Walking toward her is a group just emerged from the crowd at the rear of the 
bar. They go straight past her table, heading for the door to the street. Three 
of them look like razorguys. One has gleaming silver cybereyes to go with his 
cool, smirky smile and NeoMonochrome duster. Another has an Ingram smartgun 
dangling from one hand down along his side. Another of the slags has razorcut 
hair sliced into fins and a datajack in his right temple. The one girl with the 
group could be a mage. She wears a lot of dull metal jewelry—necklaces, pins,
bangles, and rings—and once, just once, she lifts a hand and does something
funny with her fingers.