Nazarin thankfully has the night off with the Ratel, though he’ll be there all day tomorrow. There’s still a chance we could be recognized if the Ratel have visited Mirage before. We’re both wearing masks, like a temporary visit to a flesh parlor. They fit perfectly over our features, light enough not to be noticed but enough to trick the camera drones, and we can peel them off when we wish. There’s a small chance the orderlies might notice, if they look too close, but so many there are overworked and underpaid, I think we’ll be all right. My mask itches.

We take the MUNI down to the Mission district. By the time we arrive, night has fallen. The streets here are full of wavering holographic ads. They assault the senses as we walk down the street: men and women wearing next to nothing, displaying their wares, licking their lips suggestively and calling out to us what they’re offering. Loud, tinny music blares from each of them in a cacophony. If anyone still had epilepsy these days, they’d have to avoid this whole neighborhood. I feel the beginnings of a headache flaring at my temples. Shielding my eyes with my hand, I make my way through the glare, Detective Nazarin at my side.

The ads grow darker, more reds and blacks and deep blues. They flicker, leaving the streets in darkness but for the street lights. There’s no sense of welcome. The people who come here want only the dreams they’re too afraid to dream in a proper Zeal lounge.

Mirage is at the end of the street. An ad of a palm tree in a desert ripples over the front of the building. A stone sphinx wavers in the distance, and as we watch, it opens its mouth and yawns before gazing at us mysteriously. The windows are shuttered. I don’t want to enter.

In that building I know there are dozens of people strapped into Chairs, wires poking from their veins, their eyelids twitching as they live out their dreams.

I wonder what causes some people to favor more violent dreams than others. Some say that people who are predisposed to crime have different brains, like damage to the prefrontal cortex. That means that the two hemispheres of the brain can’t communicate properly, and aggressive impulses are in overdrive. Ticking time bombs.

I never bought that, but it’s the endless question of nature versus nurture. Free will versus predestination.