So that’s how come I’m jandering into the place just before the hour when the junior suits start drifting out of the skyrakers to deplete their expense accounts over lunch. I don’t belong in the CB; every head that turns to look at me, every lip that twists in scorn, every voice that hesitates momentarily, tells me that. I’m obviously from the wrong side of the tracks, and that makes me dangerous and suspect. I don’t wear Zoé, Mortimer of London, Gucci, or Bally, sateen or synthsilk. My fashion tends more to Skulz, Doc Marten, synthleather, and kevlar. Of course, nobody’s going to point that out to me. The current political climate considers dress codes "elitist" (except on actual megacorp turf, of course, where anything goes and you might as well protest the law of gravity). As long as I’m not packing ordnance, illegal armor, or restricted cyberware—at least nothing the tech drek in the doorway can pick up—nobody can tell me I don’t belong. That won’t stop every slot in the place from trying to communicate that concept without saying it outright, however. Any other gangers in the area might wonder why I’m even bothering, except that I’ve carefully built up a rep for hanging in suit bars and restaurants just for the pleasure of slotting people off.