[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=Enter Baolei][youtube]https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tmGpr-BMDt8[/youtube][/hider][/center]

[b][color=coral] “One of the abbot’s monks came to me days after my first public appearance. Learned about the platform, and what I thought of the Reclaim.  Made introductions, asked his questions, and left quick. That was their Way. ‘Look not for the solution, but for the center of everything’…”[/color][/b]

[color=#ffdf12][b][i]ℍ𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝕄𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕒 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕘𝕝𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖 
𝕋𝕨𝕚𝕟 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝[/i][/b][/color]
[color=green]>>> …[/color]
[i][color=#ffdf12] “Another series of Neurosynth shipments headed from the Phoenetek distribution center HQ in the Twin City Sprawl has ‘vanished’ en route to major corporate suppliers and clinics around the sprawl. Phoenetek has yet to comment on the delay, and corporate voices on the other end of the supply chain are thus far silent. Where is the Neurosynth for the people of America’s west coast?”

“Speculations have been made that the shortage is part of a much larger espionage campaign between the incorporated giants of the west, but so far we have no news on the disappearance. Stay strong South City. Hart Media signing off...”[/color][/i][hr][hr]

[h3][color=orangered]𝔹𝕒𝕠𝕝𝕖𝕚 ℂ𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕚𝕔[/color][/h3][color=008000][b]ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖, 𝕊𝕠𝕦𝕥𝕙 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝[/b]
[b]𝔸𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕝 𝟚𝕟𝕕, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝 :: 𝕆𝕟𝕖 𝕕𝕒𝕪 𝕓𝕖𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕕𝕖𝕓𝕒𝕥𝕖[/b]
[b] [𝕄𝕒𝕔𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕖𝕤 𝕋𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕊𝕡𝕒𝕣𝕜] 𝕀𝕟𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘...[/b][/color]

[color=008000]>>> 𝕃𝕠𝕒𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘...
>>> 𝕎𝕖𝕝𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕖 𝕓𝕒𝕔𝕜 𝔽𝕝𝕦𝕩 𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕞𝕒𝕟!
>>> [/color][color=#3467eb]𝔼𝕧𝕖𝕟 𝕟𝕠𝕨, 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕔𝕒𝕟 𝕤𝕖[/color][color=red]𝕖 𝕙𝕚𝕤 𝕖𝕪𝕖𝕤 𝕚𝕟 𝕥𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕞𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕟𝕥…[/color]
[color=008000]>>> [/color][color=#3467eb]𝕋𝕙𝕖𝕣𝕖, 𝕒𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕤𝕖𝕣𝕧𝕖𝕣'𝕤 𝕗𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕕 𝕒𝕝𝕚𝕧𝕖—𝕓𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕚𝕫𝕖𝕕 𝕚𝕟 𝕗𝕚𝕣𝕖…[/color]
[color=008000]>>> [/color][color=red]𝔸𝕟 𝕒𝕧𝕒𝕥𝕒𝕣 𝕠𝕗 𝕠𝕟𝕖 ℍ𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕤' 𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕕𝕖𝕤…[/color]
[color=008000]>>> [/color][color=#3467eb]𝔹𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕜 𝕤𝕞𝕠𝕜𝕖 𝕔𝕠𝕟𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕓𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕖𝕕𝕘𝕖 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕒𝕟𝕘𝕦𝕝𝕒𝕣 𝕃𝕒𝕓𝕪𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕙...[/color]
[color=008000]>>> [/color][color=red]𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕒 𝕡𝕒𝕚𝕣 𝕒 𝕘𝕙𝕠𝕦𝕝𝕚𝕤𝕙 𝕖𝕪𝕖𝕤 𝕤𝕥𝕒𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕓𝕒𝕔𝕜...[/color]

[color=008000]>>> 𝔹𝕦𝕥 𝕚𝕥 𝕨𝕒𝕤 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕞𝕒𝕟 𝕨𝕙𝕠 𝕨𝕒𝕤 𝕕𝕚𝕤𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕔𝕥𝕖𝕕...[/color]
[color=008000]>>> ...[/color]
[color=008000]>>> ...[/color]

