Steve steps onto the stage and stills into the tense posture of someone who's used to the strange turns the world can take on a dime, but isn't always thrilled about it. It's not a defensive pose — his arms are down, his chest, his back, his neck, all of him left exposed, but few would get the impression that it's anything less than ready, his brow furrowed and mouth turned down as he takes in the tableau with a strategist's gaze, touching nothing. He doesn't wince at the spotlights, but tries to look past them for anything beyond the stage.
"Over here, cowboy," a voice says as he peers into the darkness. A blue-haired, glittery young woman in skintight white vinyl is sitting in one of the seats, legs crossed, totally at her ease. "The rest is just window dressing - I didn't bring in an audience."
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