Opposition

𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚢 - 𝚆𝚊𝚛, 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚁𝚎𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚘𝚗.

Hmm...

Interesting.

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay

>>>𝔻𝕦𝕞𝕡 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝔽𝕣𝕖𝕤𝕙 𝔻𝕚𝕤𝕔𝕠𝕣𝕕 𝕆ℂ 𝕗𝕠𝕣 𝕞𝕪 𝕝𝕠𝕪𝕒𝕝 𝕗𝕒𝕟𝕤.

>>>𝕀 𝕜𝕖𝕖𝕡 𝕞𝕪 𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕪𝕖𝕣𝕤 𝕓𝕣𝕚𝕓𝕖𝕕 𝕨𝕚𝕥𝕙 𝕞𝕖𝕞𝕖𝕤 𝕥𝕠 𝕜𝕖𝕖𝕡 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕞 𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕡𝕝𝕒𝕔𝕖𝕟𝕥.

_{Bork's low effort contribution to the cause}

The Protectorate: A Legal Interest Check

Very interesting concept with quite a bit of crossover with my field of study. I'm tentatively interested.

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay

Welcome lurkers to my RP. I'm the Mega-GM. There are no rules and all my posts are in crayon.

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒t 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖

Yo, pass me the extra dimension

“They’re all like this…”
“That’s why we're here.”
“Or there.”
“Around.”
“Everywhere.”
“Watching...”

ℍ𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝕄𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕒 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕘𝕝𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖
𝕋𝕨𝕚𝕟 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝
>>> …
“Fire in the streets—more than usual even. It seems the power struggle between the two megaregions at the northwestern edge of America are growing worse by the day. Another Cipher Broadcast Tower on the contested border between the Portland and Seattle regions has been hijacked and is currently under hostile control of the infamous Portland… Uh… Group...”

---

---

𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕣 ℂ𝕠𝕣𝕡𝕠𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖"𝕋𝕙𝕖 ℙ𝕝𝕒𝕪𝕘𝕣𝕠𝕦𝕟𝕕"

ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖, 𝕊𝕠𝕦𝕥𝕙 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝
𝔸𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕝 𝟚𝕟𝕕, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝 :: 𝕆𝕟𝕖 𝕕𝕒𝕪 𝕓𝕖𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕕𝕖𝕓𝕒𝕥𝕖
[𝟜𝔻 ℂℍ𝔼𝕊𝕊] 𝕃𝕠𝕒𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘...

A deal’s a deal—or is it?

It wasn’t her best work, but that was about all they had to go off of. That, and a set of poorly-ciphered coordinates, clearly encoded by Serena herself on a sheet of scrap paper that the ‘campaign manager’ had uploaded and sent to everyone’s communication codes.

It had to be the spot—hidden away in the greater corporate zone at the Reclaim’s edge. Desolate. Destitute. There was hardly anything left. A passing truck of mercs skidded by, one of them spinning about on the heavy turret mounted on its back. Off to glass another near-identical group batting for the other team, most likely. It takes a bit of maneuvering to evade their gaze, but that was the spot for sure. It looked just like every other withered box-shaped building in the zone. Nevertheless the complex sets of sliding metal doors, the few paths in and out—they had to indicate that the Pirate captain had chosen the building for a reason… If she had chosen it at all.

Droplets of water echoed as they impacted the concrete, creeping from exposed pipes and deposits of acid rain leaking in, but the warehouse was otherwise dead silent. Serena led her crew into the main room which had to be the size of a few basketball courts. Shelving units and the behemoth remnants of some sort of machine shop ‘uglied up the place’, but the floor was a bit too pristine. No dust. No rubble. No glass. Petrukov used her lighter to ignite three separate Raw Toxics between her lips, letting the smoke creep up towards the distant rafters and exposed ventilation shafts.

“Alright folks,” Petrukov started. “Make yourselves at home. This is our playground for the next… length of time.”

“Miss Petrukov.” The burly man stepped up alongside his client, stretching his oversized muscles and holding out a gun that was severely too small for his massive goon hand. The Pirate Queen smiled, admiring not the man himself but the now iconic black flag rigged up to a staff on his back. It was comical. It was absurd. It was totally on brand.

“Give it a test. Make sure you know you can—”

A series of blasts echoed endlessly off the tin walls. Serena hammered the trigger wildly, aiming at every interesting object down-range until the magazine was empty. The pangs of 9mm ricocheting off of every surface around them was like an anthem—a cause for concern, but also an anthem. She blew at the tip of the non-smoking gun.

“Thanks Bannerlord, but I’mma need another clip for the gat. And also the payload, chief.”

Bannerlord fumbled around at his own sidearm to grab a spare magazine of ammunition. Serena, in the meantime, started posing with her new piece and the steel briefcase, barrel leveled against the shadows at the outer edge or haphazardly flicked towards catwalks and side doors, but something stopped her, caused her face to flush and her gun arm to waver.

