Life was funny. Perhaps nowadays, the notion of an interventionist god plucking the strings of fate echoed hollow across a synthetic landscape which had cunningly replaced religion with corporations, a culture which swapped sermons for VR headsets. 

But life was funny. Hell of a sense of humor.

The universe, the algorithms, Murphy's law, whatever you wished to call it, it had a way of keeping even the most competent schemer on their toes. This was one of those moments. A rude awakening where one was left with little to do besides tip their hat to whatever forces, whether cosmic or (more likely) terrestrial, had orchestrated such a colossal shitstorm as had been kicked up across the Trinity Districts of Ghajotia, Troia & Delcos.

Casio’s lips were creased into a hard frown. Video streaming crisply across his vision, crimson stained hands buried in the chest of his final ‘project’ for the day. A cluster of images rolled slowly, dominating his ocular perception. They followed the fiery arch of the falling craft, from different angles, while The Florist’s practiced digits rewired the inner workings of the woman’s body, sightless.

Several angles, hacked feeds he’d received from The Mouth, clearly revealed the vessel lurch like a broken bird from the sky above Arcadia. A metal carcass drifting, hobbled, long before the aug-rattling thud of the Rail-Rounds ripped across the atmosphere. Organic lids narrowed across the glowing inner-workings of Flores’ optics. This stank of corporate interference.

Selecting a high-res playback from a civic building rooftop, he watched again as the craft shuddered suddenly, the engines sputtering weakly as it tilted aggressively off-route. There were plenty of corporations both willing and able to achieve like this. The list wasn’t extensive, but it was only just countable on both hands and toes. But the crash site? Far too much of a coincidence. 

Word was spreading. The first hornet’s nest was to be kicked.

Casio closed off the feeds, clicking the final piece into place within the woman’s rib cage. Bios were always the worst. Their virgin flesh was so cluttered, none of their veins or organs had been tidied up, they leaked everywhere without diligent cauterization. 

Still, it was a labor of love. And love was messy.

Flores had learned rather quickly that Neanderthals hadn’t earned their nicknames lightly. They took themselves, VERY seriously. It stood to reason the overly aggro oafs were already expecting retaliation for the little stunt they pulled with the delivery girl, Calypso; and their constant inspection of their members would guarantee the new upgrade in this woman’s chest would be detected by the scanners at the first checkpoint of any worth. 

The skin of her torso hissed as the NuBio™ FRSHSknSpray© did its work, seamlessly sealing his work inside.

Those ‘pure’ weren’t known for their delicate nature. They’d drag her somewhere secure, away from prying eyes and she’d be torn to shreds in their search for her callous discretion. Even if they were careful, it didn’t much matter. They’d figure out she was telling the truth, that she hadn’t voluntarily gotten any work done. 

Epiphany in the form of an explosion. 

That nasty little device in her chest, it would detonate, taking a sizable chunk of Neanderthal territory with it. By Casio’s estimation, this was likely to result in another subsequent ‘retaliation’ in the direction of whatever faction the Pure were already looking for a halfway decent excuse to attack.

Little Projects had a way of coalescing into tangible results. Sometimes you just had to give that first domino a little push.

“That’s assuming she can make it back to whatever gleaming Purist rathole she crawled out of.” He reminded himself aloud, face a mask of impassiveness as he washed the copper stench from his hands.

The lockdown changed things. His street was lucky enough to be untarnished by the hail of debris which peppered his district of Delcos, but he would still be suffering the consequences of the increased Peacekeeper presence. Casio brought up a holo-display of the the damage, and the estimated locations of the lockdown checkpoints. Endless chatter clogged the scanners, and the sky was already thick with corporate flies, buzzing over the remains. There was little time to waste.

[center][b]- Miranda -[/b]

[b]Alive? Work to be done. Shut down the sale, we don’t know who is watching. Noose is attempting to close on the Black Queen, she’s likely already gone underground. Those warehouses connect to the old tram systems. Too many corps are mobilizing for direct action. We need to restructure the board.[/b][/center]