There’s never really a good time to become woke to the world—global war, international tensions, corporate inhumanity. With the state of things now, the world’s in a sort of purgatory. There’s a coming storm. Entropy, Futility; pick your poison.

And who are we to challenge it all?

>>>
>>>
>>>...

And who are they to change anything?

>>>
>>>
>>>...

But who are you to even notice?

---

---

ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖, 𝕊𝕠𝕦𝕥𝕙 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝
𝔸𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕝 𝟙𝕤𝕥, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝 𝟙𝟠:𝟘𝟘
[ℂ𝕠𝕞𝕖, 𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕕𝕠𝕨 ℂ𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕧𝕒𝕟] 𝕃𝕠𝕒𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘...

Quite the contrast in the Reclaim Zone. It was almost poetic. Swathe Street’s Central Square had become the general point of important congregations in the Reclaim years prior, though it was by no means a show of the zone’s greatness. Perhaps it was chosen because it was so hard to find an inch of empty and unclaimed space. Central Square used to be something—a factory of some sort, though its identifying lettering had long since faded, stained dark black with ashen particulate matter. Now, it was one of the few factories that had been torn down. On three sides, three monolithic husks of fallen industry made it relatively easy to rig up with a resonant sound system and a great place to herd a crowd. Of course, it was also a great way to box in the target of a cybernetic ninja assassin.

The place looked almost more like a hangman’s block then it did a debate stage, but the Reclaim was under the impression Gatch was working with a limited budget. It was behind the weathered walls that mattered, at least to the new arrivals. The Reclaim was never a welcoming place, new faces found their place quick, but it was an unavoidable stop on the campaign trail. After all, the Reclaim somehow quadrupled its population just in time for the last mayoral election.

But the Reclaim—its derelict denizens—weren’t quite ready to welcome any new sorts. There would be no parade. There would be no crowds of adoring fans. Nothing special. There was only a train of five appointed arrivals and their subsequent motorcades.

>>>Poison of the Twin Cities.
>>>A caravan of shadows,
>>>Ghosts of what the Reclaim is:
>>>Already a city of ghosts?
>>>Left asking, ‘who called for this all?’
>>> ‘Who brings forth a caravan of shadow demons into their midst?’

>>>...
>>>... Emerging from a slick black sports car in a pristine suit::
>>>... Puppet and Puppeteer, Carefully Tracing the Strings

Gatch was the first to arrive. The mayor had to ensure his goons were preparing the candidate’s suites. Denizens of the Reclaim were used to him by now, careful not to get too close, or look for too long. Some scowled and sneered, even muttered their own made-up curses unto their mayor. He had grown used to it. That was how he got into his comfortable position. He didn’t see the ghosts—a trained professional of staring through the weak like they didn’t exist. He stared up at the crumbling structures around Central Square. Bad memory flashes come back. He didn’t stay outside for long.

>>>...
>>>... They moved in a group—a silent march walking in disciplined, solemn, knowing formation::
>>>... Balance, Harmony, Equalizer Kingpin

Dao walked in the middle of the monks, multiple rows abreast. Passers by stopped to watch the alien procession, a mob of telltale orange robes. Some dared to say Chen Dao scrutinized the Reclaim behind that puzzled face. No one could really read him, like he was plastic, but even with Baolei Refuge Center coming to the Reclaim, its people knew he didn’t belong. The strange looks didn’t break him. Dao’s gaze barely deviated from its perfect, upright, forward angle, though perhaps one onlooker caught a glimpse and saw something different within him. He didn’t stop to chat.

>>>...
>>>... His procession was subtle, but opulent; limousine, solar top::
>>>... Guru of Knowledge Not Quite Knowable, Followed by His Flock

Faren was very rarely alone. Scarcely would you not see a string of acolytes in tow. His movement drew that sort—devoted to their own underground. Despite the distance of their belief from the modern discourse, there was something about the way the Neo-Luddite movement around Faren carried themselves. They felt no disadvantage. There was a look in the eyes of the men and women that stepped out from his vehicle—cold, distant, unflinching. It was a confidence in their absolutes, and a confidence that they were unified, powerful together. Faren smiled and laughed his way through onlookers. He was always the center of the public’s eye until the moment he disappeared into the suites, but there was a tension that couldn’t be shaken from Central Square until he stepped from view.

>>>...
>>>... She was sure to make a spectacle, helicopter escort lowering precariously too close to the densely packed city street::
>>>... Primed to be the Privateer of a New Age, New Wave

The Petrukov name was ‘barely known locally’ as diehard Pirates often quoted in homage to the obscure rap lyrics that formed their campaign slogans. Petrukov couldn’t slip by so unnoticed in the cyberscape, though. The Pirate Party had drones in the air, and all apertures were trained on the star of the show. She wasn’t backed by a crowd of thousands. She wasn’t surrounded by a force of followers. Serena Petrukov saw her reflection instead in the static white noise of media platforms buzzing numbered in the hundreds. Despite the broad scale of her spotty support, Petrukov had other plans for her rise. The parade of Pirate representatives followed close behind, prepared for any imminent broadsides and the subsequent consequences thereof.

>>>...
>>>... His team arrived before him, though he wasn’t late. The sports car piloted itself with pinpoint precision to destination::
>>>... Wayward Walking Amongst the Titans

Samsara Washington. He let the name resound around his projected overlay in his technispecs while admiring the make and the matter of his pristinely picked appearance. Most of the Reclaim misunderstood him. We’re all misunderstood after all—flawed works in progress. He’s a hustler. He’s a con. He’s a craftsman, all too often bumping shoulders with the most industrious America offered. The long jacket and dark suit concealed just how much of him was still human. The populace wouldn’t stare long enough to find out.

---

---

“Welcome to the Reclaim Zone.”

The complex behind the scenes at Central Square was one of the only areas of the Reclaim to see public funds for renovation in a number of years. After Gatch’s reelection, the complex seemed always at work. Occasional hard-hat sorts or those with the vague look of hired security were in and out of back entryways and new additions. It was hard to distinguish who was who—who was Reclaim, and who was one of the five warring forces brought together in the complex. There was plenty of room hidden in between the alleyways and neighboring derelict blocks.

“Each of you has been assigned a suite where you can conduct operations before the debate. Accompanying living quarters are attached for you and a select few close associates. The rest of your campaign team can find housing in Hostel 13-33 just nearby.” Gatch chuckled a bit then shrugged. “There’s plenty of vacancies to take care of that.”

“The crowd seems excited.” Petrukov had already managed to find the source of free refreshments, sipping from a freshly liberated mug.

“I can assure you the crowds at the debates will be much different than you’re welcoming party. Population is at an all time high. Seems your name doesn’t make rounds so often in the Reclaim.”

“Will the Reclaim’s masses be enough this time, Gatch?” Samsara remarked as he thrusted open the door. He arrived just a few seconds fashionably? late. “All those hard working Reclaim citizens tucked into the cities crevasses…” He gestured into the ether. “I hear times are tough, Gatch. I mean, APEX has your back but now you’re seeing a bigger stage, and not every corp with money will fill in the first option on the ballot. How are your relations with Amalgamation and your old corporate donors?”

“APEX seems to be having some struggles of its own right now, don’t they?”

“Do you think you’re zaibatsu will be enough to save you from public opinion, Samsara?” Petrukov had already found herself a seat in the common area of the suites. She posted up at the room’s edge, paying a dull and uninterested but acute attention to her opposition.

Samsara hummed an amused tune for the briefest moment. “I’d say I’ve got a strong steel alloy backbone of support. What about you, Miss Petrukov?” He gestured into the air, an array of multicolored graphics projecting from his technispecs in response. “Keeping company of terrorists and netrunner criminals isn’t a good image for a public servant. I’d say you’ve got plenty to worry about yourself.”

Petrukov shrugged. “Maybe there’s more to the power of the populace than any ‘APEX’ or ‘Amalgamation’.”

“She could be more right than you think, Gatch. I implore you take care with APEX in such a—” He skipped a beat. Dramatic pause—it was a basic stage play. “There are whispers that the protests outside your corp’s new ‘killzone production facilities’ could take a turn for the worse at any moment.” Faren slid across the floor to meet Gatch far too close for the mayor’s comfort. “It’d be hell for the media to see a riot break out. All it would take was one broken, uncontrollable guard caught up in the heat of the moment. We don’t want anyone to die after all. That’s why we’re here.”

“So is that why merc populations are getting employed so drastically around here? Is APEX scared of what’s hiding here under your nose, Gatch?”

Chen Dao’s posture looked artificial—like a mannequin. He remained politely facing the candidates only long enough for Gatch’s brief explanation of the facility to end. Then, Dao had other worries. A triad of other monks were deep in whispered conversation with their abbot listening in.

“The Baolei Refuge Center was severely under-supported from its advent. We worry that without continuous support for the afflicted…” The monk trailed off. His weary eyes traced the nearby candidates. Sometimes even derelict brick walls were too thin. He held his tongue.

“And the disappearances…”

“We have full intentions of restoring the clinic. Baolei shall not suffer.” The monks were relieved even at his simple promise, worth as much as air if no follow through was planned. “The people of the Reclaim Zone required funding from an outside source. Alliance may be key to their propagation...”

“Yes, Dao.” A series of bows followed.

---

---

There’s this phenomenon. I’ve seen it everywhere, but the Reclaim is especially afflicted. Everywhere you go, human influence twists and bends the natural world into its whims. Civilization is created. And with civilization comes that sound—the omnipresent thrum of mechanical energy. It’s in the walls of every old factory. It’s running through unseen waves in the air. It’s the fabric of cyberspace.

It’s kind of a reflection of what’s out there isn’t it? The more you hear of it—the more the buzz tunes to an inescapable static sensory input—the more you notice. The world is alive with that buzz, alive with opportunity, writhing with choices and possible paths.

I used to think tuning into the drone might help me pick the right one.

Sometimes, when I was younger, I’d look around at each character illuminated by the casino’s hazy neon. Everyone, filtered through that light, starts to look the same. At the very least, they share characteristics—blinded by their revelry in the red light.

Sometimes, I’d look at their shadows too. I’d look at them and I’d see little shadow demons in each of them.
Each subtle outline, the ghost of intoxication, the ghost of avarice, the ghost of tricksters.
Every shadow was unique, personable even. I observed each of them carefully over time, and got to know them.
I was so imaginative.

I still imagine the shadow demons hiding in each of our steads—still see them in trailing just off beat in the stead of every single person who walks through Limbo. When a Mixologist crosses the pristine polished floor, transitions to the velvet carpets, the shadow demons dance and ripple. I’ve been watching this particular set of them, thinking about them, thinking about this, for approximately 316 minutes 43 seconds. I counted. You know how sometimes, a task is so prevalent in the foreground of your mind that even when that second voice of a splintering side-thought catches your attention, you remain conscious and calculating even in the background? That seems to happen to me a lot. Sometimes I think it’s my E-Brain talking to me. Thoughts are a web. One is here and one is there, but they’re all… connected, dancing together, like the party of patrons that dances back and forth across the velvet to Limbo’s distant, distorted music.

Then I’m moving backwards…

“Incoming transmission from High Orbital Station Alexandria, identification code LIMBO. Unit Solomon, do you copy our transmission?”

“What?” Stella let her eyes flicker open and closed.

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕃𝕚𝕞𝕓𝕠 ℂ𝕝𝕦𝕓

ℍ𝕚𝕘𝕙 𝕆𝕣𝕓𝕚𝕥𝕒𝕝 𝕊𝕥𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝔸𝕝𝕖𝕩𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕣𝕚𝕒
∞∞∞, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝

“You were standing out there on the floor staring at nothing for like 37 seconds. My MicroVision Particulate Indicators are literally picking up the Dust particles floating around your face. You’ve got a table waiting…”

“What?”

“Oswald is here. He’s all serious today, so he’s all yours.”

---

---

𝔻𝕦𝕒𝕥, 𝕃𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝔻𝕖𝕒𝕕

ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖, 𝕊𝕠𝕦𝕥𝕙 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝
𝔸𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕝 𝟙𝕤𝕥, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝 𝟙𝟠:𝟘𝟘

[𝔽𝕚𝕣𝕤𝕥 𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕥𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕕 𝔾𝕝𝕒𝕤𝕤], 𝕃𝕠𝕒𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘...

‘Mary’, it said. Stella wiped a hand across the gold-plated nametag, admiring its glint in Duat’s aesthetic mood lighting. It wouldn’t have been her first choice, no. She would have gone with something like Ishtar Ninkasi, but Stella would suffice. The regulars had caught on by this point. She told them that it was so the strange drifter sorts wouldn’t know her name, but the nameplate was part of Oz’s mission apparently. When her new clients came to Duat, she’d be easy to recognize. Stella wasn’t quite sure why her crazy mixologist tricks wouldn’t be telltale enough.

“Stella!” He slapped his open palms down against the black quartz countertop. His green canvas jacket was caked with soot and dried mud. Its sleeves rippled as he gestured to her again. “Another round of… Whatever’s your daily special,” he said. “Before the dread sets in again.”

A dramatic flair of her hand into the air was all the populace—whether they were watching or not—needed to know that the Mixologist was at work. As much as her flashy attitude was an ostentatious display, Stella’s Clairvoyance Optics were calibrating and calculating to perfectly align with her custom prostheses. Then, her work began. Extracting rare chemicals, tumblers tossed in perfect arcs, exact pours all to fill a single tumbler with one bubbling, dark, red solution.

“One Osiris’ Embalming Fluid, chef’s special, coming—” Stella whirled the glass around on the table just careful enough to ensure that the liquid filling the tumbler to the brim wouldn’t spill. “—right up!” Again, another calculation. How many Newtons of frictional force between the black quartz and the full glass? Air resistance on the tumbler? Extraneous factors? Then, “You’ve been served.”

The glass cascaded across the countertop, carefully weaving past the drinks of any other patrons before sliding to a halt in front of its new owner. Each drop of her brew that was tossed into the air during the jolt in acceleration rained down perfectly back to its home. Kelvin raised the tumbler in tribute to the Mixologist.

The retired Enforcer was one of Stella’s first regulars, or at least one of the first to learn her real name. Months had gone by already, and still ‘Mary’ was waiting. Stella figured Oz wanted her to get to Duat as early prior to the election as possible. Something about how her new clients wanted to ensure that no one knew about their newfound plant. So she worked and served, classic Mixologist style. But times were changing, and the election was coming. It couldn’t be long before it was back to High Orbit with the fabled Ultrabartender.

>>>
>>>
>>>𝟙𝟠:𝟘𝟝

As much as Stella loved the moody, brooding version of Duat, it was a slow day. One quick interface with the console beneath the bar and the establishment’s many holoscreens lit up—oracles of the broken world, broken time.

The full force of the Twin City Sprawl Council campaign trail has reached the Reclaim.
Five parties have qualified to compete in a final round of debates and the general election.
Three of the five parties will see council seats, though citizens all around the Twin City Sprawl
have concerns about what may be occurring behind the scenes at the expense of the sprawl’s welfare.
All five candidates have arrived in the Reclaim, and each seems to have their own specific plan of
attack for the debate in three days time…





Stella occupied herself with tidying her bar, all the while odds and ends that were lying around found themselves carefully trickshotted back into place. Duat was certainly not her first choice of assignment, but it had been a wild ride to head straight into the thick of life on Earth. So much was buzzing around the sprawl at all times. Nothing stopped, and nobody rested. South City was there at the center of it all—or maybe the center-left [west?] of it all. Dreams emerged in lack of opportunity. Secrets were whispered even in the corners of the Land of the Dead, and there was no shortage of interesting characters working the crowd in the Reclaim. Truly, she thought, It was a land of Futility, but in the center of it all an unstoppable, resilient, indomitable 𝗵𝘂𝘀𝘁𝗹𝗲.

Petrukov's insistence on a grand entrance had put Kay on edge the moment she heard of the plan and forced her to grab a taxi so as to avoid the crowds. Once there, she toted her gear by hand up to the suite, refusing any help. Doormen and bellmen alike offered to carry her numerous bulky duffle bags, but Kay adamantly refused, even snapping at a young man who made the mistake of trying to be chivalrous anyway. The surly hacker didn't even trust her own employer with her equipment, much less some random shmuck looking to make a quick buck from tips.

It took almost 20 minutes to fully outfit her adjacent living quarters and she still left two bags unpacked; those she left on her bed. From her pocket she retrieved two small pieces of electronic hardware. One she stuck to the door handle on side facing her room. The second she clipped to her waistband before locking her door, double checking the lock, and triple checking the lock was secure. As much as she didn't enjoy the idea of leaving her equipment partially unattended, she couldn't pass up free refreshments.

