Deadline

Cas' Jukebox.

///

1x1. MxF. Action. Cyberpunk. Dark Victorian. Taboo. Historical-Fantasy.

Yeah, so I'm looking for a partner.

/// Currently Seeking ///

Life for Rent: ✰✰✰

A young woman who lives in an android body (or a body made up of mostly rented parts) is forced to act as an unwilling spy in order to keep herself online. Cyberpunk. Sci-Fi. Grit. Mafia.



Expectations:

- Write back twice a week. I will too — guaranteed.
- Have questions? Ask them. Have doubts? Tell me.
- No ghosting. I don't ghost unless I'm severely depressed and even then I'll tell you why I can't continue.
- No romantic hubabaloo OOC. Chill, talk, share music, great.
- I write the male / white energy, you write the feminine / black energy. This can be fem/trans/tomboy/female-identifying. MxF.

Guarantees:

- I write hard, fast and play for keeps. You'll always get 2-3 paragraphs of reflective premium content. I will respond to your little hard-earned notes. I will lift up your character and make her stand out on the page by proxy.
- I write mainly cyberpunk, grit, dark fantasy, taboo, or somewhat unrealistic slice-of-life scenarios. If you like tried-and-tested, gritty stories with real thematical elements, I'm your guy.
- My men're unpolished. They're rough, rude, gritty, mean, sweet, candid, relatable and sometimes--even complex. Do not expect lovey-dovey dudes who always say the right thing; but do expect them to surprise you at every available opportunity.
- I tend to be very laid back in the inbox. If my replies seem lacking something, it's probably just because they're free of expectation. Don't take my relaxed nature as lack of enthusiasm. If you shoot me one idea, I'll come back with three. I'm a mirror. You give a little, I give a lot.

Hard No's:

- No Enemies to Lovers.
- No under 18 or anything suss.

Pairings:

Gangster x the woman who's supposed to be spying on him for the mafia.
Monster x captured victim-turned-unexpected-lover.
Rogue x sweet, sheltered guild leader whom he corrupts.
Tutor x student who loves to be punished and actively seeks it out.
Boss x secretary who he pays extra to act as his maid, but only to tease her/build up her sex drive. He allows her to relieve it now and then--but only on his terms.

You get the picture, all my pairings are unconventional. If ("but...") belongs between our characters, count me in.

My space.

I open that door to the ghost of memories. Stepping inside the house, I'm immediately under the suspicion I'm not alone. I can't tell what it is, but there's an aura. A deep underlying dread. The floorboards are rotten and coated in a thin film of what can only be chalk. A man's hand has etched it so deeply into the rough wood beneath the turned-up carpet that I can still see his bootprints and the shins of his knees matted in the old, curling fabric. And beside the window, which is splintered with shards of broken glass--and most of them rusty with a red perfume that looks almost like blood in this wicked, greying light stands a microscope. The kind you view the stars with. Only this one is hanging limp, like a broken bone before the moon; and the moonlight is the only colour in the room except for the red on that glass. I'm almost certain someone died here; if not in life, then perhaps in spirit.

"Why the fuck is this so familar...?" Is all I can manage. I look around the broken room and take in the shelves and old cabinets and the mottled sofa-couch which has been shoved so far up against the wall that the pillows are gone and the underboard shows. I look at the pictures on the wall, but the faces are all blotted out. I look at the kitchen door which is nailed shut; and then I look at the exterior hallway, which is as about as inviting as an empty picture frame, asking me to walk down it and become a lost memory. I don't move from the front door. I don't even want to step foot in this room.

"Fuck this," I utter, with no inclination to go any further. Then I reach back to open the door I came in through, only to hear a muffled, child-like giggle from outside.

"You little pricks?!" I shout to the glass as a shadow runs across the window, making me leap out of my skin.

The laughter curtails off into the garden, and I realise the door is locked. I try it three times, each time more violent than the next, but it doesn't budge. I go over to the broken window, narrowly skimming the cemetary of some man's life, and take a glance out through the broken pane. I see a black something curb around the corner, roughly the size of a kid.

"This isn't funny!" I yell after them, then hear how afraid I sound. My voice is shrill and tight, and no wonder. Things creak in this room. Things move. I keep glancing over my shoulder, looking for the source of the sound. Like there's a cat in the room. Like someone's watching me. Like there's shivers under my skin, slowly growing, an insane paranoia gnawing at my fucking mind;

"I swear I didn't see her, I just took the outside lane... and she was there. I had my wipers on, I swear. But the rain, and that stretch of road. None of its lit-up. I just... I didn't see her," I beg. I then slump to my knees, briefly paralyzed by fear, and then realise--the floor is thick with newspaper clippings.

