I saw the bulge of what I guessed was a sawed-off shotgun under one synthleather jacket, and heard the snick of razors as one of the few women present—a bleach blonde in a tight pink sweater—flicked her cybernetic implants in a gesture like a cat flexing its claws. From the way she leaned possessively against one of the better-dressed punks, I guessed her to be in the biz and protecting her turf. I did my best to look uninterested in her man, pointedly avoided making eye contact with her, and walked directly to the bar at the back of the pulquería .