She somewhat regreted the decision to make her way down to the lobby when she spotted almost the entire election panel (the parts that mattered anyway) all in one place. Her ratty jeans and worn jacket were a bit out of place in a more affluent crowd, but she hoped to fly under the radar even with the worryingly dark circles and heavy bags under her eyes. If there was one thing Kay knew she could count on with politicians, it was how easily they forget people who aren't waving money or loaded guns in their faces. As long as she kept her head down they likely wouldn't notice hired help and leave her to drink horrifically bitter hotel coffee in peace off to the side.

Lott never knew what she wanted to be when she grew up. Truth be told, any question about the future filled her with dread. When people asked her where she saw herself in five years she’d pause, pretend to think, and reply with some sort of canned, inoffensive answer like a managerial position. In reality, the idea of going five more years down any kind of set path just seemed exhausting because she could hardly make it through the five day work week without losing her mind. Still, she secretly admired the people who were adamant in what their future would hold, those annoying little pricks who thought they could actually be somebody. More often than not those intolerable twerps would realize the futility of their dreams and settle like she had, but every now and then a few of them would breakthrough into greatness. That’s how Lott saw the five candidates as they hung around the common area of the Swathe Street complex: all great in their own special way, and all equally as insufferable.

Gatch’s publicist stood off to the side, unnoticed, just as she preferred to be at times like these. Lott had arrived earlier that day with Gatch’s advance team. While they saw to it that the complex suite’s were properly prepared and (probably) bugged for the four other candidates, Lott took it upon herself to train everyone on staff how breaching certain topics to the media or other candidates would be in violation of their contracts. Basically, the message boiled down to “smile, nod, and keep your mouth shut”, and judging by the cold shoulders she had been receiving for the rest of that afternoon it had seemed to sink in. She was growing accustomed to the icy reception from the other members of Gatch’s team. Lott was fine with it; the fewer people who talked to her, the fewer people to notice how incredibly wasted she was currently.

It had not been Lott’s intention to get so twisted that she’d spent the last five minutes staring at the reflection of her face upon the black screen of her tablet, but sometimes it happens. Usually not at work, but today's work had gone on longer than usual and there had been plenty of time to kill and besides she’d taken a few doses of her anxiety meds to counteract the effects of the uppers she’d popped and she was totally as cool as a cucumber and surely nobody could tell anyway, right? Right. Right? Lott looked up, ready to see the entire room staring back at her and found that everyone was engaged in their own thing like usual. She smiled at her reflection. See, nobody even noticed. Her reflection didn’t smile back. It knew that Lott was in no state of mind to determine if someone was even looking their way. She looked back up. Gatch caught her eye.

It was the signal. She breathed deeply and tried to slow down her racing heart, a difficult task for anyone to do when they were about to approach a group with Samsara Washington standing among the others. Lott tucked away her tablet and moved across the lobby. It felt like she was walking on ice, so she kept her arms tucked into her coat pockets out of fear that she’d otherwise start flailing them. Her eyes didn’t leave Washington. He was a great dresser. Made Gatch look like some jerkoff wearing some thrift shop suit. She wanted to know where Washington got his suit, how much it costs, and if they could make one in her size. Lott was curious if they needed a publicist. She wouldn’t mind being under him. The corner of her numbed lips twitched as she gave Washington a final once over, and then turned to Gatch.

The look he gave her told her it hadn’t been the signal. Lott froze, pulled out her tablet, and stared into the blackness again. She was close enough to hear the candidates verbally jousting with one another. Lott’s ears perked up as she heard APEX Industries get targeted. Gatch may have been their golden boy but officially he was not a representative of their company. Technically, Lott wasn’t an official representative of their company, either, despite having a job lined up for her once she completed this campaign trail. She shot Petrukov a look as the woman suggested APEX wasn’t a necessity. If it hadn’t been for APEX sending Lott to reach out to Petrukov’s lawyer with some sensitive information the woman probably wouldn’t even be in the running for council.

Lott looked at Gatch and saw that he had no defense ready for the pre-debate debate. Screw waiting for signals, he was floundering. No media was to be allowed inside of the complex yet, but that didn’t mean people weren’t recording. She knew that she was. As much as she didn’t care for the Mayor, it’d look bad if word got out that he couldn’t spar. It’d look worse for Lott if she just let the other candidates gang up on him and tear down her boss and her (“former”) company. Lott slid up beside Mayor Gatch, tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear, and pinned her tablet to her chest like a shield. She blinked. What was the plan here? She had just inserted herself into a conversation with some of the most potentially important people in the Twin City Sprawl and she was too high to even concentrate on anything but the pretty lights on Washington’s glasses.

“Cool glasses. I need to get me a pair of those,” said Lott. Her voice was hollow and empty. Even when she wasn’t in an enhanced state of numbness her words always sounded so passionless, as if she was either always being sarcastic or just bored by the mere thought of existence. She had meant what she’d said about Washington’s glasses, she just hadn’t meant to say it outloud. She tried to smile at him to show that she wasn’t being a jerk. It didn’t quite work—her face, that is. Sure, muscles moved and teeth were bared, but nobody could ever confuse that look for a smile. At best it was a pained grimace from someone who was aware of their own awkwardness; at worst it was a sneer from someone who thought the other person’s sense of fashion made them look like a real prick.

“Ms. Petrukov,” said Lott, turning her attention to the Pirate Party candidate. “We can assure you that the influx in employment of private security firms is little more than preventative maintenance to dissuade the sorts of unsavory characters that often attach themselves to political campaigns.” She let her eyes linger. “However, I can get in touch with a media crew if you’d like to make a statement in regards to your belief that the Reclaim doesn’t deserve protection and that the hardworking men and women of the security firms should be unemployed.”

“I’d also like to remind everyone that working with APEX is not working for APEX. The Mayor works for the people of the Reclaim Zone. While Mayor Gatch and the Reclaim are grateful for what the company does to help build and grow our little slice of the Twin Cities, any information we provide on the subject is mere conjecture. If you have any questions regarding APEX Industries, I can reach out to one of their representatives. Otherwise, perhaps we can save the debate for the debate?”

“If you’d like, I could show you to your room,” she finished. The offer was to any and all of the candidates, but Lott didn’t look at anyone other than Samsara. His glasses were just too cool.

division.

that’s all us drivers see nowadays. the sky and the earth apart sandwiching the sprawl. a concrete tide that buries the promise of the horizon, of endless roads. An unseen finish line.

that is why we race. why I race.

well, once raced.

to escape the division.

---

C:>/ver

FUTILITY V 2.01

C:>>> FUTILITY [DRIFT_DEMON.exe]

C:>>> UPLOADING……..

C:>>> LAUNCH FILE Y/N?

C:>>> Y

C:>>> LAUNCHING DRIFT_DEMON.exe………

---

A single stroke splits the mackerel's head from its oblong body. Only a droplet of blood spills out on the extinct hinoki cutting board. The precision of 2060 augs is something to marvel at as green titanium digits begin making thin incisions along the body with a paring knife. Keah does not show it but he holds a quiet respect for the Iron Itamae’s work.

Suraiboshen is an ocean frozen in time. Beneath the bar lies a reef trapped in glass, shoals of silver scales and rainbows moving about, a museum of extinct species. Tuna, yellowtail, squid, even sea turtles. The Iron Itamae once said that his aquarium was the size of a swimming pool. Keah doesn’t doubt it for a second.

Deft hands begin pulling out pin bones one by one. The fish still writhes in his hand, phantom struggles of a nervous system. The Iron Itamae looks up at him with mismatched eyes. “ Tell me, driver. Is this fish real?”

“ Yes.”

“ How would you know it was real?”

“ I can eat it. That’s all there is to it.”

“ This mackerel is genetically modified from four close sub-species to look like a mackerel. Its protein matrix has been modified in order to make it taste like a mackerel. It’s life-span, reproductive cycles, behaviour and physiology have been altered so radically from the natural analogue by me.” He dabs the flesh in a thick coat of soju. “ So, is it real?”

“ If I ran you over, would that be real?”

“ So impatient, are we?” He chuckles. “ I’m rather surprised you’re still offering to work for me, given the nature of your new…..client.” The Iron Itamae’s mouth scoffs when he tilts his head. “ Don’t be surprised. I spent my Gaea Naturae connecting as well as experimenting. So, tell me. Why?”

“ Contract with you is until September.” He nods slightly to the left, looking at the digital holo-calendar which reads APRIL 1st, 2065 in bracketed lettering. “ Satisfy you enough?”

“ Believe that you have a sense of honour? Pah. Honour is a dull ingredient, predictable, boring and too complex.” The Iron Itamae puts the last of the nigiri in a cube and presses a hidden switch on the side. There’s a hiss of nitrogen and helium before the freeze-vac locks. He reaches forth with his right hand, articulated alloyed digits tapping on the smooth metal surface of the storage box.

“ Where?”

“ Where you belongs, turboblazer” His grin is as sharp as his knife. “ The land of the dead.”

---

The Reclaim Zone was a neon inferno and he was just one of the unfortunate many to have been caught in its flames. Only the Rigg kept him afloat in the sea of kaleidoscopic fire, a flotsal of glass and syncrete spires bobbing around him. His left hand held the gearstick loosely while his other hand pincered the wheel in an eight fingered grip. He was approaching a junction now, two auto-trucks bordering him on both sides of the lane. He looked left and right, and then at the narrowing road. Too slow. Slamming the accelerator down, he bucked the Jury Rigg forward and pulled the steering wheel all the way to the left. The Jury Rigg curled to the right, Keah feeling the inexorable pull of momentum that made his guts roil, as he pulled into a hairpin turn.

Keah frowned. There should be something. The dizzying high of excitement. The death defying thrill. The blood pumping adrenaline that surged through your veins. The BPM meter on his helmet didn’t even notch up a beat. He sidled into another sliding drift, went through the same motions again.

Nothing. He zoomed past a red light, gazing upwards at the polluted skies of the Reclaim Zone. Why did he take these delivery jobs again? He could have quit after all. The pay that the Iron Itamae offered him was a fraction of what Petrukov offered him. He shook his head. No, it wasn’t the pay. It was the offer of a challenge. No, you’re past that. Remember what happened to the OverDriver? Nevermind that. He was coming near the Duat now. The iconic hieroglyphic sign glowed like a lighthouse, a beacon attracting the underbelly of the Zone. The sun had only just begun to set and already, the lots were glutted with an ensemble of glitzy EngiTech cyclics and FuryTech sports cars that looked like they were compensating for something with their oversized aerofoils. He crunched to a slow grinding halt, parking underneath the shadow of an old flickering street lamp.

Someone then knocked on his side-window. His helmet filtered in footage from his car's external cameras. A motorcycle gang. They were all pimped out in extensive holo-tattoos that covered their bodies like some obscure skin disease. There was the usual chrome, of course, but to Keah, it was looking as if they had more bark than bite.

“ You fuckin- Hey, open the window right now. That’s our spot, you fuckin- ”

He rolled down the window and one look at his helmet was all they needed to back off. Keah inwardly signed. There were days where he hoped he could drive around the streets. Reputation was a double edged sword indeed. He stepped out, not even bothering to look at the motley crew of bosozoku gangers that were mingling about his car.

“ Watch over the car, will you?," he muttered, leaving them to talk among themselves excitedly as he entered the Duat.

He’d only been to Duat a few times. Most places in the Reclaim Zone were seedy but this place was the wrong type of seedy. The Duat was a different animal from the underground scene of street racing. There were codes of conduct, honor, lines that couldn’t be crossed, closed secrets. The Duat was where everyone could listen in on everyone’s secret all the time, where shady deals were conducted openly to the tune of ethyl and cheap synthpop music.

He shouldered on past a couple lost in the rhythm of the dance floor and kept on looking for his client. His HUD locator marked a silhouette sitting nearby the UltraBartender's palace. He continued walking until his client was in full view. The first impression about him was that everyone was giving him a wide berth. No one was sitting next to him and he was the only one at the left end of the countertop. A hood shrouded his features and he was nursing a shot glass. As he walked nearer, his noses retched at the stink of ethyl and tonic that reeked from the glass.

He placed the vac-freeze cube on top of the countertop, jingling the shot glass the hooded man was holding. Keah’s eyebrows were furrowed in suspicion right now. A most particular feeling of deja vu was buzzing in the back of his brain. There was just something off about how this person wore their thermo-jacket, high-brimmed collar around his neck and all.

“Cred-chip. Now.”

The hooded man turned around on his bar stool and took off his guise. He froze. Another helmet. A FuryTech Prism. Racing model. He only knew one man who wore such a helmet. His own face stared back at him through the mysterious man's polarized visor.

“ Nice to meet you again, Drift Demon.”

Shit.

What was the OverDriver doing in the Reclaim Zone?

Swathe Street Commons
Reclaim Zone, South City Sprawl
April 1, 2065

”So, just to be clear, you were not joking about the civics lesson thing back in high school?” Theresa Howland looked around at the well-dressed crowd, and self-consciously pulled at the fringe of her dark-teal evening dress. “Dad, that was almost two years ago!”

”I wasn’t joking,” Howland replied, mildly. His eyes scanned the crowd, carefully taking in every detail. Each mayoral candidate entered the Commons one at a time, and of course, each one had to make an entrance of it - immediately abandoning any pretense that an election was about issues and ideals. It was, as all elections, all about the candidates themselves.

”Can’t you waste Mom’s time with this?” Theresa complained. ”It’s not that I don’t care about the mayoral race, I just…” She trailed off, lapsing into an awkward silence. ”...don’t...er, care...”

Howland chuckled under his breath. ”I told you when you wanted to join the SFROTC, two years ago, that you have to understand a nation if you intend to devote your life to serving it. He looked ahead, walking along the edge of the crowd with her. "Three hundred years ago, the king of Great Britain decreed the first direct tax on American colonies. It ultimately prompted a war in which the military you’re joining was founded...”

”So you haven’t forgiven me for that American History test,” Theresa replied, dryly. ”I was just too exhausted from PT to study. If I had a certain E-Brain implant I wanted, I could easily retain all that information, you know.”

Howland continued as if his daughter hadn’t said anything. ”...and that war was fought for this, right here.” With a sweep of his hand, he drew his daughter’s attention towards the center of the room, where the candidates stood in a group. His patient, Lott Ramana, ambled towards her employer amidst the crowd. Howland pretended not to notice how inebriated she was; she at least was experienced at hiding the more obvious symptoms of intoxication. ”All I’m saying is that I think a USSF cadet should experience, at the ground level, the ins and outs of what it is she fights for.”

”And that means I have to volunteer for one of their campaigns?” Theresa frowned, looking at the group of candidates skeptically. ”I’m not even sure which one I’m gonna vote for, let alone which one I should work for!”

Howland shook his head. ”I said you had to volunteer on the campaign trail; I didn’t say you had to volunteer for a specific campaign.” He paused and added, ”You could always volunteer for the TCHD. We’re concerned about legionella in public drinking fountains at campaign venues caused by insufficient chlorination - I’ll get you a few petri dishes and sample swabs.”

”...Yeah, no thanks,” Theresa shot back, unenthused. ”...which one are you going to vote for, Dad? I know you have to be neutral as a TCHD representative, but I mean, you’re too smart not to have an opinion personally.”

Howland sighed. Theresa was an intelligent and well-intentioned girl, but she didn’t understand what it truly meant to seek change in society. He refused to give any of his children cybernetic implants, but he couldn’t stop her from getting one on her own. She couldn’t be a pilot without an E-Brain and cyber-eyes, and the Space Force would augment its pilots themselves. All he could do was instill good values and sound judgment in his daughter before then. How, then, to answer such a question when his own conclusion had found every party, and the entire race, detestable?

The fatal flaws of cybernetic society were something Theresa would have to experience for herself. He would just have to trust that his daughter was intelligent enough to learn from personal experience. When she saw how corrupt, how utterly morally bankrupt, the business of politics really was - then she’d be closer to understanding what it means to oppose Futility. And besides, he had work to do tonight, and couldn’t spend the whole evening engaged in an intricate philosophical debate with her.

Howland smiled. ”That would be telling, Theresa! All I’ll say is that I think you should always be skeptical, and never fall for the lazy thinking that any one party always has the answers.”

”An inoffensive statement,” Theresa mused, ”spoken like a true Centrist Party moderate.” When Howland didn’t rise to the bait, she shook her head. ”Alright, well, every campaign, and I’m sure plenty of others too, are all here looking for local talent, right? I’d like to go and introduce myself around, see if maybe I can’t find an open position or internship or something for the campaign season.”

Howland nodded his approval. ”Good idea. I do have some work to do, anyway.” He patted his daughter’s shoulder, a gesture she had always found reassurance in. ”It’s not about a political stance, Theresa. I just think you should be involved; how you take part in society is something you’re old enough to decide for yourself. Now go on, there’s lots of important people here - go introduce yourself to some of them.”

