« on: February 06, 2015, 09:28:09 am »
I stroll into the club, projecting an air of confidence and machismo. I know I'm projecting an air of these things because that's what my pheromone augmentations are configured to do and at the bottom left corner of my heads-up display are readings on range and efficacy.
I slow momentarily as I enter, evaluating my prospects for scoring based on competitor to eligible partner ratio. The pause is also an opportunity to calculate escape routes and establish whether any of the existing occupants pose a threat. I catch the eye of a brunette near the bar, not too tall, probably about a 4 in my estimate. I'm not far off. My HUD suggests nearly a 5 because of the modifier to social value afforded to her by some simple analytics on her SocioNet profile, ranking especially highly in genetics on the grounds that her mother is still pretty fit.
She inhales deeply, locking eyes with mine. I keep my face steady, knowing that she's tracking microexpressions and using olfactory enhancement to detect any signs of malintent or aggression.
The screen behind the bar lights up red, casting a menacing glow across her face as an advertisement from the AXE Corporation for mods maybe a version or two ahead of mine and the famous line. "Tomahawk. Bitches don't know about it." In a simpler time, that was true. Before dating became an arms race.