DRUNK DRIVER RUNS DOWN WOMAN - TURNS OUT TO BE MIDLANDS COP. INEBRIATED POLICE OFFICER STRIKES CELEBRATED SCIENTIST, COUNTY MOURNS. ASTROLOGER PERFORMS WAKE FOR HIS LOVING WIFE - RETIRES FROM UNN UNIVERSITY ON GROUNDS OF GRIEF.

I fling myself back against the wall, then let out a sharp rasp as I feel one of the glass shards on the floor stab me in the back. I howl in agony, then thrust myself around to look at the moon.

"I didn't mean it! I'm sorry!"

There is a howl from the wind. It rips through the room and takes me beneath my clothes; and for a moment, I see her. Out in the garden. A skeletal, jaded, rippling face; black-eyed, haughty, her mouth hanging low, the gap where her teeth should be frighteningly wide. A woman. The woman I killed; my eyes fill with tears; my throat turns to lead; I see only my own Death. Then I find myself tumbling away as she walks across the garden towards me, pointing with a crooked finger. All her arms are bent and broken. Twisted beyond belief. I turn from her as she begins to pick up speed, then hurl myself down the corridor....

Nil.

Bonk.

My space.

It's an old tired thing. Maybe it once had a lot of life but now it just looks possessed. The window drapes are all curling out of the broken windows like long skeletal fingers. The soup of mist that clings to the garden is so thick I can't even dream about walking through it without wondering what I might step on. Hypodermic needles, rusty camping equipment, maybe some combination of crushed glass. If I fall on that grass I'll tear my hands wide open. I get my gloves out the dash and put them on, the leather caressing my palms like an old friend, and for a moment I feel better about the whole thing. But then looking back at that hell I don't. So I put the brandy bottle to my lips and realise: I'm so shook-up I forgot to remove the cap.

"Fuck," I utter, unscrewing the cap, getting angry, and tossing it into the garden. I hear it bounce against something; and then I see the kids bikes.

There's three of them all mangled-up in the driveway, and all three of them are wrapped around the undercarriage of a used-up silver Peugeot 206. For some reason, the car looks familiar, but I'm too far gone to figure out why. The car is parked on a slant, still rolling in neutral. The brake lights are on and the front dash is all lit up in yellow, and when I stagger towards it, it gives a last, dying breath and stalls. I take a wary walk towards the driver's side door. I see the skid marks leading up to the garage. For a moment, I expect to see a couple of bodies, maybe some blood, but there's nothing. I'm stunned to see there's no one inside but that the doors are wide open; and the whole thing has a nasty, stale air of something gone wrong happened very recently. I reach for my gun, then realise I left it in the car.

"Fuck me," I say, then hurry back to the police cruiser. I reach in, turn on the headlights, see one of them is wrapped around the garden fence, then slam my fist into the dashboard. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," I curse as I reach for the radio and practically rip it out of the socket.

"Car 1-Adam-2 to dispatch, over. Car 1-Adam-2 to dispatch, over." The window drapes of the house flutter here and there, and I think I see a stroke of mist walking across the garden in the shape of a woman. A cold shiver runs down my spine and I briefly glance at the moon. It's so full and eerie I feel a little unnerved. I take another look at the bikes wrapped around the front end of the beaten-up 206 and speak again.

"Car 1-Adam-2 to dispatch, over. I'm at the cabin at Stillwater Basin, I need a unit out here immediately. Possible 10-54. I'm going in to inspect the house. Do you read me, over?"

I'm looking at the house again when I feel my hand drop to my side and realise there's no resistance from the black box. I look down and see the headset is hanging disconnected from the socket. The wire must've got caught when I ripped it out of the holder. Now it is hanging around the cigarette lighter, disconnected. I try to plug it back in, then realise the wire is too badly damaged to be of any use to anyone.

"2-Adam-3, what is your status, over?" The radio operator says to another patrol car, and I slam my fist into the black box and realise: I'm alone out here.

I look back at the house and the car, hearing the sirens go off in my head. A sort of dull whining sound that I heard not too long ago while staggering drunk and alone along a terrible winding road not too far from here.