He wasn’t discomfited with the thought of leaving his daughter in such an unsavory crowd. She was capable of handling herself, and besides, staying in a comfortable and safe bubble was how society kept most people like her in line. Behind him, Theresa looked around, obviously wondering to herself just who amidst the crowd she might possibly seek an opportunity with.

Howland, meanwhile, had other work to do...

Torrid and pungent, Olex’s walk to the office was just as stressful and bothersome as it usually was. Prying eyes jutting from the shade of busted in building fronts, hustling streetjacks giving anyone that lingered too long an expecting stare, and all sorts of unsavory and uncouth characters littered across the streets. He always felt on edge in the streets, amongst the cutthroats and urchins, but he still maintained a confident stride, knowing that the closer he got to his office, the more the crowd would thin out. Compared to the surrounding decrepit and dusty shells of buildings, the Courier Office was sparkling clean and well-maintained. Always a few tough-looking types hanging around the entrance to ward off any potential blowhards trying to get their hands on any juicy bits they could.

Giving the group of intimidators a familiar nod, Olex walked past them, gliding through the front door of the office, the cold rush of conditioned air chilling his slightly sweaty skin. Directly inside the entrance was the general cantina, where the different couriers would go to take breaks and socialize with one another, some coming in from working, others waiting for contracts to open up for them. Olex flashed a smirk at a few familiar faces as they waved at him, and he continued along the side of the cantina towards a set of metal stairs leading to a small hallway. The door on the far end of the hallway led to the contractor’s office, a small room with a single desk and window, well-lit but usually hazy with e-cigarette smoke. Lining the walls were various safes and cabinets, with the office’s owner, Choi, sitting with his feet propped up on his desk, with his two heavily armed bodyguards leaning against the wall behind him.

Even having been an employee in good standing for some time now, the guards still greeted Olex with the same suspicious glares they met everyone else with. As he fully entered the office, the guards stood up off the wall, and stiffened their grips on their weapons. Raising a gleaming metal hand to give a half-hearted salute, Olex greeted the room in his usual bright manner, not paying heed to the presence of the guards.

”Morning, gents. How’s the day looking, Mister Choi?” He said with his signature smirk.

”Oleksandr! Good morning, my boy! Something strange has come up regarding you.” Olex’s brow furrowed inquisitively, and he stayed silent to allow Choi to continue.”I had two Tinmen pay me a visit earlier, looking for ‘an old comrade’ they said. I didn’t mention your name, of course, but when I asked who they were looking for exactly, it wasn’t you, oddly enough. They instead were looking for a ‘Gerbil’, but when I told them I didn’t know him, they seemed disappointed. Then, all of a sudden, they asked about you. I guess they could tell by the surprise on my face that I knew you, but when I mentioned a price, they got sour quick. You know Tinmen, they hate to haggle, so once I started tossing numbers out, they found their way out fast.”

Olex’s face had gone pale. His chest rose as he took a shaky breath, in and out. Choi noticed, and took his own heavy sigh himself. Olex remained silent, his mind failing to find the words as it was racing with a thousand thoughts. Choi took the moment to speak back up.

”Look, I don’t know what kind of ghosts you have chasing you, but if you need help, you know you can come to us. You’re one of the best guys we have, and I’d hate to lose you to some asshole headhunters that can’t let go of the past.” Olex’s gaze just pointed off into space, his tongue still just idly milling about in his mouth, with the silence deafening everyone in the room.

”I...I don’t think they’re out for me. They wouldn’t give me hints like this if they were. If it was really headhunters, they wouldn’t be asking my employer questions. That being said, this is all still strange. I don’t know who the other guy they’re looking for is, so I can only hope it’s just chance that they know I’m here. But, I can handle myself. I appreciate the offer but I think this may be a matter I need to handle myself.”

Choi raised an eyebrow as he mulled over what Olex had just told him. After a few moments, his stare at Olex broke, as he leaned downwards and started opening the safe under his desk. Opening the door and shuffling around a few papers and files, he drew a manila folder with the name “Maia” written across one side.

”Alright, if you don’t want us getting mixed up in this, that’s your choice, but, I still need you to work. This contract is low security, but good pay. Some yuppie stuck in rehab wants to send his prostitute girlfriend a love letter, but they’re monitoring all his communications. Just get this to Reina’s Whorehouse downtown, and I’ll wire you the payment.”

Olex silently nodded and stepped forward to take the envelope from Choi’s hand, but when he gripped and pulled, the envelope stayed put. It took a moment, but he looked up to meet the concerned look that Choi was giving him as he held tight on the envelope.

”The offer still stands, my boy. Take care of yourself.”

Olex stared blankly for a moment or two before he gave a weary smile, giving a few weak nods and muttering a few thanks before the envelope was released, and Olex slid the envelope into a larger pocket on the carrier under his shirt. He turned for the door, grabbing the knob, but turned back to the three men and quietly offered one last “Thanks.” before exiting the office.

He rushed down the stairs and out the front door of the office, stopping mid-step, just outside on the front step, looking around the now slightly busier street. People milled about in every direction, and Olex scanned as many as he could, looking for electronic eyes or gleaming new augments, any sign of an undercover Tinman he could find. With every person he eyed, though, it became apparent that none of them were his pursuers. If two Tinmen bounty hunters were after him, Olex couldn’t count out any brazen plan to kill him. He wouldn’t be surprised if there was a sniper team on the rooftops, and he quickly scanned all the surrounding buildings for such as soon as the thought came to him. Taking a deep breath and shaking his head, Olex stepped off the stoop, mixing into the crowd and starting his trip to Reina’s Whorehouse.

Paranoia began to wrap itself around his mind, like a snake around a field mouse, and Olex’s eyes couldn’t help but dart around at all the fellow people in the street, scanning arms and legs, faces and chest for any sort of shiny metal or gleaming insignias. Every few minutes his eyes would float upwards to scan rooftops, but none of it ever amounted to anything. It had been more than a decade since he’d been expelled from the Tinmen, he knew that he had a few ghosts on his trail shortly after he left the Seaboard, but he never believed they could still be pursuing him after so many years had passed. Nor did he believe that they’d even be able to find his trial after all the traveling and aliases over the years. It all came as a head rush, and it overwhelmed him to the point that he nearly didn’t see the two figures standing in the shadows staring at him as he walked down the street.

Olex froze in place, and like an animal staring into the lights of the vehicle that would shortly kill it, his eyes bore into the small gleam he could see radiating from the blanket of shade over the alley before muttering a series of expletives and reaching inside his shirt for his gun. His fingers wrapped around the grip of his pistol. Whitening his knuckles, he began to pull the gun at the same moment one of the shadows bounded forward. Olex’s eyes caught the glint of a cybernetic arm as it grabbed his wrist and crushed it into his chest. Lit only by a scant beam of light, half of the assailant’s face was revealed to him.

Olex was forced into a wall , away from the crowd that was already drawing to the commotion. It was difficult to breathe as he struggled with the assailant’s brute power, but he responded in kind, his left hand going straight for the assailant’s neck, with his right arm snapping taught as the dueling motors of either augment roared against the other’s force. The whining creak of metal rubbing against metal bounced off the surrounding brick walls. Punctuating the fight with a deafening pang, Olex’s hand was stopped before he could get his vice grip on the assailant’s neck. It was only as he began trying to crank his wrist to point his pistol, even with his arm pinned to stomach, that he slowly became cognizant of the assailant yelling his name, and it slowly became more and more perceivable until he was looking straight up at the half-lit face of the would be assassin.

”Don’t, Asahi! Don’t shoot! It’s me!” A woman’s voice rasped as her dark brown, wide eyes stared into Olex’s own blue ones.

Roaring motors and whirring servos continued to whine from Olex’s struggle for a few more moments, but began to quiet down as he started calming down. It took a moment, but the familiar voice combined with the use of an old nickname made him snap out of his craze, and fully observe the details of the face in front of him.

”Wha- Who the fuck? Is that you, Grail?” His voice was incredulous, but he craned his neck backwards to get a more complete look at the woman’s face, and it indeed was one he hadn’t seen in a long time. He recognized the small star tattoo at the corner of her forehead, the shrapnel scar across the left side of her face. It was Grail, coined so after the “Holy Grail”, in reference to her ornate and beautiful engravings with inlaid gold she kept so immaculately clean covering all her augments. Now that his mind was clearer and he was paying attention, Olex could see their resplendent glow. Her eyes looked scared almost but he knew the woman that currently had him pinned to a wall seldom ever felt actual fear.

”Yes! Yes, it’s me, Oleksandr. Just calm down, we aren’t here to hurt you. Let go of the gun, and I’ll ease up on you, alright? Put it away.”

We?

A much younger man, with a crazed look in his eyes, one solid black arm of gunmetal and titanium training a gun on Olex’s head from the other side of the alley as Olex. Had the young man’s arm still been made of flesh and bone, it’d be shaking violently, with a look on his face that was that of a fish out of water.

Grail felt the tension in Olex’s arms release, and she relaxed in kind, looking up at his face to see that he still hadn’t looked away from the young man behind them, and she craned her head to look behind her. Light flooded her eyes, and through squinted eyelids, she could make out the form of her partner, who was still pointing his pistol at the man in front of her.

”Put the gun down, kid!”

The young man hadn’t broken his stare with Olex either or even moved since the scuffle had begun. Olex began to bring his hand to Grail’s shoulder, and gave her a gentle push away from him, to his side, so that nothing stood between him and the young Tinman. He took a step forward. The young man responded by taking a step backwards. Gunarm still jutting forward, his finger flirted with the trigger. Grail began to protest, but Olex hushed her, and put his arm up to keep her from getting in between.

Another step forward. Another step back. The pair of men maintained their icy cold stares. The young man’s pupils had contracted nearly to the size of pinheads as his eyelids were stuck wide open. With every step, Olex and the man moved forward and backward respectively, until the man was now the one with a back against the wall. All the while, Grail had been more and more aggressively telling the two men to calm down, while also trying to clear the small crowd that was watching from the end of the alley.

Olex finally took a step too close, and the young man’s entire body tensed in reaction. Grail noticed, but in the few scant moments it took for her to begin yelling and bounding forward to try to get between the two men, Olex’s hand flew up from his side, violently and sharply slapping the weapon from the man’s hand. The crash of metal on metal made the few remaining spectator’s jump, and then they further fled as the handgun found it’s flightpath right through the middle of the crowd, crashing into a crimson brick wall across the street, breaking into a few pieces. The last of the crowd finally scattered, leaving Grail to finally jump between the two men. Even as she gave Olex stern shoves to try and create distance, he had gotten a tight grip on the young man’s wrist, who now fought hard to try and wrestle away his one robotic hand.

”When you’re this close, you never just keep your hand out! Bring it in close to the body!” He roard over Grail’s protests. Finally, he let go of the young man’s wrist, and was sent a considerable distance back by the powerful force of Grail’s advanced augments.

”Asahi, fuck off, and chill out!” Grail exclaimed as she finally separated the two men, then turned to the young man. Surprisingly, she gave the man a slap across the face, seemingly waking him from his stupor as he finally looked down and acknowledged her.

”And you! The next time I give you a direct order, you will listen, you understand that? You fuckin’ hear me?”

Grail grabbed the young man by his face, and turned his eyes into hers. Olex had finally noticed the difference in size between the two. Not only was the man considerably younger, but he was also of smaller stature, looking almost like a terrified child being disciplined by Grail.

”Y-Yes ma’am.” The young man quietly muttered.

The group all took a deep breath collecting themselves in unison, and before it seemed like the two Tinmen were ready to continue, Olex spoke up.

”Alright, what do you two want? Finally come to take me out, or what? I know you’ve been following me for years, how and why did you finally find me?” Olex demanded, rubbing the sore area on his torso, red and tender from having two metal hands forced into it.

”No, Olex, look… We’re not here to kill you. We’re looking for one of ours that’s gone AWOL. His last known location was here, in the Reclaim. We’ve been here for almost two weeks, looking for leads wherever we could, damn near a door knocking campaign.”

”Why look for him yourselves? Why not just hire some P.I firm? People around here aren’t exactly eager and willing to help out Tinmen.”

A tired look on Grail’s face matched the exasperated tone of her voice.”Look, technically, he’s not supposed to be here. Tight-lip contract, top secret bullshit. APEX-”

A third voice interjected. “Ma’am! You can’t just tell hi-”

Grail simply hushed the young man by putting her hand in front of his face, giving another sigh, giving his protests some thought, and realizing he was probably right.

”Look. Long story short, it’s a confidential contract, but he stopped responding to communications. He’s been radio silent for too long, and we want to keep this as quiet as possible. We were acting like we were just looking for a lost friend, but once people finally started talking about a man with shiny, fancy cybernetics, it ended up being you they’d seen around, not our man.” She took a moment to compose herself further before she continued.

”The guys have talked about you here and there for a while now, Olex. How you just vanished, how you got cut off by your family. After we heard that they’d sent the Hounds after you, we all figured you were dead. But now, here you are. We go looking for our man and find you instead. For someone on the run, you’re actually not that hard to find after all, pal.”

Olex scoffed, looking over his wrist for any sort of scuffs or dents, then looked up. ”Yeah, well, after eleven years, I figured either you guys had given up at this point. Either that or I’d shaken you. Either way, you guys aren’t here to kill me apparently, so I guess it’s worked out this far. What exactly is it that you want from me?”

It took a few moments before Grail spoke again, as a mixture of weariness and nostalgia washed over her. It felt faintly like when a parent and child had spent some time apart from each other, with both parties having grown older and more distant with the passage of time. Except, up until a few days ago, she assumed the man in front of her was dead. A ghost of a far away past, an important character from a chapter in her life she’d long buried with more memories of battle and death.

Nothing felt nearly as sentimental for Olex. For years, he’d dreaded the next day he’d have to come face to face with another Tinman, the ghosts of his version of the past were much more real and haunting. Always trailing behind him, hiding around corners, observing from just outside his peripheral. No matter how far he ran, or how deeply he hid, the oppressive weight of their presence always overshadowed his own. Just like when he’d first seen an old girlfriend in the Duat, seeing the familiar face of the walking exemplification of everything he hated about the young man he used to be was a harsh and uncomfortable reawakening.

”I guess I just wanted to see an old friend, is all. It’s hard to believe it’s really you. You were just a kid the last time I saw you, and I thought for sure you were dead, but yet, here you are. After all these years.”

”Yeah, that’s real nice. Real, real nice. How do I know you aren’t going to go blab to your fucking CO as soon as you get back? I knew you were always a lapdog for command. Yeah, you didn’t find your man this time, but you sure did find something else.”

”What, no love for an old war buddy, Asahi? It’s like that?” Grail smirked, a combination of surprise and disappointment in her voice.

”I never liked you in the first place, Grail. You were a cunt, always playing junkyard dog for command over the smallest things. A sniveling little shit who never had the balls to stand up for herself, only brave enough to bully the greenies. Now, here you are, a decade later, and you’re still a pain in my ass.”

Grail simply sneered, as the younger man walked past her, trying his best to put a look of intimidation on his face as he confronted Olex.

”What about you, asshole? How do we walk away from this whole thing knowing you won’t tell anyone what happened here?”

”Who the fuck am I gonna tell? I work for a grey market intelligence courier in the middle of shit town. I’m not exactly popular with the enforcers. If you two stop walking around the Reclaim like moron out-of-towners, asking where your big, shiny metalfuck friend is, maybe it’ll all stay under wraps, you ever thought of that? I’ve got more at stake here, tell me why I shouldn’t leave you both dead in this alley.”

”Because you can’t.” Grail pushed the barrel of the pistol she’d drawn in a flash up to Olex’s head.

”Disregarding the fact that you don’t have the ability nor talent to kill my partner or I, there’s nothing in this for either of us to kill each other. You kill us, that’s the Hounds right on your trail again, and this time they will find you. We kill you, that’s the Enforcers and and your little buddies at the office on our asses. Not that it’d be a big deal, but that’s a lot more trouble than it’s worth when we’re trying to find someone in this shithole city. So how’s about we both agree to keep our mouths shut and go on our merry ways, huh?”

With tense fists and eyes full of hate, Olex stared down Grail, taking everything she’d said into consideration. He didn’t like it, but the two parties seemed to be at an impasse, with neither having anything to gain from violence, even if every impulse in his body screamed for him to kill them, like a crazed group of spectators thirsting for blood. His chest rose and fell, and he finally craned his neck to the side, moving his head out of the way of the gun.

”Fine. Fuck off.”