“They’ll be here any minute.”

“Fuck… I forgot the most important thing. Fuck,” she repeated. Again and again. “We forgot the—”

“Boombox?”

Once again, Serena From The Past had thought of everything. Once again, the Bannerlord’s supply cart was fully stocked and strapped with every piece of kit they needed and extra snacks. The entire situation was perfectly coordinated, endlessly complex. She, the queenpin, a boss playing some extradimensional chess game. Serena took up position in the center of the room and hammered down the play button with her foot.

“Yo-ho-ho.”

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒t 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖

How do you find objectivity amongst the shifting perspective? Against the Mechanical Winds? Around the Machines That Spark?

“You wouldn’t believe the danger—the sort that doesn’t even bother hiding. Wolf in uniform. Wolf in body armor. Wolf in respirator. Wolf… Wolf with riot shotgun...”

ℍ𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝕄𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕒 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕘𝕝𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖
𝕋𝕨𝕚𝕟 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝
>>> …
“Tensions… In South City. Many eyes have been set upon Phoenetek and their worldwide operation of clinics as well as the production of the popular ‘super-drug’ Neurosynthase, said not only to reverse the symptoms of neural degeneration from cyberware integration, but completely reversing decay of neuron pathways. Many denizens of South City… Of the western seaboard have been affected by recent shortages. Silence from Phoenetek. In their last press conference, held three weeks ago, shipments were supposedly en route to arrive on the first of April, but no South City clinics have yet reported receiving shipments publically. The cause of this shortage is not yet known to Hart Media or the public...

And the shortages have affected more than just Phoenetek consumers it seems. The registration of Augmented Persons has skyrocketed in the past month, leaving some cyberware users to face jail time in order to acquire Neurosynth through legal, safe, and available channels. Of course, with the fear of neurodegeneration looming, many augged citizens have turned to more alternative methods…”

---

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𝔹𝕒𝕠𝕝𝕖𝕚 ℂ𝕝𝕚𝕟𝕚𝕔

ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖, 𝕊𝕠𝕦𝕥𝕙 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝
𝔸𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕝 𝟚𝕟𝕕, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝 :: 𝕆𝕟𝕖 𝕕𝕒𝕪 𝕓𝕖𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕕𝕖𝕓𝕒𝕥𝕖
[𝕄𝕒𝕔𝕙𝕚𝕟𝕖𝕤 𝕋𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕊𝕡𝕒𝕣𝕜] 𝕃𝕠𝕒𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘...

“Enter Baolei.” the monk said. There were many passers-by, but he didn’t seem to address any in particular. The Reclaim HyperHumans always seemed to have that distant-but-fixed gaze. Maybe it was a strange show of some sort of clairvoyance or omnipotence. They hardly needed to look at their surroundings. All in their presence were already observed. Others considered it a side-effect. If not of the ‘unity-with-the-machine’, then of the lack of abundant care for the cyborg sort, or of perhaps a more sinister aspect of indoctrination.

“All those who seek care may find it within the temple, man or machine.” He gestured with a dark steel arm with hydraulics big enough to question how the thin man was even holding it up, reached out towards a passerby, spoke again: “Chen Dao offers help. We offer help. The time is dire and those who harmonize with the machine will find themselves afflicted. This is not an accident. This—”

The downtrodden denizen of the Reclaim near-collapsed onto the monk’s arm. The monk hardly shifted his weight until those same desperate hands clawed up around his neck for support. Whispers eked out from his mouth—pleas for help. The monk stayed steady, and looked to the other orange-clad man flanking the temple gate. A simple gesture was all it took. Silence, eye contact, and somewhere in the void, a signal was understood. With the struggling augged man hanging on his shoulders, the first monk headed through the gate with as much a bow as he could manage. The other took his place.

“My friends,” he began. “There’s nothing to fear. In these trying times, forces beyond our control reveal their prejudice against the Machine. Care, clinical, technical, or otherwise is greedily guarded. At the Temple of Baolei, all might find themselves safe. All can find a home. All can find peace…”

The Reclaim’s wayward sort was always watching. Everywhere. Baolei was no exception, and with the culmination of events—both in the Reclaim and beyond—that seemed to claw at the back of everyone’s throats, Baolei drew a particular crowd. They watched the monk. Some murmured replies, dissatisfactions, questions, conspiracies. Few dared to approach the monk, even those whose mechanical bodies were taking their toll.

“The Reclaim… It is a sickly population, but the Machine is here to repair. To uplift.”

>>> 𝕊ℍ𝕀𝔽𝕋 ...

>>> ℝ ...

>>> 𝔼 ...

>>> 𝔸 ...

>>> 𝕃 ...

>>> 𝕀 ...

>>> 𝕋 ...

>>> 𝕐 ...

