Smokin' Mirrors
Tucked into sub-block E-3387 S, Smokin’ Mirrors is difficult to distinguish at first glance. Wedged between a convenience store whose ownership changes monthly and a slophouse with convictions for “non-certified” meat content in its lo mein, the unassuming spa frontage is easy to dismiss. A steamy set of armaglass windows and a cleverly designed but flickering holoprojection sign out front proclaims “SPA: Full Service” in blunt but misleading stereographic font under a revolving soaktank with an attractive figure draped over the lip. Anyone looking to get the Holofront standard full-service treatment will be disappointed though, as the attendants are entirely professional and minded by bouncers with zero tolerance for handsy clients. The chromesoak tubs are cleaner than at most places and a modest menu of mostly legal drugs and finger foods completes an unexpectedly honest assortment of personal relaxation options. A canny observer will wonder how a place like this stays open considering the reasonable prices and lack of substantial tipping income. The answer lies behind a bead-curtained service hatch past the last soakroom on the left: a quaint and moody secret cigar lounge.
While not exclusively an edgerunner bar, the balance sheet would certainly reinforce the notion. For up-and-comers without the rep (or the credits) to get into the more infamous places like Switchboard and Last Light, this dim back-of-house haunt is as good a start as any for the prospective contract criminal. The space is dark and intimate, always full of aromatic vapor and threads of smoke. The soft lumen strips embedded in the walls and ceiling are tuned low and muffled slow music oozes out of concealed speakers around the place. Small tables with bare metal stools occupy the center of the room and overstuffed booths line the walls. A narrow bar top backed by an extensive array of colorful infusions and wrapped cigars takes up most of the far wall and is dominated by the owner, who seldom leaves their post behind the curve of annealed tantalum steel.
Known only as Eidolon, the mysterious and striking keeper of this sanctum is a real spectacle in the dark ambiance of the lounge. Standing nearly 8 feet tall at full height, their exotic body sculpt keeps them in an imposing hunch so all but the most borged out clientele have to look up into the visage of an archaic demon. Vaguely goat-like, the elongated face is bristled with dark, iridescent techhair and frames three eyes, two obviously cybernetic with sharp, red diodes behind whirling iris petals, and one shining orb set in the forehead glittering with the light of a starfield and a flame-wreathed pit of gold for a pupil. Delicate silver horns sweep back from the temples over a head of heavy dreadlocked hair hung with small charms. From beneath a sharply cut vest of crushed black velvet, arms of heavy, scratched bronze sweep out from wide shoulders and split at the elbows into banded forearms tipped with dexterous, clawed hands. In contrast to this bizarre and intimidating display, the voice that comes out of the snouted lips is melodic and mocking, its timbre androgynous, husky, and mildly suggestive no matter the topic of conversation.
Regulars know to humor Eidolon as their demeanor, while charming, is mercurial and any attempts to disturb the peace or violate the murky spirit of the lounge is met with terrific violence. Aside from a competent staff of bouncers front and back, Eidolon is themselves absurdly strong and keeps a pair of drum-fed SMGs just under the bar and who knows what else concealed around the place. Rumors abound about how someone obviously wealthy enough to have that kind of work done ended up running a Holofront lounge but no amount of drink and wild speculation has ever coaxed the truth out of Eidolon or anyone else.
While not exclusively an edgerunner bar, the balance sheet would certainly reinforce the notion. For up-and-comers without the rep (or the credits) to get into the more infamous places like Switchboard and Last Light, this dim back-of-house haunt is as good a start as any for the prospective contract criminal. The space is dark and intimate, always full of aromatic vapor and threads of smoke. The soft lumen strips embedded in the walls and ceiling are tuned low and muffled slow music oozes out of concealed speakers around the place. Small tables with bare metal stools occupy the center of the room and overstuffed booths line the walls. A narrow bar top backed by an extensive array of colorful infusions and wrapped cigars takes up most of the far wall and is dominated by the owner, who seldom leaves their post behind the curve of annealed tantalum steel.
Known only as Eidolon, the mysterious and striking keeper of this sanctum is a real spectacle in the dark ambiance of the lounge. Standing nearly 8 feet tall at full height, their exotic body sculpt keeps them in an imposing hunch so all but the most borged out clientele have to look up into the visage of an archaic demon. Vaguely goat-like, the elongated face is bristled with dark, iridescent techhair and frames three eyes, two obviously cybernetic with sharp, red diodes behind whirling iris petals, and one shining orb set in the forehead glittering with the light of a starfield and a flame-wreathed pit of gold for a pupil. Delicate silver horns sweep back from the temples over a head of heavy dreadlocked hair hung with small charms. From beneath a sharply cut vest of crushed black velvet, arms of heavy, scratched bronze sweep out from wide shoulders and split at the elbows into banded forearms tipped with dexterous, clawed hands. In contrast to this bizarre and intimidating display, the voice that comes out of the snouted lips is melodic and mocking, its timbre androgynous, husky, and mildly suggestive no matter the topic of conversation.
Regulars know to humor Eidolon as their demeanor, while charming, is mercurial and any attempts to disturb the peace or violate the murky spirit of the lounge is met with terrific violence. Aside from a competent staff of bouncers front and back, Eidolon is themselves absurdly strong and keeps a pair of drum-fed SMGs just under the bar and who knows what else concealed around the place. Rumors abound about how someone obviously wealthy enough to have that kind of work done ended up running a Holofront lounge but no amount of drink and wild speculation has ever coaxed the truth out of Eidolon or anyone else.
Comments