They found me one and a hours after incident, too far gone to remember my own name, too uncooperative to explain how I was a police officer. It was only when they recovered the body from over the side of the cliff and found my gun and badge in the offending vehicle that the cover-up started. I was lucky. They'd put me in the drunk tank to cool off and didn't have an officer question me until I'd sobered up. At that point the husband had come to identify the body and I'd had to look him in the eye on the way back through the station. I remember my eyes being puffy from crying. I never told him I was sorry. To do would've been an admission of guilt, and cops don't cop an easy plea. I still remember the look on his face, though. I'd never seen a man so desolate with grief. He looked a nice sort of guy too. The kind of guy you'd have nightmares about if you just so happened to kill their wife whilst driving 80 mph in a 45 zone.

I look back at the bikes. I'm in the police cruiser again, leaning out the side door. I feel my stomach roil, then let out another round of vomit and wash away the taste with brandy. I feel so weak and tempermental that I can barely stomach the strength to look at the cabin. The last thing I need is to go into that house and find three more bodies. I doubt I could take it. I'd probably crack, like one of those cops you hear about on the evening news. A guy who gave up on his wife, his family. A schizophrenic loser.

I look back at the driveway. In this sort of situation, you'd usually find the perp moping about and regretting their lives, too in shock to leave the car. The fact there's no one in the vehicle and no sign of the kids doesn't speak well of the situation. You don't just crush half a dozen bikes then leave your car in neutral with the doors wide open if you don't intend on running; or at the very least, hiding something.

I'm not certain what I'll find inside the cabin, but I'm half-tempted to start-up the cruiser and drive away. It's only when I see the guilty eye of the moon staring down at me that I feel the weight of responsibility hanging over my head.

If one of those kids is in pain, won't it be just the same thing all over again? I tepidly reach for my gun, straying it into my hand, then weigh the baseplate against my head, knocking it there a few times before easing myself up to make the walk through the garden....

My space.

MIDNIGHT HIT

The night air pricks at my skin like a hundred thousand needles, especially around my stomach. I spit up vomit and a little bile by the back wheel of the police cruiser. The vicious smell of half-digested alcohol fills my nose and I feel my stomach lurch a second time, but nothing comes out. I haven't eaten a decent meal in over a year. Above, the full moon speaks heresy and shines down on me like a judgmental eye, mocking my condition. It's a cold night. A wretched night. Just like the one from my memories. All cloud and a low-hanging mist. I'm about to ready to pick myself up off the forest floor when the radio goes off inside the cruiser, calling out an APB:

"1-Adam-2, what is your 10-20? Over. 1-Adam-2, what is your 10-20? Over. Come on 1-Adam-2, please respond. Over."

I take a few steps and the world refuses to right itself and I almost lose my balance. I slam my hand against the open window, then reach into the car and pick up the radio.

"1-Adam 2, 10-4. Go ahead," I mutter, still wiping the scum off my lips.

"We've been trying to reach you for the last half hour, 1-Adam-2, what is your status?"

"I got held up by some punks off Route 23," I lie. I sit back against the car and spit somewhere into the woods. "Reckless endangerment. Motorcycle gang. ... It was raining, but I swear the wipers were on. I don't know how I didn't see her."

"1-Adam-2, can you repeat?" The dusty voice of the radio crackled. "I didn't get that last part."

"10-22. Go ahead."

"Roger that. We have reports of some local kids causing havoc at an abandoned cabin near Stillwater Basin. Can you go and make sure they're not causing any problems? We have a very concerned citizen on the phone. ... 1-Adam-2? There have been multiple calls. We need you up there right away."

"10-4."

"1-Adam-2?"

"What?"

"You might want to take it easy, Sam. I can hear the slur in your voice."

"Tsk... 10-4. Over and out."

I pull open the door and get in. The car smells of must and the shotgun is on the back seat when it should be locked up in the trunk. There's still saliva around the gun barrel. I stare out at the woods; the thin black trees; the warring moon; and then I reach for the gun but find the stick instead.

"What the hell," I utter, "one last job before I end it..."

I put the car in reverse and roll it out of the dirt and the wheels squeal as they pull the rest of the car out of the ditch. I guess that's a sign I should probably go ahead and make my way to that cabin. I put the car on the straight and narrow and try not to throw up as the last of the liquor turns over in my stomach.

It's only when I hit the corner and join the main road that I realise I've been driving without my lights on. I flick the switch and try and concentrate on the road.