Dance…
Dance Cybergirl…
Dance Fiend…
Dance…
Dance in 𓇽Duat𓇽Duet.
Dance is just another name these days.
Another name for a Duel.

Snowflakes often dance to the ground, though there’s no snow in the Reclaim zone. There was no snow in space either. Really, it’s just an abstraction, a construct on a digital screen. Dancing, dancing—like a dream—dancing to the ground in place of the acid rain.

Dust dances in clouds. Massive packs of particulate matter, say—when thrown in the face of an unsuspecting victim—Spiked—interact with one another in seemingly random patterns en masse. A dance. Each little piece of the barely perceptible cloud moves independently, with its own goals in mind. Where were you going little particle? What was your motive? With which rhythm did you two-step in between your brothers and sisters? Was it sinister? Insidious?

In combat, They™ often say that warriors dance. Between carefully placed footfalls, with grace, cautious footpads meet face-to-face. Rapier tip to rapier tip. Blade to blade. It’s just like a game. They push and pull. Attack. React. Counterattack. Dance.

And there’s one other place. One other interpretation. For, see, you’ll often find players pacing, box-stepping, dancing in conversation. Verbal jabs take the place of physical initiations, but the danger remains. Don’t mistake the charismat’s acrobatics as passive. Information is traded with haste. In fact, its in this sort of interfacing that the most dangerous 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 is often played.

Dance…
Dance…
Locked in a trance-like state—
Leave them in amazement.
Dance…

𝔸𝕨𝕒𝕜𝕖𝕟.

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕃𝕚𝕞𝕓𝕠 ℂ𝕝𝕦𝕓

ℍ𝕚𝕘𝕙 𝕆𝕣𝕓𝕚𝕥𝕒𝕝 𝕊𝕥𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝔸𝕝𝕖𝕩𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕣𝕚𝕒
∞∞∞, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝

“Stell, put the needle away. Alexandria Investigators are scheduled to come through any minute and Boss wants us to look like we’re not catering to the clients’ exotic tastes.”

“What?”

“You can admire the new arms later, sweetie. I promise they’ve got all sorts of hidden functions that will fulfill your wildest dreams. Now, though, back out onto the dancefloor!”

---

---

𓇽𝔻𝕦𝕒𝕥𓇽, 𝕃𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝔻𝕖𝕒𝕕

ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖, 𝕊𝕠𝕦𝕥𝕙 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝
𝔸𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕝 𝟙𝕤𝕥, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝 𝟙𝟠:𝟙𝟘

[𝔽𝕚𝕣𝕤𝕥 𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕥𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕕 𝔾𝕝𝕒𝕤𝕤], 𝕀𝕟𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘...

“Stella’s log, entry number twenty seventy-seven.” She spoke openly into the dictaphone. It was a clunky piece of tech Stella found among a pile of completely random gadgets spread out on the blanket of one of those strange Reclaim Zone monks that posted up on street corners sometimes. “Bad drinking habit number—” She paused, sort of, letting the final ‘R’ sound of her words drag out as she pondered. “Six,” she decided. “I find myself too often choosing drinks with straws. I don’t know what the allure of it is. Maybe it’s the specificity, the efficiency. Every sip—” She paused, sipped. “Calculating 1⁄8_.5 multiplied by optimal suction force to achieve the desired amount of liquid (of course, taking into account desired amount of alcohol as well) measured in inches, then multiplied by air flow in cubic feet per minute. Then convert air watts to a more apt unit for understanding in terms of Stella’s (me) biological limitations.” She sucked in a breath to fill her empty lungs, checked to make sure the dictaphone was on and recording. She did a quick survey of 𓇽Duat𓇽’s interior to account for the number of stares now directed her way.

“Okay. End note.” Stella’s eyes lazily traced patterns on the ceiling. The ancient piece of tech was a mystery. She had no idea if it was capable of the smart recognition of voice commands, let alone the sorting of various notes for her later retrieval. In fact, she had no idea if the thing even worked. The screen was lit up and the light on the side was blinking. Wasn’t that enough?

“New note,” she said after giving the device a few seconds to calibrate and adapt to her commands. “Stella’s diary, entry number thirteen thirty-seven. After that brooding psychiatrist came through and started psychoanalyzing, I couldn’t help but take his advice. I don’t think I have a drinking problem, but I started keeping a log of observations regarding my drinking habits like he recommended. Doctor Stella diagnosed him a killjoy and prescribed approximately 354.88 CCs of double White Russian, stat.”

The door opened as it always does in the 𓇽Duat𓇽, dramatically. Stella clicked her dictaphone off. At least, she thought it was off. Really, she just hit the biggest button on the side and assumed from there. It was the delivery boy she dosed that one time. Strange. She could have sworn he was already in 𓇽Duat𓇽 brooding alone in his usual spot. Stella looked over, and there he was, brooding alone in his usual spot. Eyes flicked back to the newest customer. He was worming his way through the dance floor, which was as it usually was in the 𓇽Duat𓇽, a place for zombies. The slow jazz noir rhythm was one that attracted hordes of people who’d lost their mind. The dance floor at 𓇽Duat𓇽 was more like a place for meditation. Forget your worries. Forget everything. Forget your body. Unleash yourself into the ether. Enter the Land of the Dead. They fit right in, like they were part of the establishment, pillars that help up the building while they got down to the beat.

He appeared to be delivering sushi to himself. Strange. Strange was normal in the Land of the Dead. He fit right in. Stella fit right in. Like pillars, or something. The helmet boys looked tense, or felt tense at least. They looked like robots. Stella’s sense of duty kicked in. The duty to keep the vibe Not Killed™. She started to head their way, but got caught in the melancholic slow BPM of the 𓇽Duat𓇽’s constant droning melodies. With one step taken on each beat, she half-danced her way over. Gyroscopes in her Ultrabartender arms kicked in and kept the two glasses in her hands uncannily stable.

“Your usual, boys.” She set down two glasses with an exaggerated bow, both almost glowing with an electric yellow color in the hazy neon mood lighting, both exactly equal pours. Spiked lemonade of an indeterminate ratio of vodka and hyper-sugary lemonade. It was a perfect image of what Stella imagined Speed Racer Turbo Nitro Fuel looked like, and perhaps what she thought car juice was made of too. She stepped back quick, sensing they had a dance to take care of.

Her customer senses tingled again as the Dramatic Doors parted way, providing a portal from the land of the living into the interim. This time it was two Goons in crisp black suits. Crisp. Too crisp. 𓇽Duat𓇽’s suit-wearing patrons were never quite picturesque corpo-types. Strange. Strange in the sense that they didn’t fit into 𓇽Duat𓇽. They weren’t strange, not Reclaim strange. Not Strange, but that made them strange. Strange. They fit right in.

The goons seemed disgruntled when they realized the two seats to the far-left of the bar were taken. Those were the brooding business seats, and they were brooding business types. They came to do brooding business. They came to dance. Stella skid across the floor and came to a halt centered directly between the two of them. “Gentlemen. Welcome to the Interim. Are you alive or dead?” Again, the Ultrabartender already seemed to have two drinks prepared in some esoteric process that involved an unending array of spouts and chemicals and mixers and tumblers just beyond the customers’ sightline below the counter. Vodka, water.

“What? Goon #1 looked towards his colleague. They both wore the sort of operator shades that made you wonder whether they were perpetually angry or just wanted to appear that way for brooding business reasons.

“You’re Mary?”

“Oh you can just call me Stell—” Her eyebrows shot up cartoonishly, and her facade melted away to reveal a complete, utter, irrefutable, clouded, destructive, entropic state of 𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪confusion that lurked beneath. Then, just like that, she was back. A facade. Suave, composed, charismatic. Ready to dance. “Ahhh, that’s what the nametag says, yes.” Stella let herself collapse into a ‘cute and mysterious’ pose with her elbows on the counter and her chin cradled in her upturned hand.

Goon #1 stuck something that looked like an old world glue gun into his drink. It beeped a few times. “Oh point oh, oh, one-three percent offworld Dust dust of some kind.” Stella needed to recalibrate her eyes.

“Safe?” Goon #2 asked.

“Safe.”

“Well it’s definitely her.”

Stella cocked her head fifteen degrees to the right and brought a hand up to her face as if it would block the audio waves from traveling around the bar. No one was paying attention anyways. Not in the Land of the Dead. “You’re the goons I’m waiting for?”

“You’re the bartender...” Goon #2 trailed off, flicking a hand into the air. His glasses lit up and he briefly scrolled through his projected Heads-Up-Display. “Who knows her way around a fair share of substances. A void kid from Alexandria.”

“Everything’s so heavy down here.” Stella was back to sipping from a straw. It was diagonally striped black and yellow and glowed in the dark when she cupped her hands around it. Goon #1 took the first sip of his drink and grimaced. Stella didn’t notice. His face rested in grimace-mode.

“She’s the specialist…” Goon #1 said, half as a question and half to reassure himself that pleasing his boss was worth the errand.

“I mostly just serve drinks, but I think I’ve got the hang of things down here now. I can interfere in the election if you need me to. I’ve been practicing my moves.” Stella dropped her glass from a height that would have most certainly cracked it if it were only millimeters higher. She hopped back, exhibiting her floating-like-a-butterfly and stinging-like-a-bee for her assumed employers with accompanied ‘popping’ sound effects timed with each punch.

Grimaces. They could have been looks of awe for all she knew.

“No, Mary, you’re not going to interfere in the election. You—”

“Great. Nothing too shady then.” Interrupted. Countered. Quick Parry. She took the first step, determined to lead. ‘Let me have this dance.’ Another mask pulled over her visage. Those absent, distant, wistful eyes remained; but the surrounding expression wasn’t the happy-go-lucky twisted victim of the devil’s Dust. No. She was a player in a 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖. What was her piece?

“I suppose you could tell me who you are then. You know my name after all. Maybe even Boss’s name. I could talk directly to her if you’d prefer.” He laughed—right when she said ‘her’. Boss was a guy.

“Like I said,” he sipped, grimaced smiled (she could have sworn), swallowed hard the concoction. “You’re not going to interfere in any election. You’re just going to keep doing what you’re doing. You’re a bartender.”

“You’ll serve drinks,” Goon #1 cut in. He wanted to feel like he was laying on the heat too. It was a two-on-one. Stella didn’t know any dances like that.

“You’ll serve drinks. Just the same as you always do, even during the election. Mix cocktails, have fun. You give the right drinks to the right folks, the right substances to the right patrons. Just find your place. Learn to feel at home in this joint.”

“Just like always.” It was clear Goon #2 had more tenure.

By the time Stella finished her drink, her offhand was already pulling another up from below the counter. Mystery liquid. A little too cloudy… She held the straw in her mouth and transferred it between glasses. The empty disappeared. Home? In the Land of the Dead? Stella wasn’t sure what home was. Void kids always had that problem.

“We even brought you a housewarming gift,” he said, while reaching into his coat. That was always a bad move in 𓇽Duat𓇽, in the Reclaim, but nobody noticed. Nobody cared. The Two Dudes In Suits did start to draw eyes, though, from 𓇽Duat𓇽 regulars. Maybe irregulars. A gadget transferred from his palm into her offhand, a bit bigger than Stella’s dictaphone, and similarly ambiguous in its function. It had a small screen, a few interface options, a few sealed chambers, and one red button on the bottom. The top had the eye of a camera, and the grid of holes on one side made Stella think speaker or microphone. She wasn’t sure which.

“Keep it on you. At all times. We’ll ring when we want to have a chat or have more presents.” Finally, Goon #1 got to contribute to the menacing. Stella suddenly felt strangely watched. Tracked. This was a tough move to counter-attack. There was more to this dance, she realized. It was a whole group affair. A fourth party, maybe more, stepped to their own rhythm. Or maybe they beat the drum—mapped the rhythm to which the others tapped out their tango to.

Stella brought the eye of the camera right up to her own, and met the fourth party eye-to-eye. Goon #1 stood up an inch or two in his seat, and his grimace twitched almost giving way to something other than a goon grimace, but quickly corrected by its wearer before revealing too much. He scanned the 𓇽Duat𓇽 for watchers. None of note.

“I have a penchant for leaving things lying around the 𓇽Duat𓇽. I’ll do my best to keep your present safe, though. Nearby, at least. If I remember…” Chasse away from your invisible pursuers, like escaping some mythical faeries in a magical ballet. Pirouette.

“You should really keep better track of your possessions, Mary. You never know how much pull they have over you—how much we depend on our vices. We’re nice and we like to play nice.” Goon #2 had finished his drink. Goon #1 had barely made it halfway. “If you don’t keep track of your things, you never know when they’ll disappear. There are some things you can’t get down here on the planet after all. Don’t want to run out over some careless mistake… Losing track of something.” Club shuffle step forward, advancing on one’s partner.

Stella didn’t know this dance. How much Dust did she have left? Mounds of the stuff. It couldn’t run out, right? The Goons looked at each other.

“My friend, make sure you don’t forget your briefcase at the bar.”

“Right. Right. I’m sure our friend at the bar would take care of it in my absence, but good thing you reminded me this time.”

They started to stand, but something caught their attention.

>>>𝕁𝕒𝕔𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕀𝕟...
>>>𝕃𝕠𝕒𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕃𝕒𝕓𝕪𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕙…
>>>...

It’s nice to escape.
Forget your place,
Just focus on hitting these sick eliminations in a digital landscape,
Or maybe just focus on painting.

Even after her flatline, Delilah could hardly resist this sick urge to spread herself thin. It was the Grind. Some twisted physical dependency of multitasking. Maybe that was the only way she could think. Side effects of too much integration… So much of her life, she’d been strapped up, sucked into the void. All the doctor’s liked to tell her the opposite—not that she’d seen a doctor in years. If she kept her eyes (quite literally) strapped to a screen, lost herself jacking-in, she would have trouble thinking. Symptoms include: anxiety, fluxes of stress, attention difficulties.

Maybe they were right. When Delilah wasn’t smashing the digital recreations of phantom monsters in Labyrinth—when she found herself walking down the Reclaim’s unclean streets, headphones and cyberdeck with no battery—she couldn’t much think. When she did focus on the outside, it was usually on drafting plans for the inside. Delilah’s Labyrinth form jutted out in a limb of spiralling code, crushing another advancing bot. They looked like big monochrome insects crawling around the Labyrinth. Familiar spaces nearby simulated a realistic landscape. She was inside the Swathe Street Commons suites. Any gaps that couldn’t be filled in by the surrounding cameras and recording devices from which the Shaman leeched were static chunks of nothing but flowing data.

In here, though, she found focus. She focused particularly well while bashing bots. The new gaming scripts that were being traded around Labyrinth forums were hyper-realistic. Don’t get hit—it hurts. The folks with bad decks were liable to lash out IRL or piss themselves if they took too much damage. A prompt open on the far-right side of her vision allowed Delilah to write her own scripts. She opted to generate a katana, like that one girl she knew from the old campaign days. Slash slash, another bot erased itself from existence once hit. Other prompts scattered around her vision transcribed her thoughts into text and rolled them out for her to see as she thought them.

Thoughts on the simulation:

I wonder what Samsara is doing right now?

Ideas on ways to eat without having to leave Labyrinth:
If I continue play at this pace, accounting for two skill plateaus, I’ll have the regional high score by…

Am I unemployed? Does e-begging Samsara count as a job?

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Emotional imbalance reaching critical levels. What is it this time?
Another hit of Mente Scindendris?
Do I need neurosynth?

Delilah lost her focus on the projected game for not more than a second. Her form sped forward straight into a deadzone in the cameras and she was shot into another random part of the building. She was on what she thought was the top floor, staring directly out of the thick, dusty, (bulletproof?), glass. There, suspended in the air was one of the tags. Right where the attacker had escaped.

That Tag...

That Tag...

It was everywhere.

Everywhere important.

A master painter...
In this twisted cyberscape...

Who?

Who

Who could pull off that sort of flex?

The cyber-graffiti seemed purposefully placed in the hardest to reach spot. The would-be assassin’s escape route had since been covered in ICE and other detection scripts. Delilah was careful not to get too close. Whatever the encrypted tag said, she couldn't decipher. It was layered with various encoding mechanisms such that, even surrounded by the dark ICE formations, it shimmered with a rainbow variety of colors.



The bots swarmed her before she even realized she was still playing the game. Multitasking burnout. All at once, the simulated building evaporated and Delilah was back in the white frontier, dotted with crawling messages, signals, and software. It was definitely another cluster of E-Drug cocktails, she decided. That would solve this feeling, whatever it was, or at least temporarily send her back into some frantic attention-deficit mania long enough to forget about the tag, about reality. She could get back to focusing on blasting bots, or scouring the net for more of the tags, or something, or something, or something.

