A thick ebony finger grazed the screen of a phone. Tube ceiling lights and fluorescent strips of pillar lighting began to flicker on with a nearly imperceptible hum. It dispeled shadows from the cavernous remains of what was once a department store. A large 1947 Wurlitzer jukebox clicked to life with the searing glow of neon.

A substantial hand jaunted across the front of the jukebox, flicking specs of dust from the surface before resting to hover over the keypad. The muscled index finger found B, then 1, and finally 7. Whirrs and clacks echoed from behind the jukebox’s glowing facade. Beneath the glass, a thin metal arm plucked a record from its tower, placed it, and then retreated back to rest. The record spun with the momentary crackle and fuzz that preceded the purity of historic sound.

A rising swell of rhythm guitar and the powerful thump of drums filled the space, reverberating back from the distant walls and between the empty staggered shelving.

The bright glow from the jukebox was almost engulfed by the wide silhouette of a man. His long hair shifted over his shoulders, black braids secured by thin luminescent cable. Silver shades obscured his dark brown eyes. A cigar was held lightly between his teeth, wisping smoke from a thick clump of ash at its end. The man grasped the cigar between two fingers, drawing it away from his mouth. He pressed his palms against the jukebox, closing his eyes, absorbing the sound.

His rumbling voice quaked its way from his throat and past his trim beard, mimicking the crunching electric guitar that tore from the speakers.

He turned around and moved toward a 50s diner banquette seat in the shape of the backend of a fin-backed, white wall tired car. His leathery trenchcoat caught the light of the jukebox breaking it up into a diffuse shuffle of sparks against black. Loose black leather pants draped his chrome legs ending in heavy standard issue NAU combat boots. The war took his legs, and he kept the boots.

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He took a seat on the diner banquette and butted out his cigar. Thin cables stretched of their own accord from beneath the vinyl padding before magnetically snapping into hexagonal skull plates beneath his hairline. It was one of his favorite acquisitions, an experimental VR suite that he’d integrated into the chair himself.

The pupils of his eyes glowed blue as the signal streamed into his brain. He felt wood against his fingers, he smelled lilies, he saw the blinding blur of white. The vision of a room opened before him. The sun shined warmly through tall thin windows. Green plants dotted the bright white walls. A stippled ceiling composed of polished hardwood rose above.

His avatar within the simulation cleared his throat, hands resting atop a pulpit. The hands found a thick bible on a small shelf within. Then they opened the weighty book to Romans before setting it down. He looked around the empty church, then down at the bible. Then he stepped away from the pulpit into a back room. He kneeled down low, and began to pray.

The sound of people trickled in through the door. Warm greetings and laughter wafted over the man. A tingling sensation washed across the back of his neck. He stood and left the small room, walking to the pulpit and smiling at the congregation. People of every nation, tongue, and cyber-affiliation were seated there.

A feeling of joy rose up from within, settling in the man’s chest. He raised a hand out to his congregation and opened his mouth. Then suddenly, the VR stream was interrupted and the department store came back into view. The man’s phone was ringing inside of his pocket. He pressed a button and raised it to his ear.

“Preature?” a voice blurted through the earpiece.

“Yes,” he rumbled.

The voice stammered back. “I want to see the pieces tonight. Bring the crew. I want to make sure it gets to me in one piece.”

“You’ve got it,” his voice rumbled in response and ended the call. The department store faded to white again, and the VR sprung back to life. A wide smile crossed his lips.