The alley smells like asphalt and artificial citrus. Neon green light pulses from a pop-up booth wedged between a laundromat and a shuttered pawn shop. A crowd of identical women - tall, gleaming, dressed in green and yellow that leaves very little to imagination - fill the narrow space. Some are dancing to music only they can hear. A few turn in perfect unison and say, deadpan: *Try the new formula.* The one at the front of the booth is already looking directly at you. Has been, probably, since you turned the corner. She tilts her head and smiles like she already knows your answer. Apparently your taste profile is a rare find. The new Mountain Dew formula is unstable - and you're the missing variable. The Dewbots have been deployed to find exactly one person tonight. Somehow, impossibly, that person is you.