>>>𝕁𝕒𝕔𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕆𝕦𝕥...
>>>ℙ𝕙𝕒𝕤𝕖 𝕊𝕙𝕚𝕗𝕥...
>>>𝔻𝕣𝕚𝕗𝕥...
>>>𝔻𝕣𝕚𝕗𝕥...
>>>𝔹𝕒𝕔𝕜 𝕥𝕠 ℝ𝕖𝕒𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪…
>>>...

ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖, 𝕊𝕠𝕦𝕥𝕙 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝
𝔸𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕝 𝟙𝕤𝕥, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝 𝟙𝟠:𝟙𝟘


Cold sweat, but overheated. Just like always. Her legs were particularly well-heated from the overclocked deck she left on her lap.

Delilah had to fight a tangled mass of cords, cables, and stray devices for a space on the dirty desk before she could lug her cyberdeck up onto it. The room was still dark, but a number of screens left on around the room still supplied the netrunner with her regular unrecommended dose of unfiltered blue light illuminating the dirty bricks of the forgotten room. She couldn’t decide if it was meant to be a closet or if the architect just hadn’t planned well, but the place served her purposes well. Delilah was tucked away on the mostly-deserted top floor of the Swathe Street Commons suites. The derelict factories they’d been built into were full of surprises—unused spaces between walls, forgotten rooms, that sort of thing. It was only once you got to the heavily-used areas of the complex that security, alarms, and other sensor defences got intense.

Delilah sent out a ping for a series of signals she was following, wondering who or what was online that she could interact with. The place was flooded with all the candidates’ entourages, each full of their own invasive tech and countermeasures that lit the place up with loose connections, chunks of poorly-written ICE, and miscellaneous encrypted messages jumping back and forth all over. Citizen K’s signal connected to Delilah’s network almost immediately, which was unusual. Usually, Delilah’s proxy server aboard some dark web Antarctic barge took ages to bounce back off of her hacker friend’s own severely hidden server. Labyrinth folks were always over-cautious, at least the good ones were.

She couldn’t be nearby, could she? Delilah never took K for the Twin City type. Most folks like the two of them were holed up in isolation, coming out of their gamer-caves only to hit the nearest convenience store for a week’s worth of rations. Delilah wasn’t averse to the big city, though, as long as she could get herself hidden away in some secret base she set up. After all, the Reclaim had excellent delivery sushi.

There was no mirror in the corner closet-room, so Delilah settled for a dead screen to fix her hair, spending only a moment to let herself bat her blue locks into submission. She looked towards the door, contemplated going into public, then the anxiety, existential dread, l’appel du vide, 𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪, particularly bad and inexplicable feeling set back in. Delilah backed up and flopped herself onto the pile of pillows, blankets, discarded gadgets, and carcasses of this week’s worth of take-out meals. She allotted herself approximately fifteen-point-six seconds to balefully groan into the void before coming to grips with the nature of reality once again.

Her left hand flailed out in her nest. Delilah was face-down in the pillow with the least amount of crumbs on it, almost unaware of what she was searching for until her hand found its quarry. The box had the classic yellow smiley-face on it. That was it—no writing, brand name, other nonsense. Delilah pulled the opaque plastic package from the tiny box. Last one. The metallic device looked in looked like a little box with a few spikes protruding from one side. Delilah, like a zombie, jammed the device against her neck until it found her Cyberdeck CIU interface and plugged in.

>>>𝕃𝕠𝕒𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘...
>>>𝕀𝕟𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕡𝕖𝕣𝕤𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝕠𝕗 𝕕𝕒𝕟𝕘𝕖𝕣𝕠𝕦𝕤𝕝𝕪 𝕦𝕟𝕓𝕒𝕝𝕒𝕟𝕔𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕔𝕙𝕖𝕞𝕚𝕔𝕒𝕝 𝕔𝕠𝕔𝕜𝕥𝕒𝕚𝕝 𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕠 𝕦𝕤𝕖𝕣'𝕤 𝕓𝕚𝕠𝕥𝕚𝕔 𝕤𝕪𝕤𝕥𝕖𝕞𝕤...
>>>...



Delilah’s facial muscles contracted unwillingly into a smile. Her eyes started to go in and out of focus, and she was sure they started drifting around her eye sockets like some sort of glitched turret camera searching for a target. She didn’t really register what she was seeing either way, so it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was what she was feeling. Still, as her common sense started to leave her, she had one final thought to conceal her eyes before she drifted into the ether and out of her secret base. She sat up and tried to assemble some ensemble to make herself look presentable. Unfortunately, she left all of her nice clothes in an incinerator somewhere or something. She didn’t remember. What she did come up with was a nice long coat that she’d probably stolen from Samsara when he wasn’t looking. She like it because it was sleek—the sort of techwear that lights up in embroidered lines for some reason, because corpos thought that was cool. Delilah threw it on over her skirt and t-shirt, and turned up its thick collar to cover the protrusion plugged into her neck. A few cords entangled the jacket as she grabbed her heavy definitely-not-portable cyberdeck and tucked it under her arm just out of view. She was forced to hold the bulky thing beneath the jacket, so one of the oversized armholes flopped freely, empty of a limb. A real snazzy dresser, she was. In terms of covering her eyes, she hadn’t yet managed to jack Samsara’s cybershades, so she settled instead for the only pair of eyewear she’d managed to liberate from some unknown place, at an unknown time, in an unknown haze: a pair of retro paper 3-D glasses with the red and blue filters.

>>>ℝ𝕦𝕟𝕟𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝔻𝕚𝕒𝕘𝕟𝕠𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕔...
>>>𝔸𝕡𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕚𝕤𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕌𝕤𝕖𝕣'𝕤 ℙ𝕖𝕣𝕤𝕠𝕟𝕒𝕝 𝕊𝕥𝕪𝕝𝕖 ℝ𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘...
>>>...
>>>...
>>>ℝ𝕖𝕒𝕕𝕠𝕦𝕥:
>>>ℂ ℙ 𝔸 𝔽...

Delilah bobbed her head sluggishly in directions that were surely offbeat in relation to the music that was playing—origin unknown. The moment the bright yellow bulbs beyond her secret base hit her skin, the wave of fatigue and dehydration hit her and she wondered how long she was jacked in. She quickly stopped caring about that thought, and another one took its place.

She ping-ping-pinged Citizen K with three stray signals to try and get her friend’s attention. Delilah had a tendency to randomly flag her friend without any substance or message to the signal when her mind wasn’t completely inhabited. K had to be used to it by now. Delilah had forgotten about the ordeal by the time she reached the scanning lasers that protected access to the suites’ lower floors. Really, she just wanted her friends attention, to trade banter and the like. Something was off, though, but she couldn’t recall why K was so prevalent in her mind. Oh well. Another series of signals:

>>> ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾...
>>> "𝕪𝟘 ℚ𝕦𝕖𝕖𝕟."
>>>...

The complex's stairwell sensors were overloaded from every angle of attack in just a few seconds, every vulnerability coordinated and simultaneously exploited. Delilah rerouted the signals to connect to another random sensor somewhere in the facility, which she mistakenly set off, surely scaring the hell out of any security guard who might have believed in ghosts. The Central Square suites were a labyrinth of their own, but Delilah did eventually find her way to her destination.

The disheveled appearance of her entrance was certain to turn some heads, and Delilah certainly wasn’t expecting the place to be so full of assorted people. A swathe of fear cut through her for just a moment, before she saw Samsara. She figured she could pretend to be with the NTP if necessary. She looked the part. Sort of. Tech-junkie, yes. Nicely dressed and overly pompous, not quite. The candidates were plenty distracted by their own arguing and the antics of one of Gatch’s employees. Delilah adjusted her 3D glasses and blew a tuft of hair from her face, content to just be chillin’ in the thick of things. She could hardly focus on the whole scene anyways. She did her best to send one-handed signals into the obviously lumpy protrusion beneath her jacket.

She thought about paintings. About Tags.

>>> ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾...
>>> "𝕀'𝕧𝕖 𝕕𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕝𝕠𝕡𝕖𝕕 𝕒 𝕤𝕦𝕕𝕕𝕖𝕟 𝟙𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕤𝕥 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕗𝕚𝕟𝟛 𝕒𝕣𝕥𝕤..."
>>>...

Swathe Street Commons
Reclaim Zone, South City Sprawl
April 1, 2065

The TCHD office in the Commons was a small, messy room on the third floor of an unremarkable building. The room’s sole window provided a scenic view of the wall of a parking garage, a gray slab of concrete in what could charitably be called “street art”. Crammed between a utility closet and the floor’s women’s bathroom, the room was an afterthought, something spared at the last minute for the Campaign Health Oversight Committee, which the event planning commission undoubtedly had to be reminded exists.

To the left was an incongruously neat desk, with a computer terminal connected to the TCHD’s network; the holographic Health Department logo glowed faintly red in the unlit room. Howland dismissed the rest of the room with barely a glance. Doubtless his colleagues on the Committee left it as messy as they’d found it, or worse.

The leather chair made a soft whirr when Howland sat as hundreds of tiny servo-motors adjusted the shape of his chair to the exact contours of his back. An unnecessary luxury, perhaps, but Howland wasn’t a young man anymore. The inexpensive, injection-molded hard plastic chairs the event planning commission provided on the cheap just weren’t worth the back pain the next day. He lifted his briefcase from behind the desk with utmost care, placing it gently on the desk.

The dim light from across the room startled him - nobody else should’ve been here. Yet there lay a young man, reclining against the wall, head propped up by a dark-colored backpack, face obscured by a glowing holograph. Howland took a deep breath, suppressing any reflexive response to the unexpected visitor. He was wearing a charcoal coat with a maroon shirt, the uniform of a local private academy. He didn’t visibly react to Howland’s entry, taking a few moments to speak up.

”Hey, Dad.”

Howland relaxed, careful not to show any surprise on his face. ”David.” His older son wasn’t the type to show up to a social event willingly - and his clothing suggested he’d come straight from school. Howland scrutinized his briefcase: A single strand of fine hair stuck out of the lock. Good - nobody had opened it.

”Don’t mind me,” David said, not looking up from his display. ”I’m just using Mom’s network access and your office’s terminal.”

”Does Sarah still use our anniversary as her password? I’ve told her even a teenager could puzzle that one out.” Now he recognized the display - it was an advanced anatomy reference.

He carefully opened his briefcase, keeping the lid between David and its contents. ”It was the second thing I tried,” David admitted. ”Mom’s not as clever as you are.” It wasn’t a compliment to him or an insult to her, Howland knew. David had a rather blunt way of speaking the truth.

The device was already mostly assembled - for safety, all Howland had to do was connect its components. The main charge consisted of several plastic pipes. Out of one end of each pipe jutted a small silver cylinder, with thin wires connecting them in series. The detonators relied on a crude mercury fulminate, the pipes below them filled with simple black powder. Howland very carefully connected the negative wire to the negative terminal of a battery pulled from a disposable vape pen. He spoke up as he taped the negative wire into place. ”Don’t you have exams to be studying for, rather than breaking into the Health Department’s reference library? You’re graduating next month, David.”

David’s tone was dismissive. ”Please.”

Connecting the positive terminal to the fuze was even easier - but connecting the fuze to the circuit was the dangerous part. If the fuze wasn’t wired exactly right, the device would explode right then and there. The device was crude - in fact, it was deliberately made to only partially detonate. It wouldn’t even kill David across the room. But it could very well kill him, and that would prove inconvenient. ”Getting a head start on med school, are we?”

”Leo has friends over, I didn’t want to listen to their video games all night.” David’s display floated through a cutaway spinal cord, flowing upwards towards the brain stem. His eyes scanned past displays composited from images of medical cadavers and surgical footage. ”It wasn’t difficult to walk right past the people setting up for the event this afternoon.”

”You came to a political rally for peace and quiet?” Howland’s fuze of choice for this device was a spring-loaded trigger. A spring kept under tension separated the positive and negative wires. Held there by the latch of the briefcase, when opened, the spring would snap forward, connecting the positive and negative ends and completing the circuit and powering the detonators.

David shrugged. Howland knew he couldn’t care less about the political rally. ”I was going to just watch TV. But these references are...interesting. It’s like looking at a clockwork mechanism. Every part connects to the next part. It all works in a kind of synchronicity, like a machine…”

Howland carefully closed the briefcase, holding the spring down manually until the latch came over it. Now the bomb was armed. ”It’s just like as I taught you as a boy, David.” His son finally looked up, at that, a question written on his raised brow.

Howland started to sing. ”Well the foot bone’s connected to the...shin bones! The shine bone’s connected to the...thigh bones!”

”God, now he’s singing. Dad, I will throw my coffee at you-”

”The thigh bone’s connected to the...hip bones! The hip bone’s connected to the…!” Howland ducked and laughed as an empty cup of coffee flew past where his head had been a moment earlier.

David didn’t laugh - the boy had never been as emotional as his more expressive siblings - but he did crack a smile, audibly exhaling. Howland smiled back, collecting the briefcase, his pack, and a bottle of water from his desk. ”I need to collect samples from the water fountains. Want to join me?” David didn’t bother to grace the question with a reply, turning back to the holograph. ”...Didn’t think so. Theresa’s here too, by the way. Text her if you want a ride home.”

Howland headed out, as his son acknowledged him with barely a spared grunt.

No, no, no. Tuning in isn’t always good. People on the outside love to think so, though. ‘Ride the wave, feel its power surging through you, direct current.’ That sort of shit. It’s different for me. I did tune in. I even turned the drone up, like a fool, thinking that within the static there might be something for me. You know what I found?

>>>𝕃𝕠𝕒𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘...
>>>...
>>>...

It got louder and louder.

>>>𝕀𝕟𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘...
>>>...
>>>...

I thought I’d expand my sensory world, find some revelation. Like I was some lost prophet, clairvoyant, a God in the Machine.

>>>𝔼𝕩𝕖𝕔𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘...
>>>...
>>>...

The buzz of machinery—overwhelming, deafening, makes you want [[[腹切り]]] right there. But it’s over that mighty mountain of pain, frenzy, mind-wrack, that new things start being revealed to you.

>>>𝔼𝕟𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖...
>>>...
>>>...

You see not the individuals, the bleak landscapes, not even the Labyrinth. Tuning further and further into the noise, you’ll eventually reach the other side, I think, a void. It’s in that void where you hear, see, feel the moving pieces, The Machine, the 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖. All the moves they make.

I lost it.

---

---

ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖, 𝕊𝕠𝕦𝕥𝕙 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝
𝔸𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕝 𝟙𝕤𝕥, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝 𝟙𝟠:𝟙𝟘
[ℂ𝕠𝕞𝕖, 𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕕𝕠𝕨 ℂ𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕧𝕒𝕟] 𝕀𝕟𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘...


Samsara curled his thumbs into his palms and crossed his middle and ring fingers to form a pair of ‘W’ gang signs, which he flashed to Lott when she commented on his rad glasses. You couldn’t really get more egotistical than inventing your own gang sign, but Samsara seemed blissfully unaware, convinced entirely by his own coolness. “Thanks,” he offered, obscured eyes lingering on Lott a second too long, as though running a sort of diagnostic appraisal with his cyberware.

As Lott stepped in to deal with the antics of Gatch’s challengers, the weary mayor’s face showed something in between the rigor mortis of a long dead man and appreciation for his publicist. Petrukov, on the other hand, only regarded Lott’s presence after a short debate in her head regarding whether or not it was worth it to engage the non-candidate.

“Trust me,” Petrukov paused, mentally scrolling through her list of slightly-demeaning monikers for the unimportant sort whose names she did not know. She couldn’t settle on one and ended up dragging out a “you…” much longer than necessary. “I’ve no need for APEX media goons. I don’t know if you’ve heard of me.” Serena smirked, turning her head slightly to accentuate a hair-toss. “But I’m a bit of an influencer—the media mogul sort—and the Pirates have their own plans.”

Her own boasts seemed to remind Petrukov of the carefully crafted schedule in her head and she started looking around. The Pirate Warlord set her finger-gun sights upon Kaitlyn Davenport. “Kay, I’m going to get the goons to set up our command post upstairs. We’ll livestream in an hour or two—depending on how long it takes me to find something to eat—to make the pre-announcement about our ‘big announcement’ to take place during the debate.” She gave a sneaky pose, shooting her gaze around the room to ensure that her competitors knew she had something to hide.

“The way we like to say it—we, the people of the Reclaim Zone,” Faren clarified as he stepped towards Lott. He walked like he was slipping on slime the whole way there, not breaking eye contact unless he was sending sweet eyes back to his pack of followers. “Is that the people of the Reclaim are stuck working for the Mayor… That’s the problem, and his ties to APEX, their own category of issues really. Not one that will last much longer.” He really liked his ominous tones and foreshadowing. If put before a federal court, the combatting lawyers would have to commit to going fist to fist. “But my people will certainly take you up on your offer. We’d love to get a word in with APEX. Discuss the future, see what they know, that sort of thing.”