[color=#035096][i]This time too.
She could have sworn that just beyond her gaze another of those Matrix hitman creatures reached and reached and reached its claw her way.[/i]
[center]But she turned her tragic glasses on no such strike…[/center][/color]

[b]“Miss? Your friend is in a dire condition. He may need treatment now.”[/b]

Delilah looked towards the monk in [color=red][i]𝕣𝕖𝕕[/i][/color] and Shade in [color=#3467eb][i]𝕓𝕝𝕦𝕖[/i][/color] luminescence. The intermittent flashes back to the forced server crash at the Knights’ Labyrinth node wouldn’t go away, and with their persistence remained a persistent headache; but it didn’t quite stay contained in her head. Both brain hemispheres, flashed back and forth in red and blue dimensions. [color=#035096][i]Or could it really be that simple?[/i][/color] She felt her body and the Earth and the air sway in haphazard patterns. 

[color=#035096][b] “The Shade can handle himself. The man I knew would take care of unfinished business before tending to his wounds.”[/b][/color]

The monk’s hand twitched but Delilah missed it. In just a fraction of a second he let his fingers curl and uncurl, never quite reaching a fully-formed fist. He opened his mouth to speak, but he didn’t have to. Someone across the mats spoke for him, but the abbot hardly used any words.

[color=orangered][b] “Novice,”[/b][/color] called the abbot before raising a serene open palm. His subordinate needed no words to relinquish his task to Dao. The young monk was directed towards the door, as though his master knew what perils lied beyond. Delilah turned, and she could have sworn she prompted a fist to swing Shade’s way. No response. Just stillness, then—

[i][color=008000]>>>ℙ𝕠𝕨𝕖𝕣 𝔻𝕠𝕨𝕟…[/color][/i]

The issue with artificial clarity is that it emerges from an abnatural connection to the mind. Proctor could feel it through every aching bone and bit of metal, but the flesh cried only for relief from that very same torment. A figure approached almost silhouetted, though radiant glare reflected from the temple’s lanterns unto her own silver limbs as they reached out through the crowd—through the fog—towards the cyborg. She looked into Proctor’s eyes but she wasn’t paying attention to him. It didn’t seem like it at least. The monk focused only on the machine within. 

Proctor had his own mat amongst the sea of man-mixing-with-machine, but other lost souls and broken borgs were no more than an outstretched arm’s reach away. The whole front room of the clinic had been transformed for inpatient care. Even in the bustle, he didn’t have to wait long in the fog. The monk that had guided him in was quick in working her way between the busted bodies and bolts. 

[b][color=darkorange] “You’ve seen combat, haven’t you?”[/color][/b] She didn’t quite expect an answer. That, or she wasn’t too keen to hear one, as she yanked on Proctor’s leg. As soon as she had the limb flat, an industrial drill nearly pinned him to the floor. [b][color=darkorange] “Or something else took your mind. You’re a vagabond maybe?”[/color][/b] 

The drill whirred again and phantom jolts of pain climbed up any remaining nerve endings that escaped their replacement with plates and gears. She had to almost shout over its mechanical cries. The outer armor of Proctor’s prosthesis was off in seconds, and the monk leered that empty gaze at its inner workings, as though she were doing more listening to the cybernetics than looking. Her hands were gentle against the unfeeling metal, at least for a moment. Proctor felt the whirr of the drill again, then a heavy yank accompanied a small firework show contained within parts of the vagabond that he’d likely never planned on seeing.

[b][color=darkorange] “Not always, though. You did something much bigger than wandering, probably for someone built more of gold than steel. We don’t see too much Strider class Furytech stuff in the Reclaim. It’s a bit out of fashion, but still pricey for any older aug operations.”[/color][/b] 

Her silver hand flexed like it had a mind of its own, ripped a piston away still steaming within its grasp. The monk tossed the defunct apparatus behind her before going for one of her own machinations amongst the tools spread out on her mat. She went back to tinkering away, and the installation of a fresh gas piston brought with it the relief of a tightness that seemed to linger with Proctor for years—the cause of which may or may not have even been remembered. Just like that, lifted away.

