Calling Atomah a ‘boutique’ was sort of a misnomer - what it was, in fact, was a rapid-recovery medical center focusing on exotic forms of cosmetic surgery. The boutique aspect of it came from the fact that you could get more than just your standard work done here; you could also get the really bizarre, artistic shit that was so in fashion these days. One could come out looking like a beauty queen, or like an overinflated, plastic exaggeration of the same - you know, just for kicks. ‘Normal’ beauty was so commonplace now that it had lost its meaning for the fashionable set; people like James Black-Eyes would be considered chic until he tore your throat out. Frankly, Gray hated places like Atomah, and he did not look forward to setting foot inside it as he parked the Vectra across the street next to a pair of patrol cars.
Atomah took up the first four floors of a Neo-Deco Revival structure couched between mall blocks. The McKellan Office Tower was a monstrosity of fluted steel and chrome ribbons on a flat concrete facade, stretching up eighty stories like a big middle finger from the past besides its elegant modern fellows. Gray could almost hear Atlas shrugging from the lobby. There were no windows in the first ten floors, just the name of the boutique spelled out in tall, stark sans-serif capitals over the building’s doors. What an edifice of blank consumerism it was! If Gray wasn’t going to deal with another murder he might have appreciated the architecture, but today he saw things differently. Today, it was merely the scrubbed face of an abattoir.