The Temple was built with classical chinese architectural technique. It stood out like a backyard in the Detroit Stacks—pillars bearing all the load, and ambient lights of orange and yellow almost mimicking primitive lanterns. The mats throughout each room were, for the most part, immaculately clean beyond the front rooms where the clinic’s patients had overflowed and crowded their newfound shelter. You’d think the paper-thin walls accentuated the simplicity of the place, but beyond the groups of Reclaimers stuck in withdraw woes and death throes, Baolei Clinic seems to absorbs sound, leaving it eerie quiet.

“This way,” he said, “Come. Learn of Mekanedo...”

Dao always attempted to live on its periphery, but even with a step as light as air, it was difficult for the abbot to evade attention of every member in his presence. He guided the benefactor towards another pair of monks. They always seemed to be waiting in the wings, ready for the abbot’s commands, as though watching.

“The people of Baolei shall care for you. Allow them to show you our mission, our reach, our access.” Dao smiled a warm smile, gently squeezed his benefactor’s hands with a pair of refined metallic hands. The South City clerk couldn’t help but feel a tinge of unease run through him. There was something that he carried—the omnipresence of wires—the subtle wave functions they emitted or the quiet whir of their servos. Something… There was something about Chen Dao.

The gesture seemed to hold the clerk's presence long enough that he hardly noticed the trio of monks step by and into the bowels of Baolei. They carried a box, the three of them. Heavy, but their steps made no indication of such.

>>> 𝕊ℍ𝕀𝔽𝕋 ...

>>> ℝ ...

>>> 𝔼 ...

>>> 𝔸 ...

>>> 𝕃 ...

>>> 𝕀 ...

>>> 𝕋 ...

>>> 𝕐 ...

>>> 𝕃𝕠𝕒𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘...
>>> 𝕎𝕖𝕝𝕔𝕠𝕞𝕖 𝕓𝕒𝕔𝕜 𝔽𝕝𝕦𝕩 𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕞𝕒𝕟!
>>> 𝕃𝕚𝕗𝕖 𝕚𝕤 𝕛𝕦𝕤𝕥 𝕒 𝕤𝕖𝕣𝕚𝕖𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕚𝕞𝕒𝕘𝕖𝕤 𝕚𝕤𝕟'𝕥 𝕚𝕥? ℝ𝕖𝕡𝕖𝕥𝕚𝕥𝕚𝕧𝕖 𝕡𝕖𝕣𝕔𝕖𝕡𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝕠𝕗 𝕧𝕒𝕣𝕚𝕠𝕦𝕤 𝕤𝕥𝕚𝕞𝕦𝕝𝕚... 𝕋𝕙𝕒𝕥'𝕤 𝕒𝕝𝕝 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕤𝕖𝕖, 𝕙𝕦𝕙? 𝔸𝕟𝕕 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕕𝕠𝕟'𝕥 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕟 𝕔𝕒𝕥𝕔𝕙 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕞 𝕒𝕝𝕝, 𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕞𝕒𝕟… ℂ𝕙𝕦𝕟𝕜𝕤 𝕠𝕗 𝕞𝕖𝕞𝕠𝕣𝕪 𝕫𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕖𝕕. 𝕐𝕠𝕦'𝕝𝕝 𝕟𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕣 𝕘𝕖𝕥 𝕥𝕙𝕖𝕞 𝕓𝕒𝕔𝕜. 𝕐𝕠𝕦 𝕞𝕒𝕕𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦𝕣 𝕔𝕙𝕠𝕚𝕔𝕖...

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

>>> 𝔻𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕟 𝕣𝕖𝕞𝕖𝕞𝕓𝕖𝕣 𝕞𝕖? 𝔻𝕠 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕖𝕧𝕖𝕟 𝕜𝕟𝕠𝕨 𝕨𝕙𝕒𝕥 𝕪𝕠𝕦'𝕣𝕖 𝕕𝕠𝕚𝕟𝕘?

The Reclaim came and went in passing splashes. Fading glimpses of its derelict corners and alleyways blurred into malformed images of streaking gray and intersected with the black of shadows. Familiar locations flickered by but don’t quite register. The burning ghosts of neon lights lingered in her eyes.

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

>>>𝕊𝕙𝕠𝕔𝕜𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕝𝕚𝕘𝕙𝕥 𝕗𝕣𝕠𝕞 𝕡𝕒𝕤𝕤𝕚𝕟𝕘 𝕤𝕚𝕘𝕟𝕤...
>>>𝕆𝕣 𝕒𝕣𝕖 𝕪𝕠𝕦 𝕥𝕣𝕒𝕡𝕡𝕖𝕕 𝕚𝕟 𝕒 𝕃𝕒𝕓𝕪𝕣𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕙?

Action or inaction?

The sweat clung to her skin, chilled her, but her insides were boiling a boiling red mess. She could see, somehow, the constricted veins within. It didn’t quite matter. She managed to escape the memory chasms, and was sure of her destination. A soft hand contacted her and tried to enwrap her jacket, but she just walked past. He spoke after her.

