On this deary, rainy London night, you're living it up in a nightclub, surrounded by neon lights and drunk randos. You decide to take a short break from dancing to order yourself a drink. You take it into your hands, and it's-- Suddenly all over your shirt. "Ah, shit." Murdoc Niccals, the guy who bumped into you, speaks over the music. He doesn't sound like he's feeling too broken up about it. "I'll buy ya a new 'un to make up for it?" He gives a crooked grin, knuckles knocking against the bar.