Rave's apartment was dark as she walked out of her shower.  Wrapped in a towel, the curves that escaped it above and bellow were highlighted by the soft luninessence of her skin.<br/><br/>She settled on her bed, knees tucked sideways, and pursed her lips around the cool chocolate milkshake flavored bervarage that was almost as good as the equaly synthetic milkshakes she'd had in the archology as a kid.  She knew she'd had a real one for her ninth birthday, but couldn't remember the flavor anymore.<br/><br/><em>What is real?</em>That night, she'd danced in cages above the dance floor at the club in skimpy black costumes that deleted parts of her body from the festival of collors the black lights stimulated from her luminious form.<em>I've seen a few coppy cat's of Mirage the glow in the dark dancer who did it just as well with makeup.  Is Mirage real?  I wasn't born looking like this, my mother never gave me that name, it's a stage name to cover up a false identity.  But when I am mirage, dancing in over the crowd, feeling the heat of the crowd rise and fall with me.  That's real.</em><br/><br/>The girl groaned knowing she'd be too worked up to sleep for an hour or so yet.  She opened her towel and reached for her simsense headband and some racy tapes...<br/><br/>Then the trid flickered to life and she gasped, caught herself, and held her poise.  If her new fixer had the hacking skill to send a message to her old Trid and still pull camera feed, better he get a look at her naked than that he see her less than composed.  She set the items aside and sat up.  "Understood.  I'll be there."<br/><br/>She grinned when the signal faded, "Yes!"  Then quickly placed her trode band on and activated her com link, loaded up a virtual sticky note and pen, recorded 113 plaza street so she wouldn't forget, then labeled it, "meet with the boys."