The soft light was nice on her eyes. She could track things more easily, differentiate the maze splayed before her via various doorways. She could accurately choose and move to the one which would take her to her destination. No doors, just the frames. She nearly hit one in her investigation of each passageway. She would have moved on, too, but she saw them. Unified. Divine formation, movements harmonized. Each robed figure stood rank and file in the dojo. Every stroke of movement flowed like water, but they carried the force of ceaseless electrons. Powerful servos, grinding motors, and sparking steel held a sort of hypnotic power unlike any other. Human and industry had combined.

Someone grabbed her shoulder. Instinctively, her hand cut around and threw his grip from her body. The colors were too warm. They melted together and her senses betrayed her, but she still had signals. 𝔸 𝕄 𝔸 𝕃 𝔾 𝔸 guided her way.

Blindness?

Death in this world?

Or resurrection in the next?

Guided by firing signals and wires...

She did find him.

ℙ

ℍ

𝔸

𝕊

𝔼

>>> 𝕊ℍ𝕀𝔽𝕋 ...

>>> ℝ ...

>>> 𝔼 …

>>> 𝔸 ...

>>> 𝕃 ...

>>> 𝕀 ...

>>> 𝕋 ...

>>> 𝕐 ...

“What are you—”

Trying to 𝕖𝕤𝕔𝕒𝕡𝕖 the coming onslaught.

Metal 𝕗𝕚𝕤𝕥

put through paper wall.

Blurred shape. Colored 𝔹𝕝𝕦𝕖 and ℝ𝕖𝕕.

>>> 𝕊ℍ𝕀𝔽𝕋 …

Dao hardly turned when he heard the wall tear. He saw. The trio of monks present that weren’t hauling the payload let their bodies flow into a graceful, readied stance. A Way. A combination of liquid formlessness and machine rigid structure...

ℙ

ℍ

𝔸

𝕊

𝔼

_{Seeing ℝ𝕖𝕕…}

“𝕎𝕙𝕒t the hell are you doing here, Shade?”

Delilah paused. The injured runner before her was stumbling and fumbling over his response. She was somewhere. She came for a reason, but everything only came back to her piece by piece.

“Shaman, I—”

“You’re a fiend. Hunting another fix. Clinics abandon you. Scam your friends, then go onto—” She looked around. More details. More gaps filled in. “This‽”

“What did you expect me to do? I’m dying. We’re all dying. Look around!”

They had drawn plenty of eyes by then—those patients and staff who were up to the task of sitting up, directing their eyes towards the commotion at least.

“You owe me.” Delilah’s brow was half-drenched in sweat. She didn’t wipe it away. Maybe she didn’t notice, just another detail whisked as a wisp into infinite forgetfulness...

“Another favor.”

“For your tab? I just ran that job with—”

“Are you really gonna talk about that here?”

“Fuck, Shade. I lent you the last of what I had. You said you could get more. Where are your ‘connections to the city?’ ”

“Shaman,” he said and coughed. The force of his breath seemed to cause an explosion of sparks from his chest that trailed along his dirty sweatshirt. “The city ruins everything…

“Miss? One of the monks almost made the gamble of reaching towards the netrunner’s shoulder to calm her. His hand froze in air and he reconsidered. “Your friend is in a dire condition. He may need treatment now.”

>>> 𝕊ℍ𝕀𝔽𝕋 …
>>> …
>>> …

“Come one, come all…
“Enter Baolei…”
“All those who seek care may find it within the temple, man or machine.”

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒t 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖

Tensions, Dust Gathering, Hellfire on the Horizon, But the Worst of it all Hides INSIDE

“Scarcely a news report would escape. Scarcely a journo would go unscathed. Welcome to N0 Man’s Land. The Reclaim is a dangerous place, where careful 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖𝕤 are therein played...”

ℍ𝕒𝕣𝕥 𝕄𝕖𝕕𝕚𝕒 ℂ𝕠𝕟𝕘𝕝𝕠𝕞𝕖𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖
𝕋𝕨𝕚𝕟 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝
>>> …
“Unrest seems to be stirring in front of APEX Industries R&D complex and offices on the edge of the underpopulated Reclaim Zone. Headquarters of Reclaim mayor and South City Sprawl council candidate Joshua Gatch, many wonder the implications for tomorrow’s debate.”

“The crowd seems to have gathered from nowhere. The cracks in the dead zone. Silence… Then the two armed APEX door guards were surrounded. Currently the crowd is swelling and we can hardly see what’s become of the doormen. It’s anyone’s guess—…”

“Are we getting signal?”

