Moving toward the rear of the room, Sly looked around. The Armadillo had little to distinguish it from any other watering hole in Puyallup, or anywhere else in the plex, for that matter. Low ceiling, well-worn composite-tile floor. Small tables and banquettes covered in frayed red terry cloth to sop up spilled drinks. Classic angst-rock issuing from cheesy speakers as background music—something by Jetblack, Sly noted. And a couple of old-tech trideo screens, which the patrons were more or less uniformly ignoring.