I jerk awake to the rumble of aircars 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.
My holo-tab lies face-down on the cracked tabletop. I flip it over. The screen's jagged edges flicker in rainbow afterimages, but it boots up. No new messages, just a blank 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 poke at the holo-tabs' data files, idly checking messages 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 swipe to the browser and type "Stairways to Heaven club black card." A glossy website loads, 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 shut the screen. 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 the holo-tab buzzes—cheap vibrate, like a droid shrugging me off. A message from the club: 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 sling 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 scrub at last night's makeup with 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...
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 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 catch 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.