“We gotta get out of here…

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𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕖𝕣 ℂ𝕠𝕣𝕡𝕠𝕣𝕒𝕥𝕖 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖 “ℕ𝟘 𝕄𝔸ℕ'𝕊 𝕃𝔸ℕ𝔻”

ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖, 𝕊𝕠𝕦𝕥𝕙 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝
𝔸𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕝 𝟚𝕟𝕕, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝 :: 𝕆𝕟𝕖 𝕕𝕒𝕪 𝕓𝕖𝕗𝕠𝕣𝕖 𝕥𝕙𝕖 ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖 𝕕𝕖𝕓𝕒𝕥𝕖
[𝕎𝕠𝕣𝕞𝕤] 𝕃𝕠𝕒𝕕𝕚𝕟𝕘...

No Man’s Land wasn’t the place you roam without a strict, specific goal in mind and a will to see it through by any means. On municipal maps, the outer mess of Reclaim streets was the richest district. It was true. Gatch willed it so when the empty blocks of derelict property were turned into opposing strongholds. There wasn’t much sign that the corps were there. Rather, they were like ghosts embedded in the empty streets of those empty seas. Occasionally, the purpose-filled walker would catch a glimpse—bright fluorescent lights illuminating the debris-dotted streets. They might hear the buzzing of thick power cables drawing environmentally-castrating volumes of volts just beneath the asphalt.

Stella thought it was a strange place for the services of such a specialist.

A tumbleweed of some official paper report rolled by in the dust and she knew it had been a long time since anyone had cleaned up. Stella thought about reaching to pick it up, but it skittered away and fell into a small crater in the road, blackened by what she could only imagine was an airborne dose of burning plasma.

APEX, of course, had the biggest complex of all in the corporate warzone. It probably spanned a block or something ridiculous. No one could really tell from the outside what any of the buildings in No Man’s Land were. It helped the companies keep their cover from ill-intentioned actors, the Mixologist supposed. That was also the general reason the homeless droves of the zone tended to linger closer to the Central Square. Over there, you may get hassled, but there’s a significantly lower chance of entering what looks like an abandoned factory only to get zapped.

The place was marked out front by degraded metal letters. A-P-E-X. To find it, she just followed the distant sounds of dissent. It was like a chorus of voices you’d hear in a loud auditorium, but mottled by the doppler. You would have missed them if there hadn’t been two men strapped in Exo-suits out front. Their strangely bulky rifles were trained on the gathering mass of protestors, whose shouts grew louder as the bartender neared. Either way, she couldn’t really make out what they were saying, but they were angry, and their numbers were growing. Occasionally, a few of the protestors would step towards the stairs, stare down the barrel of the blaster, and dare to hassle the mercs.

“Come out planet killers!”

“Where’s Gatch?”

“Stop hoarding the power!”

“Green energy for the populace!”

It wasn’t that the Mixologist wasn’t used to rowdy customers, but it definitely wasn’t her usual crowd. In fact, she could really get further from the sort that frequented Alexandria unless they went underground, which may have in fact been their intention. Thankfully, all the rocks, bottles, and other projectiles were directed towards the building, which looked pretty impenetrable save for the door. Those that had solid enough aim to hit near the exo-geeks were rewarded by getting pistol whipped until skin, bones, or skulls split. Stella was lucky enough to set up down-range.

Outsiders were never safe in the Reclaim’s No Man’s Land. When outsiders were the ones who flooded the district and did their best to take control of No Man’s Land, other outsiders were even more at risk it seemed. There were plenty of protestors who bathed more in the chaos than in any moral objective behind it. Unlucky journos or counter-protestors were jostled around, prevented from leaving… or worse by the sort that weren’t too keen on facing down uber-strapped mercs. A few burly hounds even bothered the Mixologist while she was setting up.

“Welcome to the Reclaim. You don’t belong here.” The man let his bat drag along the ground for additional horror-villain effect. She saw straight through his green bandana, into his soft soul. She was good at that.

“No I’m not.” Stella pointed to the sign. Emblazoned upon the two-wheeled cart was a clear 3-lettered neon sign running on some unknown source. The whole thing looked like it was rigged up out of one of Central Square’s old street-food carts, but repurposed for just the UltraB - A - Rtender’s style.

“I’m the bartender.”

“For the…”

“. . .”

“For the riot?”

---

---

Joshua Gatch had that executive habit of being surrounded by the sort of people who read too many self-help books. Not just that, but the sort who followed through on the guru’s advice. The sort that would share life tips with you at cocktail parties. He was the kind of guy that went to cocktail parties, so he was also the kind of guy that dealt with stress by taking a deep breath and exhaling as slowly and obnoxiously as possible for all the room to hear.

The APEX megacenter was a maze that even the mayor didn’t brave. The maze of factory blocks had become only a greater mess when higher-ups moved in all sorts of disjointed operations. Some of them employed the denizens of the Reclaim, but a majority were defense-oriented. At least, that’s what he was told. An unregulated, underwatched area in the middle of South City was the perfect place for APEX to jam all sorts of metal into magic boxes and that sort of thing. Gatch didn’t mind. His penthouse was atop the highest levels—the offices for APEX officials, management, and on-site scientists. He tried to interact with as few of them as possible, but in the ‘situation room’ he couldn’t help but deal with the concerned sort that got big heads about their projects. He managed to narrow the lot down to those that deemed themselves ‘most important’ in their individual departments.

