"Pretty wiz, Jack," he said, landing next to the persona icon of his friend. Cross knew that he himself appeared as a slightly stylized, graphically generated image of his meat self, but one that was obviously computer-created. Jack, on the other hand, looked as alive and breathing if he’d just stepped off the street. A slight wind blew through his short brown hair and tugged at the edges of the brown military-style jacket he wore. A simple white and gray shirt, black pants, and boots completed his image. ‘"You know, I've seen you looking this way more than twice now. People might think it's your usual look."