The bike was where I’d left it, parked between a sleek NeoHyundai and an ancient Chevrolet in a parking garage two blocks west of the club. It sat in a pool of cool halogen light, a great chrome cat poised for the kill.

As I sat on it, I fished a small glass vial out of my coat-pocket and unscrewed the cap. Pinch, snort, fly! I put the coke back in my pocket and straddled the bike. Palmed the ignition, revved the engine, sweet music to my ears as the drug lit my circuits.

I peeled out, weaving past the security station without paying the fee and dove into traffic. A shrill alarm sounded behind me, the guard’s shout lost in the din. I was gone, my bike a purring beast behind me, neon signs and lights blending into a single rainbow blur as I took to the streets with wild abandon.

Tulane and Canal. Not far from where I’d been, I got there pretty quick, found the police cordon. Official black vehicles everywhere, blocking the intersection.

I turned off, parked my bike. A VTOL passed overhead.