"1-Adam-2, what is your status? Over."

"I don't... fucking remember if it was raining or not. I guess the tarmac was wet, especially closer to the bend," I say, half in a dream and looking out of the window at the moon. I then reach for the radio and almost drop it down the side door. I scramble for it, my hand wavering on the edge of the wheel. "This is 1-Adam-2 enroute, over." I then fumble it back into the slot and see a street sign coming at me head-on. It reads in blood red letters: "CAUTION: SLOW DOWN."

I straighten up the car deftly. The car skids, but I don't take my foot off the gas pedal as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. As I put the street sign in my rear view mirror, my mind wanders to the bottle of brandy in the glove compartment. I toy with with the idea of another drink, but leave it alone for now. I need to be sharp for what's coming. You can never tell with Missouri kids. They could be toting one of their father's guns.

I turn the car off the road and the scenery changes. From a narrow hiking road to a narrow hiking trail. The trees grow in size, like wolves howling at the moon. I see a little mist clinging to the road and pass through it like velvet. It wraps around the front-end of the car and dissipitates, but not enough that I can make out all the potholes and tire-blowers that mark this streth. I turn on the patrol lights then flick them back off again, indecisive because it barely makes a difference. I hit a few potholes and then before I know it but frankly not soon enough I hear a solid thump and realise I've hit a square fence that borders what can only be the cabin. I stop the car and the breaks let out a brief, tired scream before the engine stalls, and then I hear the carburator rock as the manifest tells me how fucking stupid I am and that I should've given up police work five years ago back when they first tried to take my license.

The door opens and I practically fall out, clinging to the door. Then I take my first good, hard look at the cabin.

My space.

ABOUT FIVE HOURS AGO.

open.spotify.com/track/6F7ZTPn4t0C9zG…

The rain spits off the rooftops, drizzling my jacket in a rainbow of fluorescence. I think its from the oil in the water. I'm in the Lower Districts. The water's up to my thighs, not that it matters. I have so many implants in my legs, its not a problem. But for a mid-tier user? Someone with a cheap bodysuit? They wouldn't be able to make this route. For me, its like a gentle walk through a slow stream.

My hands go into my pockets. I look at the burned-out houses. Wildfires must've torn through them from the chocked pylons and ripped right through the whole district. Overhead, hanging wires spit electricity like cornered snakes. Combined with the rain, it makes it hard to see. White lightning hits the water up ahead, and the run-off sizzles. I don't stop. I don't care about a little electricity. Not some wattage provided by any of these burnt-out bricks, anyway.

I should probably explain. In every district there's a number of pylons. These pylons are like trees. Data trees. The collective memory of the phase; or the sub-server; is hosted locally by these pylons, and those pylons feed into The Cloud, which is the grand data-bank of New England. So in other words: you, everything you are, everything you do, your #KARMA, is recorded by these pylons. If the one in your District blows up, you better fucking hope you have a back-up, because otherwise everything you represent gets burned away.

... And you thought you had it bad.

So looking at all these burned out houses, this lifeless district, this drowned-out phase: you can certainly imagine, there's more than a few ghosts here.

I don't want to think how many poor fucks are floating beneath the water. No one's coming to save them. No one will probably even come to dispose of their bodies. This place will become another D35D S3RV3R in a matter of hours, where it will peel off, float away, and become a part of the problem.

The eternal problem: what happens to people who die in cyberspace? Just another set of corrupted sub-routines. Stopping-starting. Adding to the ping, creating proxies, misting the air with trauma and ghosts and an uncomfortable amount of lag. I can feel it growing every step, making the flood water feel like tar. I don't have much time. I will my legs to pick up the pace and try to bite back the annoyance I feel when it takes them a good few seconds to respond.

I pull up the collar of my leather jacket and keep my chin down as I head on up the street. It takes me about five minutes and at least a couple cigarettes to find the place I'm looking for. A factory warehouse on the edge of the phase. It stands in a vacant lot. A few telephone poles keep it company. There's no sun, no moon, and barely a night sky for that matter. The Cloud has already been disconnected. I'm alone here, except for the gentle tinkling of water from the breech-holes in the mainframe and the electrictiy shooting across the district from the few live wires that remain. I take my hand out from my pocket and access the Trespasser.