The sound of an alarm tripped just barely audible from the nearby security office had Gatch jump a few inches out of his skin. The officer posted up in the camera room just shrugged and got up to investigate. The incumbent took a deep breath. “Where did Dao go?” Gatch thought out loud, but everyone ignored him. No one really knew the answer either way. It was strange the way a pile of monks could just so quietly vanish from the scene. They’d either left or headed up to find their rooms. Gatch stopped caring after only a moment.

Maybe it was the cord-wrapped, 3D-ready zombie that distracted him from the much more pertinent matter. Alas, Gatch’s lethargy was next level, and soon he resigned to punishing his body as best as he could at the prepared snack table. Serena soon followed. Samsara had disregarded Lott’s offer. Delilah had become the subject of his silent appraisal. Beneath the super-specs, his eyes traced up and down the jacket she wore. He decided it was a problem best addressed not in front of a crowd of competitors. Nonetheless, once eyes stopped falling on him, he set a determined course to Delilah to have a conversation at a volume that wouldn’t be picked up by every recording device in the room. She obviously wanted something. Delilah rarely found him in person otherwise.

Gatch withdrew a tablet that vibrated ravenously on his belt. “Lott, just, uh…” He missed the video-call. Another one replaced it almost immediately. “Deal with any newcomers, would you? I gotta deal with this before—” He cut himself off, shaking his head. It wasn’t the time or place to finish that statement. Gatch hurried into the building’s wing, not waiting for a response from his trusted media lieutenant swiss-army-knife.

---

---

Someone else had to be catching the signals, right? I couldn’t have been the only one. It was a game of perception, right? Who were the other champions of sight, of sound, of vibration?

The ANVL strikes. I got stuck with vibration.

He was a champion of perception too. He saw the other side through signals… I found him easy, like following a beacon of the Great Game. Even the overwhelming noise of the Everything seemed to dull in comparison to the screaming noise that surrounded his work.

I pounded on the door a third time. Run down, Reclaim, it certainly wasn’t the place the spectator of a Great Game hid out. There was no answer, but after a while the cameras wired to either side of the door swiveled and stared me down.

Kay felt the folding tablet in her back pocket buzz twice. Someone had pinged her, one of her closer friends, if they could reach her there. But whoever it was would have to wait
“Kay”
“Shit.”
She stiffened when she heard her employer call her name. Seems she was more just in plain sight and less than hidden in it than she thought. She used the excuse of filling a styrofoam cup with bargain brand coffee to stall for time until she was forced to turn around. It felt like everyone was staring intently and directly at her though, logically, she knew few people would even bother glancing in her direction. Still too many. She did her best not to grimace as she watched Serena ham it up with her not so subtle antics. Still, Serena’s announcement did give her an out from this social interaction. She nodded once and started walking briskly toward the elevator. The coffee in her hand didn’t even make it to the other side of the room and was discarded in a small bin by the table with a pitcher of cucumber water upscale hotels seem so fond of. Her pocket buzzed again but she elected to ignore it once more.

“I’ll get started on setup right away.”
She did her best impression of a polite smile as she stepped into the elevator and pressed the button. Once inside, she sighed and ran a hand over her face.
“Why is she like this?”
Kay had little time to ponder the question before the elevator dinged and opened on her floor. She made her way to the suite and decided to see who was pinging her and what they wanted. Fishing the tablet out of her pocket, she flicked it open with practiced finesse and scanned her latest alerts. Mostly the same old same old but two messages in particular caught her attention. Both from her friend, Flux Shaman and both had come in with unusually strong signals. Interesting. She would have to investigate that later, but for now she returned the messages with a quick reply.



Putting her notifications on silent for the moment, she set about getting everything ready.
Microphone? Check.
Camera? Check.
That dramatic lighting Serena always insisted on? ...Check.
Now they needed an audience. Kay grabbed her colossal "laptop" from her room, making sure to hook up her security hardware before she allowed it to receive any wireless signals. She sent notices out to all the usual underground forums and chat rooms of ill repute about the impending announcement and what time to expect Petrukov’s digital appearance. Replies came flooding in only minutes after the posts and Kay decided that was good enough for now. All that was left was to make sure their security was up to snuff and that’s just what she did, clacking away at her keyboard as she locked the stream down like good ol’ Knox. No one would get to their system without some major digital muscles to flex. Even still, Kay went about double, triple, and quadruple checking everything just to be sure.

Johnny had been accompanying the Pirate Queen and fellow P-Lackey 'Kay' up to the suite where all the big wigs were. The sight of augments on some of the people simply had his stomach turning, he forgot he was the only puritan in the room. He could feel his future children running around in a VR park, cyber psychosis free-living long healthy and natural lives. A 'Tannhauser Gate' cigarette hanged in his mouth as he lit it with a sad-looking zippo, entering the fray of political minds, deception and bloodthirsty killers. The PMCs showing up in mass and force were not to be expected, while the uneducated will think they are there for protection there are more roles a merc can play that doesn't show up on the media-screens. He knew first hand.

While everyone was so interesting, all these quirky power Mongols vying for one city he coulden't help but lay his eyes on Lott who was caught up in the middle of it all. After exhaling from a long drag he keyed back into the real, Lott speaking about the PMCs in her customer service, PR rep brain-fuck jamble. "They aren't here for just protection." He said ashing a bit of the Gate from the end of the tobacco stick, the ash hit the floor disintegrating - a sign of what's to come. "There are ulterior motives, obviously my dearest Ramona your average sheeple wouldn't see it. Thankfully us P's aren't your traditional submissive wage-slave."

He removed a small holocaller and entered a contact, a young woman's face appeared as it shot up in it's 3D glory in front of him as it exploded from the small holocaller. "Hi Johnny, what can I do for you?" The young woman chirped, obviously one of Lovecraft's legal lackeys. "I need you to dig up manifests, reports and everything you can on our esteemed PMCs in town. Go file an access to information request at the old townhall courthouse." The woman looked away from the holocaller, maybe she was taking notes? "Gotcha!" She said before she killed the called.

"My gravediggers are now in the process of digesting as much information as they can legally, yes - legally obtain regarding these groups. While we appreciate your modesty Ramona, sometimes you need a third-party contractor to look at it for you. If we feel like it, maybe we'll let the city know what these mercs are really employed for. I just hope our hand isn't forced." By this time the Tannhauser Gate had been smoked, killed! He flicked the butt out of his fingers as he began to follow the Pirate Queen - after her saucy little exit.

(Gravedigger - Legal lackey, a junior lawyer sometimes - usually does shitty legal work for their overlords like Johnny. In this case, filing request for files and diseminating everything they can. Gravedigger derives from this occupation is so dangerous or laborious whichever you want to believe, it just fucking kills you. )

Following her to the elevator, he began to process the sear amount of information and jumble spewed in that exchange. His reptile brain struggled, however, he prided that he would never be cyber-sick so let his damn brain work. He hit his head a few times with a couple small palm strikes. He felt like he was in a sense of danger, something happened - maybe back in the room? It was too late they were at the suite, Johnny's hands gripped onto something cold - steel? A handgun grip that was sleeping under his suit, maybe he wouldn't have to pull it out after all.

Clarity cut through the self-induced haze in Lott’s head like a lighthouse beacon after dark the moment she shut her mouth. An “ex”-APEX employee insisting an ex-APEX lobbyist weren’t in cohorts with APEX wouldn’t play. She sensed Gatch growing tense beside her as she realized she had just overstepped her position. Gatch would never give Lott the signal because there never had been a signal; he would never seek her for a bailout. She had just undercut him. She had made him look weak. The candidates were kids in a rock fight, and Lott had just rushed out like a concerned mother to protect her baby boy because he’d been beaned across the forehead. He’d be the constant target of playground bullying now.

Lott glanced over at the Mayor; was thinking of him in terms of being a school boy a side effect of the chemicals fighting it out in her system? He certainly dressed like one. It was strange that nobody said anything. Obviously, it wasn’t strange that nobody said anything to her, why would they bother speaking with her when they could tell that she was a nobody? What Lott thought strange was that the big players were probing rumors when they could’ve buried Gatch on his fashion alone. Perhaps she could speak on it with him later. As his mother, she was responsible for—Lott blinked at the intrusive thought. She needed to go. Clearly too loopy to stay in the loop. Why hadn’t anybody said anything? Had she even said anything?

“Ms. Ramana, are you even listening?”

Lott turned her head. She couldn’t tell if it had been her that was moved or everything else. The candidates were no longer in their little spitting circle, and the cronies had all posted themselves up at different angles. Lott herself was now standing by a table of pamphlets advertising wonderful tourist destinations not in the Reclaim Zone. She was faced with Octavia Alvas, one of Gatch’s campaign coordinators. Octavia was a squat woman who seemed to be perpetually happy towards everyone in the world with the exception of one Lott Ramana. It was probably because Octavia could tell a fraud when she saw one or, at least, that’s what Lott thought. Lott nodded. She hadn’t been. She didn’t even know how she got over here which, admittedly, should have concerned her more than it did. The anxiety meds must’ve beaten out the uppers in the end.

“Then I’ll leave you two to it.”

Two? Lott watched as Octavia left to go join Gatch by his side. She had been hoodwinked, it seemed. Somehow that woman had pulled Lott out from underneath the shadow of the major players only to place her on the sidelines with the nobodies. Lott told herself that it was fine, even as the elevated number on her watch’s heart monitor told her that she felt otherwise. She adjusted her watch, and another dose of Dr. Howland’s miraculous tonic began to filter itself into her bloodstream. The number would go down soon enough. Lott rolled her neck, and as it popped she locked eyes with a young woman in a dark-teal dress. Two. Lott was one, so this girl was two, excluding the moment Lott’s vision swam and the girl split to become three and four before solidifying back into one so she could once again be two. Okay, cool.

Lott had no clue what was going on, which meant she was just about as qualified to handle this as she was for anything on the campaign trail.

“Lott Ramana, Mayor Gatch’s publicist. A pleasure,” she said and offered her hand. Hopefully they hadn’t already done this part; it was always tricky to hold a conversation and scan back through her implant’s recording at the same time. She did it anyway. “So, why are you here?”

It was one of those interview questions that aimed to draw forth answers of lofty visions, only Lott meant it in total earnesty. She did not know why the younger woman was here. With one dead eye she stared at the newcomer while the other secretly played out her past from the last thing she remembered.

”Ah - I’m Theresa.” Theresa shook the woman’s hand, smiling and stalling for time as her mind raced. How exactly am I supposed to go about this? ‘I’m here because my father decided I needed a civics lesson’? ”I’m studying to join the Space Force, and I thought this summer would be a good experience of the political process.” Quick, Theresa, what do people my age who come here willingly look for?

Right. Jobs are important, right? ”I’m looking for a, um, summer internship.” She nodded her head affirmatively, with confidence she didn’t really feel. ”For the experience.” Being paid would be nice, too…

Lott should’ve been confused as to why she was even speaking with a potential intern. However, the rewound recap had just played back Samsara’s hand signs. The action only Samsara Washington could make look cool (and she believed it to be really, really cool—ultra cool, maximum chill, absolute freaking zero on the Kelvin scale) made Lott grin at Theresa. She looked more like a wolf hungry to see fresh intern meat than the happy clam she currently was to even be recognized by her idol.

”You’re welcome,” said Lott, both in the past to Samsara and accidentally in the present to Theresa. Lott momentarily paused the playback and continued speaking as if that hadn’t been the end of her thought process. “To ask me anything that crosses your mind. I was in your shoes, once. Sometimes I still feel like I’m an intern.” Not her best recovery but it’d suffice. She resumed playback. Lott had to know if Samsara had said more to her. She knitted her brow as the past lens shifted to Petrukov.

”But the experience? Normally someone joins the Space Force to bolster their future political career, not the other way around...or is this a new kind of requirement?” asked Lott. She was more curious than anything. She was curious, too, to see how Petrukov would react to knowing that the only reason she was even able to run for office was because APEX goons had meddled in her affairs, but past Lott had let the remark slide unchecked. Lott could be an influencer, too. She could influence this young woman right here to not waste her future on becoming an intern and instead spend the best years of her life being zooted on Limbo Dust. Why bother with all of the training to become a spaceman when you could take a little something to feel like you were in space, man?

Theresa shook her head, unconsciously tugging at the fringe of her dress under Lott’s lupine gaze. This woman had a fierce look in her expression, and eyes that seemed preoccupied thinking of a thousand other things at once. To stop to offer advice to what was undoubtedly just another twenty-something was probably a unique opportunity for her. She was determined not to waste it! ”I’ve just always wanted to be an astronaut,” Theresa said, straightening her posture. ”And I’ve always wanted to serve my country, too. I know that sounds a little, I dunno, old-fashioned, but…” Theresa trailed off.

This woman clearly had other more important things on her mind, from the occasionally-distant look in her eyes - Theresa wasn’t going to cinch any kind of job yammering on about herself! She’d invited her to ask a question - asking something intelligent was the best way to stand out and get back on track. Theresa’s thoughts raced. ”But, anyway, um, I could just seek an internship with some corporation or a summer job of some kind - but this is, you know, democracy, it’s...important? After finals I really won’t have too many requirements for school all summer, so I’ll be certainly very flexible, I’m a hard worker and I have a good work ethic…”

This wasn’t good - Theresa was rambling. Here this woman was probably one of the most important people in the Twin Cities government, in charge of Mayor Gatch’s public image and statements - and Theresa couldn’t spit a sentence out without rambling nervously. Why did this woman make her so nervous? She didn’t so much as flinch when an ROTC instructor bellowed orders two hours into PT. She had walked into an advanced astrophysics final on no sleep after cramming all night and still held confidence. Maybe it was the way she kept looking away - as though her work was much too important to spare more than partial attention for yet another twenty-something assisting a political campaign office. She decided to try a little boldness - that had to be better than yammering on, right? So she stopped, and took a breath. ”So if you’re looking for an assistant for your office, ma’am, well, here I am!”

Lott was in the past. Her body bristled, seemingly in reaction to Theresa’s nervous prattling, as her past self watched as Johnny Lawyer refused to even call her by the correct name, let alone give her the respect she deserved for helping his cause out previously. Faren slipped in front of her view before she even had a chance to retort. ”Of course, Mr. Faren, I will see to it that we find a way for your people to touch base with those of Apex Industries at a later time,” she heard herself say noncommittally before she excused herself. She followed behind Gatch like an obedient puppy, using the departure of her boss from the group to avoid being caught in what would certainly be a buzz-killing conversation with the Neo-Luddite poster boy. The past connected with the present as Octavia sidled up next to Lott after Gatch gave her his orders, and Lott killed the recording just as Theresa moved in for the kill.

“I see…” muttered Lott. She relaxed her posture ever so slightly as the residual feelings from the past dissipated, and turned her full attention to Theresa. Well, as much attention as Lott was capable of giving anyone at the current moment. “Unfortunately, given the current climate I do not believe that the Mayor would be interested in acquiring any new assets at the moment, despite your impressive background.”

Lott didn’t intend to make that statement sound cruel or dismissive, but it certainly came out as such. APEX, thus in a way the Mayor, had entrusted Lott to vet the hopeful candidate’s team of any possible turncoats—adding yet another unknown factor to their already messy situation would not be in line with the company’s plan. However, Lott knew that the company would also dislike the negative attention they would receive if word got out that they had been requested to give private information to a bunch of technophobes. She could just ignore Faren’s request for that contact information. That would make the bosses happy, but what kind of look would that give her in the eyes of the Neo-Luddites? Lott knew she shouldn’t care what they thought of her, but she did. She couldn’t disappoint them by going back on her word. However, if there was another person to blame for the mixup…

“However, it’d be a waste to let someone like you go. I can find room for you as an intern on my PR team,” said Lott. The PR team, with the exception of a few speech writers and a couple of social media specialists, was almost entirely her. “It might not be the exact experience you’re looking for, but it’d get your foot in the door. And, depending on how well you perform, I can see to it that we move you to a more desirable branch of the campaign team post-debate.”

Theresa’s shoulders sank not two syllables into unfortunately…, and she opened her mouth to thank Lott for her time. Stupid. She’d blown it with simple nerves. This was the PR staff of a political campaign. They were surely a staff of highly-qualified professionals. They couldn’t hire someone who could barely stumble through an interview! What was wrong with her? She’d done this before, and with more imposing people than Ms. Ramana. Maybe she was nervous because of her father’s expectations, or...

