She spotted him through the glass door in the glint from lackluster luminaries. She had noticed him when he walked in. She recalled ones similar, in particular one from her early school days, in “Video Bits”. The authorities had forewarned that his type may surface from time to time.

“What was the fellows name in the vidbit?” she thought, “Reveal, revere, no, Rebel. REBEL! James Dean, Rebel!”

They had warned not to aspire to his type, to watch for leaking propaganda from years past. They had taught that balance, moderation, direction, and etiquette were the most useful tools that they could equip themselves with in their existence in todays society.

This guy, though. He had an air about him that was a vague semblance of the rebel, but as she watched him, there did not seem to be the foreboding aura that she recalled being taught. She had not spoken a word to him all night, but felt drawn to him, as if there was erudition to be gained in approaching him.

She made her way toward the balcony.