[center][b][h1][color=#44F03E]𝔽[/color][color=#42E93C]𝕦[/color][color=#40E33A]𝕥[/color][color=#3EDD39]𝕚[/color][color=#3DD737]𝕝[/color][color=#3BD136]𝕚[/color][color=#39CB34]𝕥[/color][color=#38C532]𝕪[/color][color=#36BF31]:[/color] [color=#32B32E]𝕋[/color][color=#31AD2C]𝕙[/color][color=#2FA62A]𝕖[/color] [color=#2C9A27]𝔾[/color][color=#2A9426]𝕣[/color][color=#288E24]𝕖[/color][color=#268823]𝕒[/color][color=#258221]t[/color] [color=#21761E]𝔾[/color][color=#20701C]𝕒[/color][color=#1E6A1B]𝕞[/color][color=#1C6419]𝕖[/color][/h1][/b][/center] [center][hider=Unseen Forces Intermingle. Who Might Be Watching? Let It Begin.][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N1HxZ7S8-Rs[/youtube][/hider][/center] [color=Mediumvioletred][b]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, [i]Futility[/i]; pick your poison.[/b] [b]And who are we to challenge it all?[/b][/color] [color=008000]>>> >>> >>>...[/color] [color=Mediumvioletred][b]And who are they to change anything?[/b][/color] [color=008000]>>> >>> >>>...[/color] [color=Mediumvioletred][b]But who are you to even notice?[/b][/color][hr][hr] [h3][color=gray]𝕊𝕨𝕒𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕥𝕣𝕖𝕖𝕥 ℂ𝕠𝕞𝕞𝕠𝕟𝕤[/color][/h3][color=008000][b]ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖, 𝕊𝕠𝕦𝕥𝕙 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝[/b] [b]𝔸𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕝 𝟙𝕤𝕥, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝 𝟙𝟠:𝟘𝟘[/b] [b] [ℂ𝕠𝕞𝕖, 𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕕𝕠𝕨 ℂ𝕒𝕣𝕒𝕧𝕒𝕟] 𝕃𝕠𝕒𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘...[/b][/color] 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. [color=008000]>>>[i]Poison of the Twin Cities.[/i] >>>[i]A caravan of shadows,[/i] >>>[i]Ghosts of what the Reclaim is:[/i] >>>[i]Already a city of ghosts?[/i] >>>[i]Left asking, ‘who called for this all?’[/i] >>>[i] ‘Who brings forth a caravan of shadow demons into their midst?’[/i][/color] [color=008000]>>>... >>>... [b][i][color=mediumaquamarine]Emerging from a slick black sports car in a pristine suit::[/color][/i][/b] >>>...[/color] [b][i][color=mediumaquamarine]Puppet and Puppeteer, Carefully Tracing the Strings[/color][/i][/b] 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. [i]Bad memory flashes come back[/i]. He didn’t stay outside for long. [color=008000]>>>... >>>... [b][i][color=orangered]They moved in a group—a silent march walking in disciplined, solemn, knowing formation::[/color][/i][/b] >>>...[/color] [b][i][color=orangered]Balance, Harmony, Equalizer Kingpin[/color][/i][/b] 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. [color=008000]>>>... >>>... [b][i][color=lightgreen]His procession was subtle, but opulent; limousine, solar top::[/color][/i][/b] >>>...[/color] [b][i][color=lightgreen]Guru of Knowledge Not Quite Knowable, Followed by His Flock[/color][/i][/b] 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 [i]tension[/i] that couldn’t be shaken from Central Square until he stepped from view. [color=008000]>>>...[/color] >>>... [b][i][color=black]She was sure to make a spectacle, helicopter escort lowering precariously too close to the densely packed city street::[/color][/i][/b] >>>... [b][i][color=black]Primed to be the Privateer of a New Age, New Wave[/color][/i][/b] 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. [color=008000]>>>... >>>... [b][i][color=lightslategray]His team arrived before him, though he wasn’t late. The sports car piloted itself with pinpoint precision to destination::[/color][/i][/b] >>>...[/color] [b][i][color=lightslategray]Wayward Walking Amongst the Titans[/color][/i][/b] 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. [i]He’s a craftsman[/i], 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.[hr][hr] [b][color=mediumaquamarine] “Welcome to the Reclaim Zone.”[/color][/b] 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. [b][color=mediumaquamarine] “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.”[/color][/b] Gatch chuckled a bit then shrugged. [b][color=mediumaquamarine] “There’s plenty of vacancies to take care of that.”[/color][/b] [b][color=black] “The crowd seems excited.”[/color][/b] Petrukov had already managed to find the source of free refreshments, sipping from a freshly liberated mug. [b][color=mediumaquamarine] “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.”[/color][/b] [b][color=lightslategray] “Will the Reclaim’s masses be enough this time, Gatch?”[/color][/b] Samsara remarked as he thrusted open the door. He arrived just a few seconds [s]fashionably?[/s] late.[b][color=lightslategray] “All those hard working Reclaim citizens tucked into the cities crevasses…”[/color][/b] He gestured into the ether. [b][color=lightslategray] “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?”[/color][/b] [b][color=lightgreen] “APEX seems to be having some struggles of its own right now, don’t they?”[/color][/b] [b][color=black] “Do you think [i]you’re[/i] zaibatsu will be enough to save you from public opinion, Samsara?”[/color][/b] 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. [b][color=lightslategray] “I’d say I’ve got a strong steel alloy backbone of support. What about you, Miss Petrukov?”[/color][/b] He gestured into the air, an array of multicolored graphics projecting from his technispecs in response. [b][color=lightslategray] “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.”[/color][/b] Petrukov shrugged.[b][color=black] “Maybe there’s more to the power of the populace than any ‘APEX’ or ‘Amalgamation’.”[/color][/b] [b][color=lightgreen] “She could be more right than you think, Gatch. I implore you take care with APEX in such a—”[/color][/b] He skipped a beat. Dramatic pause—it was a basic stage play. [b][color=lightgreen] “There are whispers that the protests outside your corp’s new ‘killzone production facilities’ could take a turn for the worse at any moment.”[/color][/b] Faren slid across the floor to meet Gatch far too close for the mayor’s comfort. [b][color=lightgreen] “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.”[/color][/b] [b][color=black] “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?”[/color][/b] 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. [b] “The Baolei Refuge Center was severely under-supported from its advent. We worry that without continuous support for the afflicted…”[/b] The monk trailed off. His weary eyes traced the nearby candidates. Sometimes even derelict brick walls were too thin. He held his tongue. [b] “And the disappearances…”[/b] [b][color=orangered] “We have full intentions of restoring the clinic. Baolei shall not suffer.”[/color][/b] The monks were relieved even at his simple promise, worth as much as air if no follow through was planned. [b][color=orangered] “The people of the Reclaim Zone required funding from an outside source. Alliance may be key to their propagation...”[/color][/b] [b] “Yes, Dao.”[/b] A series of bows followed.[hr][hr] [b][color=mediumvioletred]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 [i]thrum[/i] 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.[/color][/b]