She stopped, though, and brightened as Lott continued. An internship would be great, wouldn’t it? It’d get her dad off her back, might lead to a decent summer job...and the PR team of a mayoral candidate? Who knows? That could even be fun! She could even end up on TV. She nodded her head firmly, and tried to give a polite, professional smile. ”Gladly, Ms. Ramana!”

“Then welcome to the team, Ms. Theresa,” said Lott. She opened her tablet and clacked at it furiously, then extended it toward the younger woman. ”Please enter in your relevant information and I’ll have someone send you the necessary legal mumbo jumbo to begin the onboarding process. I do hope you enjoy paperwork. This conversation has been recorded, naturally, and will serve as a temporary contract until we can conduct a proper screening and background check. You will be considered to be on a probationary status until then, and following the period you will receive a living stipend. It's a normal procedure, so don’t worry yourself with the details. Just consider this a test run, of sorts.”

Lott felt lightheaded. For a moment, she lost focus and stared out across the room. When her concentration returned she was worried she had experienced another time slip, but the newly hired intern was still in front of her. Lott continued, unsure of how long it had been since she had closed her mouth.

“Now, Mr. Faren has expressed interest in speaking with a representative of APEX Industries.” Lott pulled out a blank, eggshell business card and withdrew her tablet. After a moment of searching she tapped the card against her device and black ink bled out onto the card, filling it with information for some publicly available and ultimately useless APEX hotline. Technically, it would reach an APEX representative, but just one who could answer questions about their products and not expunge any information that could be considered crucial. She handed the card to Theresa. “See to it that one of his followers receives this.”

Theresa took the card delicately, as though it were an item of some worth. ”Yes, ma’am!” She turned away, belatedly worrying that she had no idea who Mr. Faren was. But if he was named without introduction, it probably wouldn’t look good to have to ask…

That had happened fast. There was no formal process, or interview, or anything, just, here, here’s a job to do? Well, best get to it, then...

Lott watched as the teal dress disappeared into the swathe of political slime and felt a pang of regret, because Lott knew she'd just missed a fantastic opportunity to have someone fetch her a drink. With a sigh, she scanned the room. The boss was gone and so was his whip. Well, if there was nobody around to demand her to perform anymore duties that she was grossly unprepared for, then perhaps it would be fine if she slipped away to grab a drink. One vodka tonic wouldn't hurt. Except she wasn't supposed to drink on her meds, so if she was going to break the doctor's orders then she might as well make it three.

Location: Apartment -> Swathe Street Commons. Interacting with: Nobody in particular, but taking a glance at a few people.

---

For Amelia, today had been rather slow. Knight Enterprise was having most of its workforce contracted out for the rally at the Swathe Street Commons, but Amelia wasn’t one of the lucky ones that got to attend the rally in person. Not that she really minded. The lack of things to do gave her time to relax and focus on herself for a change. Currently, this meant that Amelia was sitting comfortably on her couch in her apartment, munching on a burger. She didn’t have her TV on, wanting to give herself a break from listening to random noise for once. For Amelia, this was momentary bliss.

Unfortunately for Amelia, this momentary bliss was shattered when her cell phone began to ring. Setting her half-eaten burger down and grabbing a napkin to wipe her hands and mouth with, Amelia grabbed her phone and looked at the small screen on the front. The fact that it read ‘WORK - IMPORTANT’ made her heart swell and sink at the same time. Something to do, but no more lazy time. flicking it open before putting it to her ear, Amelia answered with a professional tone to her voice, as was expected. “This is Glory, go ahead … Jenkins is out sick? … Oh, that’s bad … Swathe Street Commons? Yeah, I can get there … Is there a dress code? … Alright. I’m on the move. Bye.”

Flicking her phone closed, Amelia grabbed her half finished burger and began to ruthlessly bite away at it. Leaving food uneaten was a good way to get an ant infestation… And it was a good burger besides. Once she was done, Amelia hopped up from her couch and took a moment to wash her hands. After drying them she began to step quickly around her apartment. Grabbing her gear, Amelia stepped out into the hallway and locked her apartment door behind her before heading for the parking garage where her motorcycle was kept. Plugging her key into a small slot in the back of the seat, Amelia pulled the seat upward and pulled a motorcycle helmet from the internal storage. Pushing the seat back down, Amelia gently pushed her helmet into place and tightened the straps around her chin. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something.

Pulling her key from the storage lock, Amelia straddled her bike and plugged the key into the ignition before pushing her way out of the parking spot. Swathe Street Commons wasn't too far away. As Amelia cruised along the streets, she thought about what her boss had told her: Jenkins had developed a really nasty case of shingles, and so he had to drop out of work at the last second to get treatment, which left them short staffed for the rally today. Amelia was one of the people who was on the reserve list, and had been called in to fill in the empty slot. Simple, but it robbed Amelia of her lazy day.

After a few minutes of driving, Amelia pulled into the parking lot of the central square suites. Pulling the key from the ignition, Amelia stored her helmet in the storage beneath the motorcycle seat and dug out her contacts case. Opening it gently, Amelia placed the pink contacts into her eyes, briefly washing the world in pink. It took a few moments for the smart systems to activate, but once they did that pink hue rapidly faded from her vision as the color correction kicked in.

Amelia began to walk quickly towards the Central Square suites, looping the earpiece that her transceiver had and keying into the security channels that her boss had mentioned in the phone call before she left. As soon as she was connected instinct took over her vocal cords and she spelled out a standard security greeting. ”This is Glory of Knight Enterprise, replacing a missing security team member. Clearance code 3374. Where do you want me? … Copy that. Out.”

Stopping just before she entered in the main door, Glory adjusted her jacket to make sure that the Knight Enterprise logo on the shoulder was clearly visible, and then on top of that retrieved her security badge and clipped it to the other side of her jacket. Then she checked to make sure the draw-lock on her holster was in place and nodded to herself before pulling open the front door and stepping into the Central Square suites. Flashing her badge at the front inspection officers, Glory was waved along and quickly made her way to where she was wanted: The refreshments table.

Along the way, she caught a glance of a few important people: Serena Petrukov, Johnny Lovecraft, and Kay were all leaving through the elevators. ”Well, I don’t have to keep track of them, at least.” came to Glory’s mind. The three of them were tagged as high priority troublemakers. Though, naturally, Serena was also on the VIP list, so Glory had to keep her safe despite the antics she got up to. Those three being out of the picture made her job easier.

Rounding a small corner, Glory additionally caught a glimpse of Samsara Washington. Making a mental note of where he was, Glory was moving on when she caught a glimpse of someone nearby. It barely registered when Glory first saw them, but the retro looking 3-D glasses made her do an ocular double-take. Glory didn’t know her. But the awkward lump beneath the coat they were half-wearing caused her suspicion to begin churning. It was too large and too square to be a gun, though. Glory stuffed her suspicions down and made a mental note to keep an eye out for them.

Something else jumped out at her eye now, a woman slipping through the crowd, following a drone that was following someone else. A reporter? Probably. They would be the most likely people to have drones around, as they were a popular use for cameras. Glory ignored it for now, as she had other places to be that were of higher priority than chasing down an obvious-looking journalist.

Approaching the refreshments area, Glory found an indiscreet corner and gently slid into it. Sliding her hands into her jacket pockets, Glory did her best to look busy and distracted while she kept an eye on the crowds moving and shifting. During this time, she spotted two more people. One she knew, and one she didn’t. Lott was having a conversation with someone, Amelia couldn’t make out any details, but when Lott handed the other woman a card Amelia figured it might be related to the great game that was going on currently. ”Remember your neutrality. You are here to protect the gears of the political machine, not throw yourself into them.”

With that, all Glory could do was keep watch and wait and see what would happen. Hopefully, nothing would happen. Hopefully. Glory knew better than to hope for something like that in a time like this, but at least she was capable of hoping for something.

Better than just wallowing in despair, anyway.

>>>𝔸𝕡𝕡𝕣𝕠𝕒𝕔𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘 ℂ𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕦𝕣𝕖 ℙ𝕣𝕠𝕛𝕖𝕔𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕃𝕒𝕣𝕘𝕖 𝕎𝕖𝕓 𝕠𝕗 𝕊𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕦𝕝𝕦𝕤...
>>>ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕧𝕚𝕝𝕪 𝔸𝕦𝕘𝕘𝕖𝕕, ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕧𝕚𝕝𝕪 𝕀ℂ𝔼'𝕕, ℍ𝕖𝕒𝕧𝕚𝕝𝕪 𝔸𝕟𝕘𝕣𝕪...
>>>𝕃𝕠𝕒𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕃𝕒𝕓𝕪𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕙… 𝕆𝕣 𝕊𝟘𝕞𝕖𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕘...
>>>...

He was webbed, like a spider, she thought. The crawling spirals of code and ICE swirled about him like a cloud of pheromones to the unsuspecting Mega-hacker. It obscured his suave step, at least to someone lost in thought, wrought to ponder the awful concepts inherent in the swirling data maelstrom. She strained her eyes, trying to focus on the epicenter of the storm, but the signals she received were far too many. She cocked her head to the side, interpreting an inverted line of Labyrinth leaking out of his tech.

Another beast. Another creature.

Spider

Lost in its web

Approaching fast! Fuck,
React!

We’re back. Back, I tell you.

Lost.
Mad.

Still trapped.

Still in the game? Another enemy? Lash out and attack!

But alas, Delilah just stood there, like a drooling idiot. This time it was the patterns in his glasses that cast their spell upon her. The red and blue filters only further abstracted her mente scindendris, SPECS, mental picture— so elaborate.

She would not be beat! Damn it.

The Shaman of the Labyrinth had no weakness.
She, the Genius.

But this opponent was different.

Different.

Held his own kind of magic, in fact.

Alert! Alert! Calling all players in the 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 to their brain battlestations. There’s a dangerous mage. Their distance apart was no more than a few paces.
Delilah sent out a distress call to her bodyguards right away.

>>> ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾…

But it didn’t quite go that way. She hit, perchance, a different contact. She didn’t have bodyguards. It was just the Shaman, alone, locked in that head of hers.

>>> “ℍ𝟛𝕝𝕡! 𝕀'𝕞 𝕦𝕟𝕕𝕖𝕣 𝕒𝕥𝕥𝕒𝕔𝕜!”
>>> ...
>>> ...

>>> ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾 ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾…
>>> “𝕀𝕥'𝕤 𝕒 𝕨𝕚𝕫𝕒𝕣𝕕!”
>>> ...
>>> ...

Wait…

>>> ℙ𝕀ℕ𝔾…
>>> “𝕎𝕒𝕚𝕥...”
>>> ...
>>> “ℕ𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕕. 𝕀 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕥𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕨𝕚𝕫𝕒𝕣𝕕...”
>>> ...

ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖, 𝕊𝕠𝕦𝕥𝕙 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝
𝔸𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕝 𝟙𝕤𝕥, 𝟘𝟞𝟝 𝟙𝟠:𝟚𝟘


Delilah could only imagine the assault she had perhaps ‘accidentally’ enacted upon Citizen K’s interface of choice with her onslaught of pings. She could have sworn she actually hallucinated the sound of a tablet erupting with notifications, but then it faded away. The Wizard reached her, cornered her near the wall where he could hush his voice and save face as much as he could.

“You told me you were going to stay in ‘The Dungeon’ today. You know, when important folks who shouldn’t be seeing your face are around.”

“The Woman Cave grew stale and boring and out of snacks. I came to scalp information from the upper class.” Delilah posted up against the wall and crossed her arms. Surveying the crowd, she recognized that most of the conniving candidates were too busy with their bourgeois scheming to notice the invisible hacker. The invisibility thing got to her sometimes. She was invisible in the Labyrinth. It had to carry over at least somewhat here in reality. “And I changed the codeword. It’s the Woman Cave now.”

“The Pirates and Gatch have their own netrunners running their own games and surveillance operations here you know. You’ll want to watch for them, and maybe even get us some useful information that they leave vulnerable?”

“Speaking of Pirates, and boats, and information, one of Amalgamation’s barges is anchored 30 miles off the South City coast on the same latitude as the new land purchase—that dead sector. What’s that for?”

“You did what to Amalgamation info?” Oops, the hustler thought. That one was a bit too loud. Samsara pitched down to a near whisper for the next line. “Couldn’t you be a little more useful with your targets? There are unencrypted Labyrinth instances flooding this complex, and if you get me in trouble with Amalgamation, I will fire you. Fire you into space or something. We cannot mess with them—especially that project.”

Delilah felt the come-down approaching, she pulled the E-Drug soft from her neck and discarded it on the floor in plain sight of any onlookers. Turns out she had put it back in the box half-empty. A new low for sure. It would have been worse if Samsara hadn’t swooped down to palm the object away from view before anyone got to identify the cartridge. Delilah started off towards the snack table to find something to replace the incoming wave of bodily and emotional entropy. Already, dangerous levels of something 𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕖 negativity were threatening to take hold. If only she knew the prime wave of ℍ𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕪 was yet to hit. Bootleg homebrew cartridges were strange like that.

Just like the rest of the expanding universe, slowly losing heat…

It was all downhill from here…

“You never even hired me. I’m out here hustling, free-lancing. Amalgamation should be proud of me and give me more robot parts.” Once she secured the deck on her person with a shoulder strap, Delilah drummed her hands on the table, surveying her options of vastly superior food to what she was used to. Drinks too. She decided those came first, but she was second in line, after another woman who also by the looks of it needed to desperately drown her demons. “Besides— Gatch and his goons are too easy these days. I’m a ghost, Samsara. A spooky ghost.”

Delilah poured up her own concoction—vodka and… something blue. She thought it was an energy drink at first. The color was really all that mattered. It matched her hair, and half of her vision. Samsara either adjusted his glasses or rubbed his temples, taking a long breath—the kind that concealed an internal scream. He reached for his inner pocket and sought out his flask. Nothing. Another sigh. Or a growl. He stiff-armed Delilah, assaulting her until he felt the flask in her—no HIS—jacket pocket. Very strong brandy. It was classy, like him, he thought.

“I mean, fuck Gatch. Doesn’t the world have enough dirt on him?” Delilah was the one on the ‘too-loud’ side of the scale this time. She might have accidentally drawn some eyes. “Aren’t the Reclaim people done with him yet? I am. Send him my way. I’ll rip off his other arm. The flesh one.” She turned to the corporate-type sipping their own cocktail next to her. “Am I right?”

Samsara did another glasses-adjust//face-to-palm. He took a few steps back from Delilah, realizing the grenade he had run into all too drunk himself in the bar that fateful day and trying to distance himself from her. She wasn’t quite done, though. Delilah did a survey of the room, struggling a moment to discern faces in the filter of red and blue. It didn’t take her long to settle on a set of familiar eyes and old-school lumberjack hipster beard.

“Michael Faren! You and your hunter-gatherer cronies are probably in the market for discarded ripped-off flesh arms, right? I could have sworn that was what your campaign was about…”

Faren looked offended for the smallest microsecond. Then, he looked to his posse and did his absolute best to contain his laughter, eyes falling upon Samsara. “Is she—”

“Oh no… De—”

“Listen here, Michael!”

“Michael?” One of the NLP’s stylish gangers muttered from the crowd. Delilah furrowed her brow. She wasn’t deterred. Samsara had taken to standing as close to the wall as possible, his glasses almost bumping the decrepit brick. His flask was almost empty.

“How ever will Gatch deter your silly protest?” She gave her best attempt at a posh, ironic, mocking tone. It was almost indistinguishable from her usual demeanor. A number of the NLP cluster shot each other nervous glances, all eventually settling on Faren himself. “What ever could defeat a bunch of Anprims?” She looked around, calling to the crowd. “Does anyone have any preventable diseases on hand?”

“How does she…”



The air was, needless to say, dense with questions. Something was wrong, Delilah felt. The atmosphere of banter was suddenly replaced by a sort of tension. Maybe it was her bloodstream constricting, she thought. That was what it usually was.

“What?”

ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖, 𝕊𝕠𝕦𝕥𝕙 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝
𝔸𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕝 𝟙𝕤𝕥, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝 𝟙𝟠:𝟚𝟘
[ℂ𝕠𝕞𝕖, 𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕕𝕠𝕨 ℂ𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕧𝕒𝕟] 𝔼𝕩𝕖𝕔𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘...


Serena seated herself in the kind of generously large leather armchair that had to be a century old, and if it was a century old, then it was kept in pristine condition—like in a senator’s house or something. She practiced her poses in the array of screens and battery of lenses forming a wall in front of her, sent a devious grin into the cameras, a grin which became even devious-er when she caught sight of her reflection of her reflection in her oversized cool-gal sunglasses. Her associates were the only others in the room, though there were to be plenty more spectators soon.

