I slept fitfully that night, anxiously fretting about the task that lay ahead of us. What rest I managed to grab was marred with strange dreams, of nebulous images of monsters, oozing through my mind like... like melted plastic really. I felt myself wander down claustrophobic hallways while the walls ebbed and flowed, the surfaces bubbling and deforming due to some unknown source of heat. My footsteps grew ever more laboured, as the melting floor clung to my shoes. Each step drew forth sticky tendrils of liquefying plastic, each step requiring more effort than the previous. No matter how much I struggled, I sank ever deeper into the synthetic soup around me. I realised I was no longer in a corridor, but struggling to float in a vast industrial cauldron. Superheated plastic clung to my skin, burning with a heat the likes of which I'd never known before. Eventually, just as I'd resigned myself to my fate, I awoke with a start. I was still delirious, experiencing that moment where the body is awake before the mind, and the line between sleep and awareness is blurred. I tried to move, but found myself sticking to the bed. I flailed in panic, still convinced I was drowning in plastic, until my mind caught up with my body. During the night, I'd managed to tangle myself quite securely within my sheets. I wondered to myself whether I simply had an overactive subconscious, or if my nightmares were tied to the Auton framework linked to my brain. Neither option was particularly encouraging. Knowing that further sleep was inadvisable, if not impossible, I started to prepare for the gala reception.
"I'm not built for a monkey suit." Dave complained, as we strode towards the buffet table.
"Stop fidgeting." I hissed back at him. "You look so uncomfortable, we're supposed to be incognito, remember?"
"But I am uncomfortable." He whispered back.
"Man of your size is better built for a gorilla suit, anyway." Ash quipped, from ahead of us. Dave's brow furrowed slightly, and he asked:
"Was that an insult or a compliment?"
"Take it however you like." Ashley laughed, as we reached the table. I glanced around at the other guests gathered around the function room. A rough count suggested a little under a hundred people, not including the waiting staff, all dressed in finely tailored tuxedos and elegant gowns. A few of the faces I recognized as well known politicians and media figures. Most were unknown to me, presumably journalists or bloggers some kind. I considered our own clothing, feeling suddenly out of place. Dave and I both wore slightly ill-fitting suits we'd rented the night before. Compared to the other invitees, we looked like sacks of potatoes stuffed into pillowcases. Only Ash managed to look at home in these surroundings, in her surprisingly stylish Debs dress. Even if she remained a bit shaky on her heels. The only other time I recall her having to wear such impractical footwear was Tony's Christmas party and even then she lost them at the first available opportunity.
"So, why did we come towards the buffet table, exactly? Not that I'm complaining" Dave asked, his words muffled by copious amounts of mini-quiche stuffed into his face.
"First rule of investigation" I began, wiping a piece of partially chewed pastry from my cheek. "There are two places that every guest visits at a party. The toilets, and the food. I figured this was the more appealing option."
"Who makes these rules?" Ash asked with mock exasperation. "What about the bar? Or the waiters with those little platter trays?"I thought about her question for a moment, crafting a suitably adequate and insightful answer.
"Shut up."
Like a subatomic particle, I became aware of Devlin's arrival indirectly, by the effect it had on the crowd. Suddenly, people had thronged the entrance, as cameras flashed and clicked rapidly. Even some of the more dignified dignitaries crept towards the eager mob, in sensing an important photo opportunity. Ash turned to me and cocked her head slightly towards the door. I shook my head in response, there was no point in forcing a confrontation, not in front of everyone at least. While we waited for a sense of normality to reemerge, I scanned the room again for something, anything of interest. My eyes narrowed. At the far side of the room, was a large glass door adjacent to an electronic lock. It was hard to make out details at my distance, but I could see a number of cubicle style booths, each branded with the DevlinTech logo.
"Hey Ash, what's the deal with that room?" I asked, indicating with a nod.
"Not sure, if I'm honest. But I did overhear a few people mention early access demos on our way in."
"Hmm... working prototypes then? Might be worth a gander."
"Doesn't matter. No way were getting in there without causing a scene." Dave interjected. I smiled a wry smile, and said:
"You'd be surprised at my ingenuity."
"No really." He continued. "We're not getting in there. Look at gramps over there... can't even walk near the damn thing without being escorted away by security."
I looked back at the door to see what Dave was referring too, and nearly dropped my complementary Champagne in the process. Indeed, a man, in his late sixties I'd reckon, was having a slightly headed conversation with a steward. I wondered how he'd even gained entrance in the first place, given his attire. His long, greasy, grey-and-nicotine-stained hair was kept at bay by a gaudy baseball cap. An unlit cigar hung precariously from his unkempt lower lip as he argued. He wore a knee-length black leather jacket, whose cuffs and lapel were rimmed with leopard print. He looked like a sort of pimp-Popeye, but that wasn't the oddest thing about him. No, that would the fact I knew I'd seen him before, that night Ash and I tracked down a Weevil in the docks. This man had shot the creature before my eyes, then attempted to do the same to me before he escaped. I wondered what to do, who was more important, Devlin or this character? Were they in league or at odds? While lost in my thoughts, I didn't notice another male figure approach me. Suddenly, I had a hand thrust into mine, clasp mine roughly, and shake vigorously. The kind of overly dramatic shake only exhibited by men who read a "Guide to Success" and thought it was a method of asserting dominance. In practice, it asserted assholery.
"Hello there!" Boomed a voice from somewhere above the handshake. "You must be the students... So glad to give back to the community that made me the man I am today."
My eyes drifted up to the face looking down at me. I got the impression he was doing it figuratively as well as literally. His hand finally slipped from mine, and I couldn't help but imagine it as some kind of hagfish, retreating into a river. The palm of my hand felt genuinely slimy, like it was coated in an oily sheen. I'd heard of oily salesmen before, but I'd never fully grasped the expression until this moment.
