She sat with both elbows upon the bar, thoughtfully swirling bourbon around in the bottom half of a shot glass. The meniscus traced a near perfect circle along the glass edge. She stared into it, her vision distorted by her left hand's support of her head. Her mind was unfocused, her heart was empty, ravaged by the equal parts of euphoria, anger, and dread the last two hours had brought upon her.

The bar was empty, even the janitor had left. Only the barkeep remained, marking empty time.

Behind her, a loud knock came from the bar's front door. "We're closed," the bartender said.

Priss looked up from her stupor. "I'm expecting him, Alf," she said. "Go let him in, then make yourself scarce for a few, OK?"

She returned to her former activity with all her previous ambivalence. A moment later, a voice came from behind her. "That was a bonus set, Priss-san."

"Who told you so?" she replied, waving him to the adjoining bar stool. She didn't stoop to look at him yet. "I didn't even see you in the audience."

"There was some hunk from the AD Police there. You think I want my ass busted?"

"You can rest assured, Mr. Tuttle," she said, swiveling around without alacrity, "That he was not looking anywhere but at me. Now, enough of these pleasantries. What are you here for?"

He was foreign-born, like so many in the city in that day. By his dark hair and complexion, as well as his fondness for clothes that looked "intimidating", she had guessed he was originally from the LA barrio. This, however, did nothing to better characterize his motivations or intentions, so she had dismissed it. He now looked at her with a maniacal zeal. "There's over 100 kilos of Semtex spread out over Genom's D factory. The whole assembly line goes up in 30 minutes."

Priss blinked lazily, then deadpanned, "That's across Neo-Tokyo and then some. I think we'll be safe here."

"Don't you get it?" he drooled. "We're surgically severing Genom's third largest Boomer line, and knocking their production back six months. Plus, the damage will bite them in the pocketbooks, and you can bet the investors will be scared shitless!"

"Mr. Tuttle," Priss said, "Genom will simply shift production to Kamchatka and Ulan Bator. The damage will skim their profit margin, as well as allow them to make some much-needed tech updates. The investors will be thrilled to hear this, especially..." she drank the bourbon in one shot "...after the explosion doesn't even make the local news. You've only succeeded in laying off several tens, if not hundreds, of the local work force. Congratulations."

"Why you...good-for-nothing whore," he growled. Priss stifled a smirk. They both knew she was right. "You have the nerve to slam all of my ideas, and you're not doing anything. You just write all these post-teen-angst songs about how everyone ought to change things, and then you just expect it to happen, don't you?"

"Things happened," she said, "when I asked three rockerboys to play with me. Things happened after I asked Alf if we could play a song set in this very bar. Things happen...because I take steps to make them happen, but I keep my expectations realistic. I don't play solo, Mister Tuttle."

Priss lifter her glass and thumped it, rim down, on the bar. "And that will be all, Tuttle. I'd really like to break someone's nose here shortly, and I see yours is the only one that's available."

Without paying the least attention to his departure, she took her coat off the seat next to her and slipped it across her shoulders. She hollered into the shadows around her, "Alf, shut it when you're ready." Then she slipped out the "Employees Only" door and was gone.