The tool in my hand lights up green, reading: "User #504. Performing distant set of sub-routines. Contact Vex in: MORTAL COIL #081?" I press a button and wait, looking out at the terrace which leads to a garage door and then into the factory. A door big enough to chug a couple rigs through, maybe even two at a time. I thought it looked like a nice place to have bad habits.

"Vex, I'm at the place."

"District 7?"

"It's fucking washed out. Place is a ruin. If there's anyone alive here, they're probably glitching out on the red."

"Fuck..."

He does some typing as I contemplate having another cigarette. I blink my eyes at the warehouse a few times, wondering if it'll blink back and maybe calm my nerves. It doesn't bite.

"Says here there's no life-signs. Place must've burned out hours ago."

"Any idea how it started?"

"A pylon back where you came. Data-log says it had a nominal power spike, probably due to lack of maintenance. Acid rust, maybe. Seems like it blew out and took the whole district with it. Fire ripped right through the core, blew up the local servers. Anyone who was awake for it probably had a pretty bad shock."

"What was the rain like at the time?"

"Bad. Six and a half feet of solid flooding. It's gone down some, probably because the server's breached. But Leon, no one's alive there. You're in an empty shard. It's only you."

I feel a chill go down my back, right the way to my stomach. I don't like it. I don't like it at all. Over a thousand people, dead. And there wasn't even a news report. I breathe hard into the Trespasser, holding it up by my ear like a cell.

I could just about hear Vex trying to talk me out of it.

"Leon. You there? Stay with it, man. You going inside...?"

"Well if I don't this patch becomes a fucking memory and we'll never find out what happened, right?"

"... Right."

"So yeah. I'm going in. I'll contact you in half an hour. If I don't make out, send someone."

"Got it. Leon? Be careful."

Cas' Jukebox.

open.spotify.com/track/0U9XBqriyjpw44…



SOME FIVE HOURS AGO.

The rain spits off the rooftops, drizzling my jacket in a rainbow of fluorescence. I think its from the oil in the water. I'm in the Lower Districts. The water's up to my thighs, not that it matters. I have so many implants in my legs, its not a problem. But for a mid-tier user? Someone with a cheap bodysuit? They wouldn't be able to make this route. For me, its like a gentle walk through a low stream.

My hands go into my pockets. I look at the burned-out houses. Wildfires must've torn through them from the chocked pylons and ripped right through the whole district. Overhead, hanging wires spit electricity like cornered snakes. Combined with the rain, it makes it hard to see. White lightning hits the water up ahead, and the run-off sizzles. I don't stop. I don't care about a little electricity. Not some wattage provided by any of these burnt-out bricks, anyway.

I should probably explain. In every district there's a number of pylons. These pylons are like trees. Data trees. The collective memory of the phase; or the sub-server; is hosted locally by these pylons, and those pylons feed into The Cloud, which is the grand data-bank of New England. So in other words: you, everything you are, everything you do, your #KARMA, is recorded by these pylons. If the one in your District blows up, you better fucking hope you have a back-up, because otherwise everything you were gets burned away.

And you thought you had it bad.

So looking at all these burned out houses, this lifeless district, this drowned-out phase: you can certainly imagine, there's more than a few ghosts here.

I don't want to think how many poor fucks are floating beneath the water. No one's coming to save them. No one will probably even come to dispose of their bodies. This place will become another D35D S3RV3R in three weeks, and it will peel off, float away, and become a part of the problem.

The eternal problem: what happens to people who die in cyberspace? Just another set of corrupted sub-routines. Stopping-starting. Adding to the ping, creating proxies, misting the air with trauma and ghosts and an uncomfortable amount of lag. I can feel it growing every step, making the flood water feel like tar. I don't have much time. I will my legs to pick up the pace and try to bite back the annoyance I feel when it takes them a good few seconds to respond.

I pull up the collar of my leather jacket and keep my chin down as I head on up the street. It takes me about five minutes and at least a couple cigarettes to find the place I'm looking for. A factory warehouse on the edge of the phase. It stands in a vacant lot. A few telephone poles keep it company. There's no sun, no moon, and barely a night sky for that matter. The Cloud has already been disconnected. I'm alone here, except for the gentle tinkling of water from the breech-holes in the mainframe and the electrictiy shooting across the district from the few live wires that remain. I take my hand out from my pocket and access the Trespasser.

