The bar was quiet.


I ran through a mental checklist in my head. Suit: lapels folded, front lint-free, shirt tucked in, tie neat, shoes shined. I reeked of middle management, which I suppose was fitting. Black-on-black suit, white tie, dark felt fedora covering military-style shave. What am I doing here? I asked myself, glancing around the deserted pub. It was a Sunday night, an hour before closing time. Everyone was gone; hell, I was surprised a bartender was even on duty. He kept shooting suspicious glances at me, so to appease him I stood and ordered a rum-and-coke before returning to the seclusion of my booth, waiting for someone to walk through the door. When I think about it, this meeting was likely out of convenience; three completed assignments is nothing to boast about, and certainly nothing to warrant a meeting with staff. Maybe it was one of those right-time-right place moments, like you see in the feel-good success movies. It usually is with me.

I had left Los Angeles with plans of returning after a couple of days, when my father got to feeling better, but that didn't seem to be happening soon. Fourty years of smoking had set in lung cancer pretty deep.

Most of my ties with Los Angeles had already been severed - my job as a master electrician at a local theatre, my apartment building - but I wasn't altogether worried, either. Maybe it was better. There were plenty of local theatres I could grab a job at, and if I wanted to find my own place, God knows it would be less expensive to rent a flat in Dallas than a shithole apartment in LA.

A crinkled newspaper lay open in front of me as I pretended to read, catching glimpes of the bar around me. I was early - fifteen minutes, in fact - but I couldn't help but be alert, anxious, anticipating.. something. I had read about meetings with Neurocam staff before. Some people stay up late at night watching porn. I read Neuroblogs. But I never really anticipated such a thing happening to me.

The bell hanging from the bar door hinge rang. I looked up. A well-dressed man, who I guessed at around 40 or so, walked in. Pinstripe suit, italian shoes, diamond cufflinks. Tri-fold white pocket handkerchief, graying temples. Most notably, however, was the white-mask cut off at the mouth. Later, I would think back about the bartender, how he must have tensed, hand reaching under the counter for some sort of security device, ready to act if this sharply-dressed man with a facemask was actually some sort of robber or something.

He approached.

"Noah Whiteleaf. Mr. Langship, I presume?"