34

Your car arrives at the address where Chalidah's is supposed to be, deep in the meat-packing district. But all you can see is a block of abandoned warehouses. They seem to be old, too; red-brown brick facades smudged with what looks like soot from the industrial era, long rows of broken factory windows, graffiti on the walls–the old-fashioned spray kind, even, not the holograf kind.

It would all be perfectly convincing, if it weren't for the reinforced steel door with the barely-disguised holoscanner next to it.

You approach the warehouse door and inspect the holoscanner.

Then you hear an electronic crackle, like an intercom coming alive. There are concealed cameras, then. You are being watched.

"Scan your holo, please." The voice comes out distorted, but you can tell its tone is cautious. After a brief pause, the voice adds: "That will record your presence here. Think of it as insurance. So don't try anything stupid."

Scan Holo