Dozens converge on them, waves breaking over a single black rock. Bodies pressed against warm steel, fingers splayed against black glass that can stop small-caliber gunfire. Inside the car, neon-pink cocktails are mixed, poured, flavored, shared, sipped and savored. The One with the Hair unzips her blouse and struggles out of a clingy, stretchy top the color of the moon over Los Angeles. She’s a wispy, jittery thing made of cotton candy and flower petals.

“You got snaps?”

The other passenger flashes a plastic film about the size of credit card. “Scute™-compatible.” she says. The One with the Hair plucks it from her friend’s hand. She holds it against her skin until her snaps’ receptors grab hold of the film and bond it with her skin. “Ugh, this one is Japanese.” she says, her nose crinkling. “It’s all breast augs.”

Her friend motions “give it here” and says, “Let me have it then. I left my mobsofts are back at the hotel.” The One with the Hair ejects the film and peels it from her skin.

“I like the ‘Fun Shapes’ better.” she says as her friend slaps the snapware onto the back of her neck. A few seconds later and her Scute reconfigures to the new proportions, complete with a shift in coloration. “Too tight?” she asks and the One with the Hair shakes her head, “No, just right.”

The driver pulls away onto the street and the car accelerates to city-travel speeds somewhere between “maniac cab driver” and “subway.”  The girls inside load Scute-talk into their carrie-alls and link the portable devices to receptors in their hips.

The One with the Hair holds her friend’s hand and places it on her heart. So where we headed?

Uptown.

She watches the feed on her wrist. Video plays across her flawless white skin. She flips through the channels until she sees the car. Overhead, a helicopter churns the air as it races over the rooftops, its cameras trained on the limo.

They’re covering us.

Her friend glances down at the wrist video. “Oh, yeah.” Check the ratings?

Middling. A sigh.

Should we roll down the windows? Sunroof? Make out?

Pandering. Just let it be… I’m tired anyway and the car’s paid for. She leans forward and rests her head in her friend’s lap. Her turquoise eyes flutter closed. Pale pink eyelids and butterfly lashes.