[b][color=darkorange] “So what is it, mister? Who are you?”[/color][/b]

[i][color=008000]>>>𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕞𝕒𝕟, ℝ𝕖𝕒𝕟𝕚𝕞𝕒𝕥𝕖...
>>>𝔻𝕒𝕟𝕘𝕖𝕣 𝕚𝕤 𝕛𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕡𝕒𝕔𝕖𝕤 𝕒𝕨𝕒𝕪...
>>>𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕚𝕥 𝕔𝕒𝕝𝕝𝕤 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕥𝕠 𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 𝕚𝕥...[/color][/i]

[right][color=#035096][i]Again. Another time, the Shaman found herself at the center—lost in an omnipresent mess of wires and signals.
She could sense it. This time she wasn’t the only major player.[/i][/color][/right]

[i][color=008000]>>>𝔸𝕨𝕒𝕜𝕖𝕟...[/color][/i]

The monks were blank but eager faces, statues in a Matrix, surrounding their two brothers at the room’s dead center. One red and one blue, opposed not only in their respective tints but also in combat. The duel between them almost appeared more a graceful—but unrelenting—kata than a fight. Heavy cybernetics grinded against one another and smashed bolts loose with clouds of sparks. Those watching gave quiet commentary at key moments. Yet, after every bout, the monks recovered, drew back, acknowledged one another, and began another respectful round. The whole display felt hypnotic, like Delilah was back in the Labyrinth. She tried to shift back, but didn’t manage, and wondered  if some foreign substance had muddled her blood once again.

[color=orange][b] “You’re mesmerized.”[/b][/color]

The chaser of the matrix snapped back into bodily sensation. Like a rubber band, Delilah could feel her brain awaiting the [color=red]ℙℍ𝔸𝕊𝔼[/color] [color=#3467eb]𝕊ℍ𝕀𝔽𝕋[/color].

[color=#035096][b] “I—”[/b][/color] she cut herself off, thoughts swarming like eidolons from just beyond sight. Back to the [color=red]𝕃𝕒𝕓𝕪𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕙[/color]. Then, back to [color=#3467eb]reality[/color].[color=#035096][b] “This is what the monks are doing behind the scenes? It’s just fighting. Like in Koena Dome.”[/b][/color] Delilah grimaced. There was a cutting edge to her tone.

[color=orange][b] “Look closer,”[/b][/color] the Monk offered, redirecting Delilah before she too closely inspected his silhouette in the dim dojo.[color=orange][b] “Where upon their faces do you see the festering anger that brought you here today, netrunner?”[/b][/color]

[color=orange][b] “Are they not calm and aware? This is the Way of the Machine.”[/b][/color]

[color=#035096][b] “If they’re not careful, I’ll step in and show them what it really means to be hit by a machine.”[/b][/color]

[color=orange][b] “Is that how you’ve confronted your problems? Perhaps not uncommon for the Reclaim’s netrunning sort, but does it work is the real question. What really causes your anger? Did you really come to the dojo in search of your credits?”[/b][/color]

[color=#035096][b] “What?”[/b][/color] Delilah wrinkled her brow. The interest, intent and focused upon her, threw Delilah off. [i]How long had it been since she’d had the ear of someone who dared to question her method while still listening in?[/i][color=#035096][b] “I need to find someone who’s tagging the Labyrinth. An artist… There’s information everywhere, and something dangerous is entangled in it all.”[/b][/color] 

[color=orange][b] “Consider, my friend, that the Way of the Machine may offer you what you seek if you render yourself unto its Way, as you’re afflicted just like the others—by your own machines. That is why each face you see is here. That is why your friend is here—”[/b][/color]

[color=red][i]Shade?[/i][/color]

It looked like him—at least, his depiction. An image? Just across the tatami mats. Just beyond the battling men and machines. It couldn’t have been. She, the Shaman, was well acquainted with the nature of figments. Delilah could have sworn the monk’s hand reached for her. She didn’t feel it physically. It was just another ectoplasmic claw crawling forth from the beyond, but nonetheless, she let her body fervently twist to escape its grasp from the shadows just beyond her vision. She stumbled forward across the dojo. 

