1.

     Claire Deluna sat on a squeaky barstool at The Downbeat, and fiddled with the straw in her vodka cran. A blues band played a slow, dreamy number in the background, as Jasper, the bartender, eyed her. “You ready for another one of those, sweet cakes?”
 
     Claire giggled. It always made her giggle, when the make-believe bartender asked her if she wanted a make-believe drink.
 
     “What’s so funny, Ms. Deluna?” he asked. He always asked it in exactly the same way.
 
     “All of it, Jasper. The whole damned ridiculous idea of it. You know what I mean? Grown-up people playing dolls for a living. Jesus Christ, it’s funny.”
 
     “Yeah, it’s pretty funny all right,” said Jasper. He gave a little reserved laugh as he turned to serve a customer at the other end of the bar. All perfect, all so disney, she thought.
 
     Claire glanced at the clock behind the bar. Ten past seven. Why the hell wasn’t Bigshot here yet? These corporate types, always so keen on punctuality. Oh wait. That’s when they’re expecting you. Gotta keep perspective on the pecking order, here, sweetie. One of her weaknesses, the whole perspective thing.
 
     She admired the neat rows of vintage liquor bottles, artfully lined up on the shelf, as she watched Jasper go through his routines, dutifully wiping down the counter with a bar rag and chatting with the customers. At quarter past, she stood to leave. That’s when her eye caught the avi in the doorway. He was dumb-ass ridiculous. His shoulders and biceps were exaggerated beyond belief, and there was a massive bulge in his pants. A little dick in real life, or some other kind of bullshit. You might think it was satire, except these guys have no clue about satire. Not likely a woman behind that, although not entirely inconceivable, either. A woman might feel as though a male persona is an advantage in the business world. She just wasn’t likely to go for this sort of extreme caricature. Claire had an urge to laugh out loud, but you don’t laugh at a prospective client.
 
     He strutted up to her with macho confidence. “You must be Jeremiah Bigshot,” she ventured.
 
     “Yes,” he said, his voice deep and smooth. “And you are Claire Deluna. May I call you Claire?”
 
     “No,” she said, “Ms. Deluna will be fine.”
 
     “All business,” he said, sounding disappointed. “Okay, Ms. Deluna, I can go with that. You’ll allow me to buy you a drink?”
 
     “Sure,” said Claire. If Mr. Bigshot wanted to support the 3D artist who created her favorite hangout in New Life, then who was she to deny him the pleasure. Beside that, it was the expected thing to do. Part of the protocol.
 
     Bigshot paid for the drinks at the bar, and chose a privacy booth near the back of the room. They sat, and Claire set her encryption. She trusted The Downbeat’s data shields, but an added layer of protection never hurt, when it came to protecting her clients. Or potential clients.
 
     “So, Mr. Bigshot, what can I do for you?” asked Claire.
 
     “You certainly don’t waste any time, Ms. Deluna,” said Bigshot. Claire had an urge to say something really hackneyed about time and money, but demurred.
 
     “My company has been losing employees, lately,” he continued, “about one a week. Up and disappear on us. No matter what you may think, Ms. Deluna, we treat our workers as well as the next guy. The economy has gone to shit, unemployment’s as high as it’s ever been. Things are supposed to be good when conditions are like this. And it’s not just our New Life employees, our real world workers don’t seem to stay for more than a few weeks, either. All of that’s not so bad, you see, but we deal with sensitive data. Now, I’m afraid, files are going missing as well. Hackers are playing with our data. To complicate things, we recently purchased a company which, I’m afraid, seems to be a possible source of the mischief. I need someone I can trust to get to the bottom of it.”
 
     “And the real life company you represent is…” Claire prompted.
 
     “Futures, LLC,” said Bigshot, “we’re…”
 
     “Hold on,” said Claire, “I know who you are. You’re that new tech company that’s been in the news, lately. Developing ‘the next generation of sim technology’ or whatever.”
 
     “That’s us,” said Mr. Bigshot, all puffed up.
 
     “Hmm. I don’t know…” Claire hesitated. She might have to think about this one. The players in this game had a reputation for ruthlessness. Over the past few years, the criminal gangs, which had long promoted gambling and prostitution on the sims, had now begun to entrench themselves in the corporate structures. Hacker wars had taken out one of New Life’s major competitors, and a bomb last summer decimated New Life headquarters in Denver, killing a CFO and several staffers. But, needless to say, they had money to throw around. Lots of it.
 
     “I’ll make it worth your time,” said Bigshot, as though reading her mind. “They told me you’re the best. I want the best, and I’m willing to pay for it.”
 
     “Okay,” said Claire, succumbing to the flattery in a heartbeat, “fifty k up front, and I get full access to all of the information I need. That’s all and any info I tell you I need, when I need it.”
 
     “That’s fine,” said Mr. B. “Fifty thousand NewDineros, it is.”
 
     Claire cleared her throat. “That’s real life dollars, Mr. Bigshot. I hope you don’t think I was born yesterday.” Jesus, she thought, what is it about this job that makes you want to talk in cliches?
 
     “Certainly not, Ms. Deluna,” said Bigshot. “I just wanted to be sure.”
 
     When Jeremiah Bigshot finished transferring the retainer, she thanked him and promised to contact him first thing in the morning. Then, she promptly teleported to her office.
 
     Claire loved her office. She had spent hours getting all of the details just right, the stains, the paper-strewn desk, the ashtray and half-empty whiskey bottle; even down to the old, battered fifties couch, complete with stuffing coming out the tear in the cushion.
 
     “Maxi,” she beckoned, and a beautiful, middle-aged brunette with a no-nonsense demeanor, a bit butch, emerged from the door behind Claire’s desk. Claire’s assistant, Maxine Magnolia, had been programmed by K.T. Willow, one of the best hackers on the planet. She was more sophisticated, more trustworthy than your typical out-of-the-box concierge. And she had access to a number of corporate, law enforcement, and DHS databases.
 
     “What can I do for you, hon?” asked Maxi, in her syrupy Appalachian accent.
 
     “Could you find out everything you can about Futures, LLC, and its subsidiaries, Max? I’ll be checking out until morning.”
 
     “I’ll get right on it, darlin’. You know Maxi never sleeps.” Maxi winked, and disappeared through her door.