They surround the complex one time and suddenly everyone starts to take those classic APEX ‘expendability’ rumors seriously. This wasn’t the time.

“If this botched shit gets brought up tomorrow and our projects get cancelled…”

“Are you kidding? Your project is going to get cancelled if they bust open the doors and fucking trash the lower blocks.”

“What about us? I don’t see any of those promised mercs that are getting a portion of the quarterly…”

“Look at where you are. Gatch gestured to the surprisingly furnished room. A few screens along the wall were lit up with views of the growing crowd. “APEX’s presence in the Reclaim Zone is as volatile as it was before I showed up. We’re in a bunch of empty factories.”

“Just don’t step outside, they tell us… Fantastic…”

“They’ve got more guards around the alleyways than we do...”

“What do they want, Gatch? You?”

---

---

The mob amassed via a number of approaching groups, many staggered in their arrivals, but when his entourage showed up on the scene, the crowd seemed to double. Perhaps, though, it was not the number of the protestors that changed the streets, but their purpose. They were masked, and for good reason, but anyone beyond his immediate circle could hardly tell. Any good journalist’s view was blocked by the close conglomerate of operators that surrounded them and whatever improvised and jaggedly sharp tools they opted to lash out with.

He didn’t need a megaphone, just a transmitter mic blasting to the crowd from an unseen source.

“The people of the Reclaim have shouldered the burden of power rerouting for far too long. APEX is a scourge, Gatch, and you are but their puppet. These men and women dare to say it’s time we change who’s pulling the strings.

And that served as a great signal for the first cocktail thrown. Gatch’s cameras were blinded by the light of flames erupting over the door guards. They braced. One raised his rifle towards the source.

“Wait, man! Wait. We just gotta hold out.”

“They’re going to hit—”

“Think about what they’ll do… If you fire without support…”

The Mixologist instinctively shifted the cart back a bit as the fire bottle blew. One loss to the vortex was enough already, but she was already posted up on the opposite sidewalk, fending off the cowardly sorts with cocktails. It wasn’t her first time around this sort of crowd—the angry sort, she meant. They were never quite so unruly and unmannered.

But that was the job. The crowd stole the show from the B - A - R when other projectiles were prepped. She palmed the console the goons had given her just as it started vibrating. Its indicator light flickered on and off for a few moments before one of the internal chambers opened and a vial slipped into her hand. The time to serve, it seemed, grew ever closer…

closed or whatever don't look at this

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Agents of the Void call and receive.
Listen in, hear the pleas.
Give into the interim or play its aberrant games.

The more the misfit platoon spoke on the topics of intelligence—paranormal or otherwise—regarding the situation, the more Mao wished for a coveted clarity in whatever end she found herself in. Magic and monsters. Each new character in her new world had their take on the fate that awaited the condemned. In other words, them, the whole lot. Mao pressed the top of her fist against her chin and pursed her lips. Everyone seemed a bit desperate to splay out their knowledge of purgatory all too competitively, ‘Eldritch Shifters’ or not.

As much as she wasn’t particularly fond of any of her new companions, Mao did rise from the bar when Zoey and Penny headed for the door. She fancied another escape. It was always like that with her—one escape after another. This one would be into the empty city. It was just her aesthetic, she thought, but plans changed as the living embodiment of darkness bared down on them.

When it spoke, Mao’s eyes transfixed upon the spot where the creature’s visage should have been. She lingered for a moment, but Penny’s voice jostled her back into reality. It seemed that life in death wasn’t meant to be so easy. Mao didn’t have much a choice but to remain still as the creature’s hand shot past her and straight for Stacey. She slipped under the spindly arm without thinking. It probably wasn’t the smartest move to near it at all, but Mao figured that Mr. Special Agent Prescott had the right idea on this one.

“Not the line I would have gone for, really,” Mao said, to perhaps no one in particular. By the time Mao had reached the stairwell that led back up and out, she turned back just missing Penny’s rather magical endeavor to create a distraction. She didn’t really notice Penny at all. Again, she just stared into the blackness, like she was looking for its eyes or something. At least that would have given her a fixed point to focus on. Its smokey form just caught her, reminded her of something and left her reminiscing.

空　　道　　　和

Emptiness. Path. Harmony. A strange configuration and stranger reading.

As Mao started to realize how swiftly the others made their exit, she didn’t linger either, though opted to take the same route in and out. Who knew what awaited at the back door after all? She figured instead that purgatory wasn’t the place to make things so easy if dark demons dared to devour any denizens freshly dropped off from other worlds. She darted up the stairs towards the balcony.