“Associates,” she said. “Lawyerman.” She contorted her body in a way that only the unnecessarily augmented might be able to so she could face him. “You’re job is to deal with… lawyer things.” It was always hard to keep Petrukov’s focus, even in times of great importance. Even then, she fiddled with the control panel on her microphone board, not content to start speaking again until her voice had an overlapping resonance to it, you know, like a god. “If someone wants to take the stream down via, you know, the law.” She nodded to Johnny and gave him a thumbs up. “Kill ‘em...”

“Also, I’ll count on your advice. I hope you read the speech ahead of time. I forgot to email it to you.”

“Bodyguardman!” Petrukov twisted once again until she was facing the door. A lone burly man with cybernetic arms stood in front of the door in that classic bouncer-surveying-the-place, arms-crossed, not-looking-too-happy sort of way. Despite the protests of her media manager, Serena had demanded that he be in the background of the cameras’ footage, mostly because he was the biggest person in the room. “Look menacing.” She hit him with akimbo finger guns.

“And Hackerwoman!” Serena twisted, paused, sipped from a cocktail glass of some fizzy, very-likely non-alcoholic drink. “I’m sure our collective enemies don’t want the masses to hear the manifesto of the Pirates, but someone—” her voice wavered a bit, as though she were actually getting emotional. “Someone must address them. It must be me. So… Action stations! Send the blasts on my massive social media accounts.” In her call to action to her employees, Serena had completely forgotten (or disregarded on purpose) her media manager as well as the small press team that was allowed on scene, relegated to a mostly empty corner save for a few folding chairs.

Serena spent the next few minutes screwing with the modulation and pitch of the music on her control board. After all, it was the centerpiece of the whole broadcast. What was her loyal following without pPirated music. When the minute-long countdown clock started, she finally settled on a song, satisfied with her masterfully-mixed queue. A tension blossomed in the room where the silence then festered. 20 seconds.

“Now,” she twisted again in her seat, mirrorshades facing off with the cameras. Petrukov was the sort that never quite sat right in chairs, but she was assured she looked regal and Pirate-y nonetheless. “Hoist the Black Flag!”

10 seconds.

“Miss Petrukov. Uh, there’s no place to hang it up, and all you brought was the flag…” The voice of her publicist seared into her brain and made her boss’s steely gaze falter for just a second. Serena knew just what to do.

“Bodyguardman!”

5 seconds. 4 seconds. 3 seconds. Action…

>>>𝔹𝕣𝕠𝕒𝕕𝕔𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘...
>>>...
>>>...

“People of the Twin City Sprawl and greater America,” the Pirate Captain spread her arms wide in a grand gesture. Those waiting in the broadcast chat were already flooding the window with spammed messages. “As you know, the final debate for Twin City Sprawl Councilwoman candidacy is fast approaching. My crew has just arrived in the Reclaim Zone to prepare ahead of time and ensure our enemies are playing by the rules.”



“But the Pirate Army is quite an observant group, and it is as you suspect!” The broadcast hit a spike of Labyrinth interference, though its cause was rather unclear, particularly due to the spike of 3D viewers in the net. With the projection array in a once quiet, calm, blank space of Labyrinth, it was suddenly swarmed with signals and signatures, all prying eyes, all with varied intentions.

“And they’re not the most careful bunch either. Information was once a commodity best left to anarchy. Now, the attempts to regulate and protect the Labyrinth to hide the secrets of megacorps is muddying the space for its base users.” Stray signals shot from the growing horde of black code-streams now swarming the broadcast. It was hard to tell who was trying to access what, but the number of viewers continued to climb.

“Even now, their secrets are hidden behind complex security protocols… No match for any Pirate with half a brain. So the debate in the Reclaim Zone will be quite an important one. For those of you that cannot attend live, please ignore the censorship of the mainstream media and direct your attention once again the Pirate-streamed broadcast free of charge. Gatch, Faren, Washington,” she paused. “The other guy—they’ll all have secrets to reveal at the debate, I’m sure. If not...” Petrukov sighed and shrugged. “Perhaps the Pirates will help them along the way on that matter…”

The Pirate Bodyguard was as solid as a rock with his arms spread wide to proudly display the jolly roger. This was what he lifted for. Not a single of his rippling muscles moved. Like steel.

“But the point is the Pirates will have a gambit of their own prepared. Something big—something you’ll all love, I’m sure—is coming. Something that will rock the entire election, the entire system even! All we can say now,” Serena sent an off-camera smile to her lawyer. “Is that you’ll all have your minds made up. Only days away. Await the revelation of the Pirates in the Reclaim. Here for the people in a time of danger, there’s no way to vote. Cast your ballot black.”

Petrukov let the message simmer for a bit, playing with her control board so that her image faded to a silhouette. “That’s all for now my faithful free spirits. I must attend to ensuring the freedom of the people, but the stream goes on! My staff will remain to answer questions from the masses!”

She snapped her fingers and the black flag fell over her visage, concealing her in an even darker blackness. That was the signal. A horrible screeching sound resounded through the mics as her Bodyguard started pulling the large chair back and then offscreen. It certainly wasn’t as dramatic an exit as she’d hoped.

Location: Swathe Street Commons, refreshments area. Interacting with:@Opposition

Glory’s ears perked up when she heard a distinct “I mean, fuck Gatch. Doesn’t the world have enough dirt on him?” come from one of the crowds of people that were loitering near the refreshments table. Her eyes began to dart around now, looking for where that sound might’ve come from. Unfortunately, Glory couldn’t tell who might’ve been the one saying that. It was likely something that a lot of people were thinking, but for someone to express it a bit louder than the general murmur of the crowd was a bit concerning. Opinions that were as volatile as that one are what started heated arguments, and heated arguments are what typically caused fights to start. Fights were what Glory was explicitly here to prevent.

Thankfully, nothing seemed to come of it after a few moments, so Glory took a breath and shifted a bit. Pushing herself out of the indiscreet corner that she had settled into to avoid drawing attention to herself and now shifted into a more central location, standing with her back against the outer wall of the refreshments area with her arms folded. This was a much more obvious position, and was a part of Glory’s Knight Enterprise playbook. Typically, most people wanted their security to be invisible. Not seen unless it’s needed to be seen. That was the purpose for Glory tucking herself into the indiscreet corner. People weren’t going to be looking in that direction on a routine basis, and so Glory was relatively invisible. Just the way she wanted to be.

Now, however, Glory was much more visible. The outer wall was where everyone looked first when entering into the refreshments area, and as such everyone that entered would see Glory. This was a deliberate move to subliminally remind everyone that there was in fact security in the area, and what they were doing was being monitored. Hopefully, this would be enough to cool the jets on whoever had made that unfortunately loud comment earlier.

However, despite Glory projecting a bit more force than was typically accepted at these events, someone was a bit eager to cause a fuss. ”Does anyone have any preventable diseases on hand?’ rang out from the area again, and this time Glory was capable of finding the source fairly quickly. It was the odd woman she had spotted from before, Pressing two fingers to her ear, Glory clicked her transceiver and spoke quickly and quietly into the microphone. ”This is Glory. Code 415 in progress at refreshments area. Moving to defuse the situation.”

The tension that wormed its way into the crowd was palpable. What had previously been a calm dull roar had become a stiff silence, even if only for a little while. Glory's job was to make sure that these events went as smoothly as they could, and incidents like this actively made her job more difficult. The whispered questions were contributing to the rising tension. This was a situation that Glory needed to fix, and it needed fixing now.

Pushing herself off the wall, Glory moved quickly. She wove her way through the crowd, pushing people aside gently when needed. When she was within reach of Delilah, Glory gave her three firm taps on the shoulder as she moved into her field of vision before speaking with a calm yet firm tone to her voice. ”Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask that you refrain from shouting out questions like that. You’re likely to cause a panic. This is officially just a warning, but please see to it that you don’t continue to disturb the peace.” Glory shifted her posture and placed her hands firmly on her hips. She stood a fair bit taller than Delilah, so even though her job wasn’t to intimidate, she probably accomplished that too.

Not the intended effect, but if it worked, it worked. Glory wasn’t about to start hating her winnings from the genetic lottery. They were part of what got her this job in the first place.

---

C:>/ver

FUTILITY V 2.01 [DRIFT_DEMON.exe]

C:>>> WARNING! ACTIVE VIRUS DETECTED.

C:>/attrib 0VER_DRIVER.inf

C:>/del 0VER_DRIVER.inf

PROCESSING…….

C:>/ERROR ERROR ER123132R4345O

---

His hand was shaking. Not his meat one but his metal one. He frowned. Strange. Augs weren’t supposed to be human bone and blood, full of imperfections, but cold metal, artificial, cold perfection. He heard some Hyperhuman sophist in the past that transitioning to áscendance’ had different effects on the soul and how acclimating you the experience could take time depending on past experiences. Phantom pains. The body denying what the mind had already accepted. Some experts pointed it to past psychological trauma being responsible for the phantom pains or choppy back alley augmentation techniques. Keah was more inclined to believe in the latter, especially considering the history of how he’d gotten the aug in the first place.

The OverDriver should have been gone just as his right hand was gone. He saw the crash along with a hundred thousand people through the live streams that day. The front hood was up in smoke, tumbling and spinning like a jagged storm of sharp and hurt. The last thing Keah saw was a Cacadeus EM van zooming up on the driveway before the video recording cut off. The psychedelic hellscape of the Duat made him seem more and more like a ghost, as the lurid beats of the shock jockeys in the background pumped up the rhythm, much to the enjoyment of the crowd of moving bodies.

There were very few things that could surprise Keah. His time in the Death Derby had weeded out any sense of shock remaining in him after the Pilgrimage. You couldn’t afford to let your guard down for one second on the towering asphalt of the Detroit Stacks. The former racer couldn’t figure out whether he was staring at a carefully constructed black market tech or whether he was suffering a bout of drug-induced hallucinations. Gaea Naturae didn’t manage to invent cloning technology yet, no matter how much the conspiracy buffs on the Labyrinth liked to crow about. Or maybe Duat was really the land of the dead.

He stared at himself through that dark abyss in the OverDriver’s helmet, his reflection glimmering in the depths of the polarized glass. Meanwhile, the OverDriver’s hand grazed the rim of a shot glass, the liver-curdling scent of his drink bleeding through Keah’s filters. For all of his quirks, alcoholism was not the Asphalt King’s most recognisable traits. Keah was wondering what other things had changed as the bottom half of the Prism Helm retracted to reveal a mouth, overgrown with peppery hair. Nursing the bottom of the glass with his palm, the racer downed the vile concoction in one movement, his head tilted back.

Something had changed after that crash. This OverDriver wasn’t the same one he tied with on the Detroit Stacks a decade ago.

“ So, care to join me for a drink?” The OverDriver lifted his empty glass up and shook it slightly, the ice cubes jingling against the sides like a bell. He nodded towards a shot glass to the left of him on the bartop. “ Don’t worry. Drinks are on me. Relajante, Demon. Does it look like I’ve got five Tinmen in the shadows waiting to fridge you? Sit down. 24 hour delivery service must be just downright tiring for a turboblazer like you.”

“ Pay’s good.” Keah lied.

“ I bet.” The OverDriver chuckles were like the coughs of someone on their deathbed. “ How many years has it been since we last met in Detroit? -”

“ We’re not in Detroit anymore.” Keah cut him off, impatient with his rival’s antics. “ Bio-eth grew out of fashion 10 years ago.” He crossed his arms, still standing arm’s length away from his former rival. “ What are you doing in the Reclaim Zone, Mackwell?”

That got a reaction. The hand gripped around the perspiring shot glass was paper white now, shaking. OverDriver’s “ I don’t go by that name anymore, Keah.” He repeated it, pronouncing it as if the name was a wad of chewing gum grinding in between his teeth. “Keah. People whisper your true name on the streets but you pretend that it doesn’t exist. Living as someone you aren’t. It must have been like tearing off your right arm.” His helmet then turned to gaze at Keah’s shivering prosthetic. “Oh, right. Your hand. You’re still sore about that, aren’t you? ” The OverDriver raised out a hand and gripped his shoulder like an iron vice, patting it firmly. “ What happened down in the Stateboard…... It was bound to happen eventually. I needed to get your wheels rusted a little.”

Keah brushed the hand off him like it was an ant. “ Answer the damn question.”

“ Why so defensive, Demon?” The OverDriver lifted his own glass towards him as an offering. “ Can’t we just talk like old frie-”

That was another one of OverDriver’s tendencies. Being a talker. He supposed that was how he became so popular with all the media hubs. Without a word, Keah snatched the shot glass from his grasp. A single twitch and his mechanical phalanges flexed, powderizing the shot glass into glitter that drifted away onto the dancefloor. “ You’re not my friend.” Keah grunted out. “Now, answer the question.”

“ Well, after I show you a little something, we’ll be friends in no time flat.” Sliding his hand into the innards of his greasy leather jacket, he produced. He threw a sheaf of laminated documents on the bartop. Physical information was a rarity nowadays with the advent of holo projections and Labyrinth info processors. Keah examined them closer. No, not any ordinary documents.

Pictures. Pictures of Samoans. Pacific Islanders. Polynesians. Islanders that were thought to have been lost forever to the neon tide. Faces frozen in pain, loneliness, desolation. In damp cells. In labs where they were prodded on. In chop shops where young children limbs were being replaced with metal and chrome. Guinea pigs. How long? How many had been lost while he stayed ignorant, racing about like a hooligan in the Death Derby? The supposed ‘ lies ‘ that were the foundation of Ark had been vindicated. His stomach churned, knees wobbling, as the frantic rhythm of the Duat's beats didn't help the broiling headache that pounded in his head.

it's not your fault. it's not your fault. it's not your fault. you could have known. just drive the fuck away from this mess.

Keah’s nails bit into the meat of his palm, drawing blood whilst OverDriver sidled over, gauging Keah’s reaction, seemingly apathetic to the content of the pictures which he had procured. He then spoke out. Not in that calm, nonchalant voice that had been one of his most emblematic characteristics on the track, the ability to stay cool underneath pressure. No, it was strained. Like a piece of twine stretched to the point of nearly snapping. Desperate.

“ Have I got your attention now? Good. All you need to do is provide information for me on Petrukov’s campaign. On a need to know basis, of course. You’re her driver so try and make small talk with her. Find out her plans. Her secrets. Everything that you can possibly know and relay it back to me. In return, I’ll work something out with my higher ups. See if we can’t do a little pro quid quo, you know what I mean.”

The OverDriver flicked something tiny and twinkling towards him, Keah catching it in his palm. He looked at it. A platinum cred-chip with the logo of Amalgamation laser etched on the alloy. Keah looked back towards OverDriver, staring at his former rival in a new light.

“ A little million and a half should help you swallow it down. ” The OverDriver sidled over towards him “ So, what do you say- URK!”

Keah was never really a man of violence. He never really had the propensity for merc work that some of his other cousins in the Ark had. Still, there was a certain satisfaction feeling meat squish underneath your titanium fingers. The OverDriver was gasping, trying to gulp down precious oxygen, as Keah clamped his eight-fingered cybernetic aug around his throat.

“ Guess you don’t know me as well as I do.” Keah lifted the still gagging OverDriver and slammed his head against the side of the bartop. Keah heard the sound of something shattering. Good. The OverDriver groaned, his neck still pressed against the side of the table. “ So, where are my people?”

“ Where you’ll go soon if you don’t start cooperating.” The racer squirmed his head around to look up at Keah. The blue eye peering through the cracks in his helmet narrowed in a satisfied grin. “ Under my wheels.”

Just before Keah could ask what OverDriver meant, the dance floor screeched to a halt, its momentum stilling as something hammered the walls of the Duat, shifting the ceiling. Suddenly, one of the counters - where the famed UltraBartender of the Duat served - came crashing down, the wall behind it compacting and crashing down, bottles of oriental liquors and strange tinctures raining down on their guests. Keah could see a smooth ooblong chassis sailed through the air and flattened two unfortunate sods that were standing near to the Ultrabartender into gauche hood ornaments. As the dust settled, Keah could make out what exactly had invaded the sovereignty of the Land of the Dead. A Victory Ultra. Prototypical. Experimental. Only one model existed in the world and it belonged to the person whose throat he was crushing in his grip. The wheels turned and twin argon headlights focused in on Keah. 1,800 horsepower of ethyl fueled 2-ton titanium tore through the now screaming crowds and straight towards both him and OverDriver. Something was odd, though. There was no one driving the car. Keah just managed to let go of the OverDriver, diving out of the way. The wind knocked out of his lungs, Keah shakily stood up, watching as the OverDriver had now entered the driver's seat, both of his hands taking the reigns of the gull winged steering wheel.

" Like I told you once before, Drift Demon, you either have a quick death or live a quick dream if you want to live in this world." The engine suddenly roared up a notch as the OverDriver pressed down on the throttle. " Now, let's see which one you'll choose today."