But enough shootings and blood! Let's part-ay! We are now in a club of some sort, where we see a dark-haired young thing behind the bar, shaking her moneymaker. And by "moneymaker," I mean "shaking device she uses to serve customers and therefore make money." She smiles flirtatiously at someone, and we are told via caption that it's THREE YEARS LATER in SAN FRANCISCO, CA. She examines a bottle and then yells, "We're out of Stoli!" She's supposed to be a bartender, but she sounds like a cheerleader. But we're in a hurry here, so next thing you know, she's left work and is getting on a wildly ornate elevator of the kind that would never exist in any bartender's apartment building unless that bartender were being kept as a tycoon's pet. But sure enough, she soon enters her apartment, where you can hear that the TV is on, droning out an infomercial. Jaime (for this is who she is) looks over at the couch, where a younger girl is asleep on the couch with a pizza box in front of her. As always, television assumes that Pizza Box = Young Person + Disorganization + Lack Of Parental Supervision. Jaime looks down at the girl and covers her with a blanket.
The next morning at 8:42 AM, Jaime awakens to loud music coming from the rest of the apartment and peevishly gets out of bed. She stomps through a preposterously huge apartment before arriving at a closed door where she stops and says, "Becca!" She adds, "What the hell? Are you still deaf?" No, she doesn't; I'm just kidding. When Becca comes to the door, Jaime tells her the music is too loud, but Becca just closes the door in her face. Jaime pounds again; the music stops as Becca again opens the door and stands there with her teenage bitchface on. She demands to know what Becca is doing, and winds up stomping into the room and picking up a modem cord, asking, "Where is it?" Becca plays dumb, and Jaime points out that there's a court order keeping her from being "near a computer plugged into a phone line." Ooookay. That's a sensible court order, provided that this particular hacker favors dial-up. Come on, show. I'm suspending enough disbelief as it is; don't make me suspend broadband. Becca snots that there's no computer, insisting that there's nothing in the room that doesn't belong other than Jaime herself. I can already tell that the bionic arm (SPOILER!) is going to be handy for delivering some amped-up bitchslaps to that little pill. When Jaime has left, of course, Becca goes over to the window and hauls in the laptop that's hanging outside in a net bag. Smooth, hacker! "Too easy," she says with a smile. So I don't like her at all.