The tool in my hand lights up green, reading: "User #504. Performing distant set of sub-routines. Contact Vex in: MORTAL COIL #081?" I press a button and wait, looking out at the terrace which leads to a garage door and then into the factory. A door big enough to chug a couple rigs through, maybe even two at a time. I thought it looked like a nice place to have bad habits.

"Vex, I'm at the place."

"District 7?"

"It's fucking washed out. Place is a ruin. If there's anyone alive here, they're probably glitching out on the red."

"Fuck..."

He does some typing as I contemplate having another cigarette. I blink my eyes at the warehouse a few times, wondering if it'll blink back and maybe calm my nerves. It doesn't bite.

"Says here there's no life-signs. Place must've burned out hours ago."

"Any idea how it started?"

"A pylon back where you came. Data-log says it had a nominal power spike, probably due to lack of maintenance. Acid rust, maybe. Seems like it blew out and took the whole district with it. Fire ripped right through the core, blew up the local servers. Anyone who was awake for it probably had a pretty bad shock."

"What was the rain like at the time?"

"Bad. Six and a half feet of solid flooding. It's gone down some, probably because the server's breached. But Leon, no one's alive there. You're in an empty shard. It's only you."

I feel a chill go down my back, right the way to my stomach. I don't like it. I don't like it at all. Over a thousand people, dead. And there wasn't even a news report. I breathe hard into the Trespasser, holding it up by my ear like a cell.

I could just about hear Vex trying to talk me out of it.

"Leon. You there? Stay with it, man. You going inside...?"

"Well if I don't this patch becomes a fucking memory and we'll never find out what happened, right?"

"... Right."

"So yeah, I'll contact you in half an hour. If I don't, send someone to come pull me out."

"Got it. ... Leon? Be careful."

Cas' Jukebox.

Reset, Reverb:

open.spotify.com/track/0L16JHkWHDIyUQ…

My space.

My name is Leon. I was born 1995. 7. 02. I am a crystal child. My uncles committed suicide age 7. My grandmother, lung cancer 13. My last uncle passed at 15. Death has stalked me since the day I was old enough to think. My father's no good, a deadbeat. My mother, a talented manipulator. I am middle child, black sheep, strong enough to hold my own, too weak to keep it consistent. When I was eighteen years old New England opened its first online server for people to upload their consciousness to and escape from reality. I did it in a heartbeat. I took my younger sister with me.

Now, I am King.

⋘ ⊗ ⋙

WORKING TITLE: NEW ENGLAND: open.spotify.com/track/61VpXmcxNIiTZo…

The rain has been persistent for the last fourteen days. It is mid-April. The server is a temple of smoke and rain. Some of the Lower Tiers have gone underground. Flooded to the core. Anyone too poor to pay for a new phase has drowned. I can't see out past the end of our district, the other phases are hidden behind smog. The artificial sun burns a dusty orange; the moon invisible, a black shade that barely makes itself known. The Immortal Coil is lit by a hundred thousand thousand LED strips. The go-go bars and noodle stands and late-night meat vendors peddle their wares as if the water isn't six inches deep and up past their ankles. Punters still pump money into the feelies; machines designed to let you feel any kind of emotion, provided you have the credits. The video arcades are still all the rage. No one wears an N95 mask. They'd rather install a new pair of lungs than hide their facial aesthetics. Business is the best its ever been. Everyone wants a high. Especially when the very air burns when you breathe.

My name is Leon. I'm a bruiser, a debt collector, and occasionally: a private detective. I'm 6'5'' of solid muscle, built like a line-backer, jeans distressed; faceplate made out of solid titanium, and most of it backed behind an aluminium core. I run a small team: Vex, Firefly, Spider. These are my crew. Together, we run the Immortal Coil, New England's premium gambling district; hidden from the rest of the server behind a pincode that you need to purchase with Karma just to get in. And you can't get it unless you already know someone from the Coil. So in other words: we're invisible. We are free. We are the last bastion of security and free autonomy in a server gone to shit. Outside, the motherboards are rotting, the pylons are banked, the Cloud is burning, but we have it all. All thanks to my team.

They say in New England that if you fall from grace, you're never coming back. You'll end up floating face-deep in water like all the poor S.O.Bs in the Lower Districts. Well, that's not neccesarily true.

You just have to know the right people.

⋘ ⊗ ⋙

Tonight, a man died in a remote factory in the Lower District, somewhere in Section 7, out past the original cells and not far from the drop off where they go to dump androids once their warranty has ended.

How do I know this? ... Because I'm the one who killed him.