They hunch dejected on the artificial reefs of Tokyo. Sluggish advert blimps drawn by body heat hover overhead, bumping each other softly and flashing 15 second spots on hi-rez mylar screens that shiver in the wind. The storm has subsided, but twenty lie dead in the coffin of the micro-sub at the bottom of the bay. Rescued was a black laminate box containing glass vials of blue sun, a rabid form of methanphetamine. Eli prepares the syringes. His hair is still wet and plastered to his head like flat black daggers. After the injections come visions of snow monkeys rising from the waves. The punks throw stones at the blimps for fun, setting off automatic alarms: tin voices screaming in Japanese.