"I know this sounds funny but is there any way you could take a child in with you?" she said, "It's just there's very limited space inside."
"It's OK," I said, "I know what I want to see. I'll go in, boom and done - like a surgical strike."
I stepped into the gloom. Already there were purple ponchos drifting about. But something had occurred to me. I popped my head back round the door. "Or you could give my plus-one to someone with a plus-two," I said to the Science Volunteer, miming a woman wrangling two children.
I trailed a purple poncho through a side door. Although the ponchos were supposed to be a leveller, erasing identity and status through the adoption of a common garb, they had instantly diversified. Some had comfortable, well-fitting ponchos which tidily shadowed the face and shrouded the form; officials of Mumu. Some were made of sweet fabrics and decorated with sequins; financing the gig, or art-scene accelerators. Then there were a lot shrugging into simple tacked-up stage-cloth ponchos, laughing and joking - roadies and art students, rolling cables and staplegunning protest to the walls. The stages and artworks were in busy set-up. It looked like fun. But I was on a mission.
I don't actually know who the enemy is, as the dream is operating on a need-to-know basis, and I don't need to know. Earlier scenes have suggested that it may be the Neo-liberal Techno-assimilatory elite; something about the unnecessary smoothness and elaboration of their weapons, and the way they always come from unexpected directions when they're trying to kill you.
What I need to know is that there is an operational machine gun waiting for me in a roof-height sculpture made of fused and melted weapons, covered in graffiti, and ammunition behind the toilet in an unused upstairs bathroom (accessed via the orange stairs). Further instructions will follow.
All of which suggests that the Drummond Dream Cannon (Patent Pending) is already operational.