The History of the World of Eolae.

She'd been coming to this place for a few months. I didn't notice her in the first place for her height, which isn't exceptional. I didn't notice her for her captivating beauty; yeah, she's pretty enough, but there're plenty of scrubs that've bought high-end cosmetic therapy packages- you don't notice the ones that're too pretty anymore. Not if you're me, anyway.

I noticed her because of how she looked at things. It isn't often that I see a woman with as much cybergear as she sports look at things with that look of precision she has. It's the look of an analyst; a look that says "I know how to look at something without having my head up the ass of delusion."

It was also a look that silently promised to kill the first motherfucker that gave her any brand of shit she didn't feel like sniffing, and I like that in a woman.

The dive was pretty upscale; the Metroplaza, situated just off the Goldway. Don't tell me you've never heard of Theresia City's Goldway, chummer. It was the glitziest hundred-mile stretch of high-cred debauchery, entertainment and legalized sleeze in the world, or at least the world I know.

It didn't make a single spits worth of sense for my broke ass to be there by most anyone's appraisal. I don't party, I don't do stims, I don't even have a fraggin' datajack to get my brain fried out by BTL sim-chips.

I wasn't even there for the music, though that was what kept me there in the open. I like a dive that can crank out the tunes long, hard and fast. Makes my blood sing, and it evidently did something for her too.

How'd we meet? Hell, it wasn't anything special. I was sitting outside the doors of the plaza, entertaining witless, stimmed-up chemtech addicts and the hired muscle with a few illusions when I noticed her looking at me. She was just another face in the throng at that point, but her eyes caught my attention. They were clear eyes, not hazed up with stims or vacant as a shot-up ganghouse on BTL's.