The Fractured Helix is hopping with all walks of life. A strange alien band plays synthesized music for the crowd as a half-boa constrictor woman slithers and hisses
lyrics. The whole scene looks straight out of that movie from the 80’s; you can never remember which one.
You tap Lindsay on the shoulder. “Star Trek?”
She rolls her green eyes and gasps as if you’ve just cursed out the Pope. “Star WARS!” She turns around and backs further into the bar, motioning you forward
playfully with her index finger.
You laugh and follow as she leads you to the bar. Deftly, she sits down along a raised stone rail and bellies up like a local.
“Yo, barkeep!” She winks as the bartender, a nine-foot mountain of muscle, motions “one minute” to her. His other five arms continue mixing and serving drinks.
Lindsay nods, and then slaps you on the shoulder. “Star Trek? Geez, we gotta work on you.”
You shrug, careful to avoid hitting the femme fatale with the mechanical arms next to you. “Great costume,” you say.
The woman sneers, and you swear her eyes glaze over with red light. “Firk you, fleshbag!” The middle digit of her robotic hand extends itself to you, as a four-inch
carbon-fiber blade shoots from the fingertip.
You gasp in shock as her hand moves with blurred speed, bringing the razor straight toward your face!