Hiro pushes his way into the library, the tinny rattle from his earbeads growing cacophanous, almost deafening. The Misfits? He fixes his attention on the body lain out on it's gurney; tapping his breast pocket to kill the music. Somehow, he never even looks at the gang of bikers. "Your show, Pence," is all he has to say, unshouldering his record bag, and dropping it down onto a workbench.