without anyone to turn to. She did notice that there were a few outliers, men and woman dressed like famous characters in history or theater, all of whom, based on the spatters of fake blood and bullet hole stickers had met bad, violent ends.
“So this is the noveau chic of New Meiji” she muttered. Disgusted, she thought about completely abandoning the idea of getting into the club completely, regardless of whether it had a data hub or not that she could access.
“Hey!”
Megumi’s head snapped back to attention as a large bouncer (they were still called bouncers, right?) jostled with a better dressed young man in the line. While he still looked three sheets to the wind, clad in black with torn jeans, he was better dressed than the others.
“You think you’re comin’ in ‘ere?” The bouncer (she was going with the term she knew as calling the man a club troll was not very polite) jabbed an ugly, thumb in the young man’s chest. The club’s security man was huge, nearly seven feet tall if she guessed correctly and was built like the concussion tanks she’d once seen during the civil war military parades.
(Gods, I hate parades.)
“Like that?” He bouncer laughed, revealing that his profession had resulted in some missing teeth replaced by metallic implants. It was an ugly sound. The echoing laughter made by others in the line was uglier. Some of the laughter was too hard, too harsh and she could sense that in some, there was an unnatural desire for violence to occur, for blood to be shed.
(Of course there are users there, why am I not surprised?) If there was a world that a user would love, the type of user she had been so damnably instrumental in helping create, it would be world like this one.
“Apocalypse, now, they don’ like your type.” Another hard jab. Helpless to do anything but listen and watch as the other people in line began chanting and cheering, Megumi realized that the migraine inducing cacophony of sound, metal, bass and screaming was in fact a band name Apocalypse, rather than the end of the world as people knew it. Uncharitably, hoped all the band members developed vocal nodes.
Dumbstruck, completely and utterly at a loss what to make of the situation, she glanced back into the alley at the cat, who was still completely absorbed in licking clean its nether regions.
(This is madness! What I am even doing here?)
“We don’ neither!” The young man fell down, fell back, tripping over the queue rope. Megumi took a step forward to help, then stopped herself, an idea forming, one that she liked even less than the young man’s odds for not having to get a tetanus booster for having been in this part of the city. After looking carefully at the women in the line, at least the ones who were being admitted to Club Gomi, she bolted back into the alley, her mind fixed on finding something sharp.
“There we go,” Megumi found a half-drunk liquor bottle. Not quite sure how to go about it, she took the business end of the glass bottle and swung it hard against the side of the building, schrunching her eyes shut in case something sharp flew at her face. The bottle broke, sending liquor and shards of glass everywhere. The alley cat, enjoying neither the music nor the shower of god knows what was in the bottle hissed and skittered to the other side of the alley, squeezing itself beneath a gray dumpster filled with trash bags.
“Sorry about that,” Megumi muttered, looking for and finding a shard of glass that seemed to have the best-defined edge for the task at hand. Scowling intently, trying to remember the cut and line of the clothing the club going women were wearing, she began hacking and pulling the shard of glass over the fabric of her ruined scrubs.
(Really, how much different can making an outfit be than sewing someone up?)
15 Minutes Later
Megumi looked down at her “outfit” and nearly started to sob in mortification or laugh hysterically and bonk her head repeatedly on the dirty brick façade of the club wall.
“I look like…” There were no words. Not words at all. She glanced down at the tattered remains of the her only clothes. Her bottoms, well… they were nearly on level with HER bottom, the uneven cuts and undone seams leaving very little to the imagination. Embarrassed, Megumi tugged at what left of her pants, hoping that her efforts at fitting in with the club goers didn’t end up with a trip to the pokey for indecent exposure.
Her top was no better, though she’d a little more skilled at using the broken liquor bottle fragments to fashion something resembling a tank style shirt. It was a bit too low in the front and a bit too high in the back, but nothing that tended to be on the buxom side of her anatomy was in full display (not quite) and for that she was grateful.
The cuts on her fingers from using the bottle shards had healed up, but she didn’t wipe the blood from them. Apparently, the twits who dressed like this on purpose found applying faux blood to be very in vogue. It disgusted her. This disgusted her but had to be done.
Using strips of her scrubs, she’d bound her long, black hair up into two very messy braided buns. Some of the women in line had been sporting something similar and Megumi hoped that her efforts would be enough to get her past the meat locker of a security bouncer and into the club.
She wondered if her being barefoot would cause issues. From what she had seen, most of the morons in line had been wearing synth spikes or tattered military boots (as if they would know anything of war...the twits)
Clubs had data hubs. Clubs had people who had access to, and the funds to use said data hubs. Ergo, she had to get into the club. No matter what. There was, especially now, no other way for her to try and access her banking information.
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Date: 2019-05-08 08:22 pm (UTC)Grimacing, Megumi took in the screeching, electronic gong show that was modern music. It was, at least to her sensibilities, deeply messy stuff. Lips pursed, she looked down at the cat that had followed her this and way that down back alleys of New Meiji. “What do to you think?” she asked wearily.
The cat, being at cat, said nothing, but sat down in the alley and promptly started licking its butt.
Megumi laughed. She couldn’t help it. The cat had better tastes when it came to music than the people queued up at the club to get in. Carefully, Megumi took a peek around the corner of a building so she could get a better idea of what was going on.