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒𝕥 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖 - Cyberpunk Political Intrigue Roleplay

𝔽𝕦𝕥𝕚𝕝𝕚𝕥𝕪: 𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝔾𝕣𝕖𝕒t 𝔾𝕒𝕞𝕖

It Watches

Welcome to this place,
The Hellscape!
Shit’s dangerous,
But here we are still grinding.
Still stepping in time.
Still somehow unified?

Sister, get woke to the fancy games everyone is playing. It’s amazing, how chaos is still reigning, but we keep on blasting back against that strange force that keeps us all down. Without whatever psychokinetic connection goes beyond gravity and attracts the companionship of biotic life, the Alexandria would have dumped us generations back. Be active. This is an extropian realm, here in space, and we’ve got to stay intact! So—

𝕋𝕙𝕖 𝕃𝕚𝕞𝕓𝕠 ℂ𝕝𝕦𝕓

ℍ𝕚𝕘𝕙 𝕆𝕣𝕓𝕚𝕥𝕒𝕝 𝕊𝕥𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 𝔸𝕝𝕖𝕩𝕒𝕟𝕕𝕣𝕚𝕒
∞∞∞, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝

”Wake up, sister!” His Mixologists’ cybernetics alternated slapping either side of her face in rapid succession. Her eyes rolled back. Limbo’s tables were drenched in velvet red, but took their toll on any patron or player that didn’t make it back to the exits. The whole bar was on fire. He was on fire. She was on fire. “Get ready. That was only night one. The Mixologists are mounting a siege on Casino Dorado.”

“Just…” she started, “Leave me. I’ll just…” Stella squirmed on the table, doing her best to curl into a ball. Her muscles hardly reacted to commands. “I’ll stay here and let death take me.”

“Not an option sister.” He turned into a demon, tripled his size, and grew deadly sharp spikes. He jammed one of the spikes into her arm. The pain receded. The fire receded. As if having rested for a few infinities, she sat right up. “No one gets left behind. Can’t let the world win, Stell. Extropy. It’s just a bunch of humans, but it’s all futile unless we’re bunched up. Does that make sense?”

She didn’t respond, but he started backstepping, waving his hands as he went. Little clouds of sparkling blues and purples hung in the air, fired from his wrists to entice his old friend.

“No Mixologist left behind! That’s one of the only keys! It’s time for Dorraaaaaaaddddooooo!”

“Smell the Dust, and just—

𓇽𝔻𝕦𝕒𝕥𓇽, 𝕃𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕠𝕗 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝔻𝕖𝕒𝕕

ℝ𝕖𝕔𝕝𝕒𝕚𝕞 ℤ𝕠𝕟𝕖, 𝕊𝕠𝕦𝕥𝕙 ℂ𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕊𝕡𝕣𝕒𝕨𝕝
𝔸𝕡𝕣𝕚𝕝 𝟙𝕤𝕥, 𝟚𝟘𝟞𝟝 𝟙𝟠:𝟚𝟘

[𝔽𝕚𝕣𝕤𝕥 𝕊𝕙𝕒𝕥𝕥𝕖𝕣𝕖𝕕 𝔾𝕝𝕒𝕤𝕤], 𝕋𝕖𝕣𝕞𝕚𝕟𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕟𝕘...

“Wake up.”

Stella sequenced a series of commands, Mixologist’s forearm slapping against the bottle in her grip with just the precision to graze its cap. The little glass top spun, slid off, and clinked against the helmet she had safely tucked next to the pair in the open street. Vodka—cheap vodka—was all she had to do the job of the medics. She started waterboarding him, just like the movies, until the bottle was empty.

“Wake up and drive another day. Death is waiting in the wings and it’s up to you to fight it off.” Stella thought the rain might have played a part in his refusal to awaken at her commands. The aesthetic though, backed by the blaze that still raged in spite of any fireteam calls, was just lovely. The fallen driver’s head was propped up on the pristine briefcase. The perfect hiding place, she figured. The Goons hadn’t emerged from the fires. She hadn’t seen them escape, at least. Goons had one of those dark, faustian pacts with resilience, though.

“Wake up,” she said. “Combat Entropy.”

As if his day couldn’t get any more aberrant, Olex’s mostly calm walk to the Duat was interrupted by a ground-shaking explosion that almost knocked him off his feet. The explosion he heard walking away from the Square could easily be shoved to the back of his mind and ignored, but this one was much too close and loud to do the same. As he gathered his bearings, and began scanning the surrounding street as a few of the other citizens scattered, he thought he saw something. Some lucky patron had managed to exit the bar at the exact moment it exploded, but now that Olex looked around, he was nowhere near the street. It was as if he’d vanished into thin air.

Shoving yet another thought to the back of his head, Olex bounded across the street, pulling open one of the doors with his left, as he right reached inside and pulled his handgun from it’s holster, weary of what further surprises lay inside.