[i][color=008000]>>>ℙ𝕠𝕨𝕖𝕣 𝔻𝕠𝕨𝕟…[/color][/i]

The robed figure greeting those at the door of the clinic waved S’venia inside the moment she offered praise unto the operation. Before turning back to the journalist, he wrapped his hand around the shoulder of a colleague. With one whisper, the young monk was sent scurrying across the clinic’s floor to secure another.

[b] “Of course,”[/b] he said.[b] “All are welcome to gaze upon the operation, take part in our practice, and lend aid to the destitute of the Reclaim Zone. Allow me to introduce you to someone who may be able to better direct your inquiries, miss…”[/b] He trailed off in search of a name.

[color=008000][i]>>> …[/i][/color]

[b] “Dharma,”[/b] the young boy tugged at her sleeve, ignorant to her interest in Proctor. A quick exchange left her eyeing the journalist just across the room. The monk that provided her with the message soon settled next to her toolkit, inspecting it and beginning to tidy those tools that weren’t already rolled back up in the mat.

[color=darkorange][b] “It seems I’m needed elsewhere,”[/b][/color] Dharma tapped the fixed plate of steel over Proctor’s prosthesis.[color=darkorange][b] “You can rest here. Stay for more treatment if you’d like… Of course, no one’s stopping you from leaving if you’ve got other business to take care of.”[/b][/color] She laughed.

[color=008000][i]>>> …[/i][/color]

[color=darkorange][b] “Press…”[/b][/color] She didn’t approach the doorway or the reporter directly. Tracing her silent step across the clinic would create more of an arc lacking any sharp angle. She didn’t check S’venia’s press chip. The young monk hadn’t either. [color=darkorange][b] “Welcome to Baolei Clinic, Reclaim outpost of the Mekanedo Monastic Order.”[/b][/color]

Almost as soon as Dharma had reached S’venia, her steps reversed and she began to reenter the doorway without looking away from her new subject of interest.[color=darkorange][b] “You’re welcome to examine our operation yourself, and while the other monks may be busy taking care of those in need, I believe I could answer any questions you might have.”[/b][/color]

[color=008000][i]>>> …[/i][/color]
[color=008000][i]>>> …[/i][/color]
[color=008000][i]>>> …[/i][/color]

The [color=#035096][i][s]Machine[/s][/i][/color] clinic’s operation was a thousand moving pieces. The once disturbed bearers of the discrete litter carried their heavy cache into another back room, off into a further passage, and Dao soon disappeared after them. While the floor was covered in writhing patrons who still battled off the agony[color=#035096][i][s] of  a Machine?[/s][/i][/color], others conversed with as much heart as they could offer, bolstered by the brews of their monk caretakers. Each monk conferred and greeted the others in passing, present for small moments before bustling tasks called to them. Even beyond the temple, the Reclaim streets buzzed with inhabitants—drones, worker bees, [i]wasps[/i]... 

The Enforcers scarcely appeared outside their carapaces—that telltale black body armor, full helmets with eyes alight in the night. That was how they alerted the world to their presence, and how it worked. So often, the denizens of the Reclaim could feel them coming from blocks away. Streets could clear when the armed brigades marched, but never quick enough. The Reclaim’s people were never quite able to recognize the earliest signs. Simplistic kevlar weaves poking out beneath white collars; belts on a little bit too straight, a little bit too tight; no obvious weapon bulging from the lining of a jacket, but instead improvised electronics embedded in sleeve linings or holstered on the ankle.

There were two or three such bugs working their way throughout the crowd. Eyes gleaned as much as they could from glances at the temple, but their gazes never lingered too long. Entering incognito gave not a perfect camouflage, but instead a lack of clear motive. They were vagabonds, like the rest of the crowd, but even the most derelict denizens of the Reclaim reflexively gave them an arm’s length of distance. The hidden wasps merely watched, but the Reclaim watched back. The Machine watched back.