ごみ (GOMI CLUB)
Again, a laugh escaped her, this one though was all pithy sarcasm. “Garbage Club. How utterly accurate.” The eye watering neon signage pulsed in time with the driving bass rhythm, bathing the line of would be attendees in a sickly watercolor wash of electric purples, yellows and greens.
Poking her head out a bit further, Megumi made careful note of the young men and women in queue. Most of them looked worse than she felt, their clothing in tatters, makeup smeared. Gods, demons and SPF 50, she was baffled as to why anyone would WANT to dress like they were destitute, hungry and without anyone to turn to. She did notice that there were a few outliers, men and woman dressed like famous characters in history or theater, all of whom, based on the spatters of fake blood and bullet hole stickers had met bad, violent ends.
“So this is the noveau chic of New Meiji” she muttered. Disgusted, she thought about completely abandoning the idea of getting into the club completely, regardless of whether it had a data hub or not that she could access.
“Hey!”
Megumi’s head snapped back to attention as a large bouncer (they were still called bouncers, right?) jostled with a better dressed young man in the line. While he still looked three sheets to the wind, clad in black with torn jeans, he was better dressed than the others.
“You think you’re comin’ in ‘ere?” The bouncer (she was going with the term she knew as calling the man a club troll was not very polite) jabbed an ugly, thumb in the young man’s chest. The club’s security man was huge, nearly seven feet tall if she guessed correctly and was built like the concussion tanks she’d once seen during the civil war military parades.
(Gods, I hate parades.)
“Like that?” He bouncer laughed, revealing that his profession had resulted in some missing teeth replaced by metallic implants. It was an ugly sound. The echoing laughter made by others in the line was uglier. Some of the laughter was too hard, too harsh and she could sense that in some, there was an unnatural desire for violence to occur, for blood to be shed.
(Of course there are users there, why am I not surprised?) If there was a world that a user would love, the type of user she had been so damnably instrumental in helping create, it would be world like this one.
“Apocalypse, now, they don’ like your type.” Another hard jab. Helpless to do anything but listen and watch as the other people in line began chanting and cheering, Megumi realized that the migraine inducing cacophony of sound, metal, bass and screaming was in fact a band name Apocalypse, rather than the end of the world as people knew it. Uncharitably, hoped all the band members developed vocal nodes.
Dumbstruck, completely and utterly at a loss what to make of the situation, she glanced back into the alley at the cat, who was still completely absorbed in licking clean its nether regions.
(This is madness! What I am even doing here?)
“We don’ neither!” The young man fell down, fell back, tripping over the queue rope. Megumi took a step forward to help, then stopped herself, an idea forming, one that she liked even less than the young man’s odds for not having to get a tetanus booster for having been in this part of the city. After looking carefully at the women in the line, at least the ones who were being admitted to Club Gomi, she bolted back into the alley, her mind fixed on finding something sharp.
“There we go,” Megumi found a half-drunk liquor bottle. Not quite sure how to go about it, she took the business end of the glass bottle and swung it hard against the side of the building, schrunching her eyes shut in case something sharp flew at her face. The bottle broke, sending liquor and shards of glass everywhere. The alley cat, enjoying neither the music nor the shower of god knows what was in the bottle hissed and skittered to the other side of the alley, squeezing itself beneath a gray dumpster filled with trash bags.
“Sorry about that,” Megumi muttered, looking for and finding a shard of glass that seemed to have the best-defined edge for the task at hand. Scowling intently, trying to remember the cut and line of the clothing the club going women were wearing, she began hacking and pulling the shard of glass over the fabric of her ruined scrubs.
(Really, how much different can making an outfit be than sewing someone up?)
15 Minutes Later
Megumi looked down at her “outfit” and nearly started to sob in mortification or laugh hysterically and bonk her head repeatedly on the dirty brick façade of the club wall.
“I look like…” There were no words. Not words at all. She glanced down at the tattered remains of the her only clothes. Her bottoms, well… they were nearly on level with HER bottom, the uneven cuts and undone seams leaving very little to the imagination. Embarrassed, Megumi tugged at what left of her pants, hoping that her efforts at fitting in with the club goers didn’t end up with a trip to the pokey for indecent exposure.
Her top was no better, though she’d a little more skilled at using the broken liquor bottle fragments to fashion something resembling a tank style shirt. It was a bit too low in the front and a bit too high in the back, but nothing that tended to be on the buxom side of her anatomy was in full display (not quite) and for that she was grateful.
The cuts on her fingers from using the bottle shards had healed up, but she didn’t wipe the blood from them. Apparently, the twits who dressed like this on purpose found applying faux blood to be very in vogue. It disgusted her. This disgusted her but had to be done.
Using strips of her scrubs, she’d bound her long, black hair up into two very messy braided buns. Some of the women in line had been sporting something similar and Megumi hoped that her efforts would be enough to get her past the meat locker of a security bouncer and into the club.
She wondered if her being barefoot would cause issues. From what she had seen, most of the morons in line had been wearing synth spikes or tattered military boots (as if they would know anything of war...the twits)
Clubs had data hubs. Clubs had people who had access to, and the funds to use said data hubs. Ergo, she had to get into the club. No matter what. There was, especially now, no other way for her to try and access her banking information.