The onyx black handle on the door was hot, absurdly so, and Olex instinctively yanked his arm away before simply turning his arm’s sensors off. The heat was further exacerbated when he fully opened the door, a wave of warmth washing over his chest and face, causing him to recoil for a moment. The usual multicolored neon lights were accompanied by an unfamiliar orange glow, the light of multiple open flames and a-

Giant flaming car?

Dead center of the Duat sat the burning carcass of what seemed to have been a nice car, and beyond it a similarly sized hole in the side of the bar. The entire club was absolutely destroyed, patrons still stuck in booths covered in rubble. A few people here and there crawled from under tables or sat on the floor trying to either mend their friends’ wounds, or to shake them awake. Though, many looked like they weren’t going to get up any time soon.

Silhouetted amongst the chaos were two figures on the floor, not a far distance directly in front of Olex. The familiar face, albeit covered in soot, of Stella, emptying a bottle of alcohol over the face of a man who looked to be nearly dead. Olex’s breathing stood still, as the image almost drew a laugh. A cold, rather emotional woman very hastily emptying an entire bottle of vodka over a still, lifeless body. The cherry on the large, burning cake that he stood in front of. From the doorway, he spoke up.

”Stella! What the fuck happened in here? Did you guys get attacked by a terrorist or something?”

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Loading…….Drift_Demon v1.23.exe

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Drowning. Torn asunder by a dying world. Going onboard a capsized ship. Drowning again. Rising to the fire. The burning. The heat -

The foul odor of spirits opened Keah’s eyes, making him sputter. He pulled himself up, gasping and retching for sweet oxygen. Everything before seemed like one of those shitty matrix interrogation programs, designed to psych you out. He wasn’t 10 years old. He wasn’t in Hawaii. He was too busy wandering in the Reclaim Zone.

“Helmet, need - “ His gloves pawed the clammy skin of his cheeks. Ignoring the UltraBartender, he grabbed his helmet, his breathing slowing down to a calm pace in the disinfected, pressurised safety of EngiTech’s oly-laminate headgear. The indistinct boundaries and borders of the Reclaim Zone, muddled all the more by the rain, became sharper through the helmet. Made thinking easier.

OverDriver was linked with Samsara. Samsara was linked with the missing Islanders. The Ark. The Pirate Party. Him. The election. Shortcuts and roads between all of them he couldn’t make out. Deciphering them now was useless. He clenched his fist in anger, OverDriver’s last words mocking him.

“ Amalgmation” He hissed out, clenching his gloved fist. “ It’s always been Amalgmation…..” Amalgmation who ferried them away. Amalgmation who set up homes for them. Amalgmation who experimented on them. Kidnapped them. Used them.

Keah turned to look at the burning remains of the Duat and signed. The bar was currently smouldering, a bonfire of burnt dreams and excess going up in smoke. So much for a simple delivery job. What Keah now feared more than conspiracies and the games of giants was having to explain to the Iron Itamae about his unsuccessful delivery. Hopefully, the Jury Rigg was unscathed throughout the whole incident.

“ You could say something like that.” he spoke to the figure in the doorway. He then glanced upwards at the porcelain expression of the UltraBartender “ Sorry about your bar.”

He began to pull himself up from the ground, but pain pulled him back down. The adrenaline from his encounter with the OverDriver wore off, revealing the fragilities of his body. Broken ribs. Shards of glass stuck in his ankle. Burns on the side of his neck. He coughed, a splatter of red coating the inside of his Iconoclast.

“ I...need repairs. Quick.”

Stella let the bottle fall from her hand as the driver sputtered to life. He’d reached for his helmet just in time for the glass to clunk off of its metal and split in two on the wet asphalt. She dusted the fragments around with her foot as Olex approached.

“I got attacked by a car,” she said. “And a clone of this sorry state.” Stella leaned in over the Drift Demon. His ramblings weren’t that of a madman. Rather, the sort of a mad man. It almost angered Stella. The destruction almost angered her. Almost. Alas, staying unphased was too easy. Wasn’t her bar. Wasn’t her enemy. She got the briefcase. Her habit-haven was sustained, if only for the foreseeable future. Addicts had a practice of not looking too far ahead.

“It’s always megacorps that you Earth-folk blame for your problems. Maybe it’s an issue with perspective. Amalgamation hasn’t ever heard of you, Car Guy. Just like the bar.” She stepped back from the near-corpse and stared into the fallen eye of 𓇽𝔻𝕦𝕒𝕥𓇽. That was a perk of her optics. She could gaze into the neon, let the light-stimuli overwhelm her, ignite a series of sensors that signified pain, but there was no pain. “It’s not mine. I’m not from here. The Mixologist is a distant, eldritch creature.”

“Should have dodged that car, too,” she added.

“ Try it yourself, ultrabartender ” Keah grunted, not even bothering to correct her misinterpretation of his situation. Though it was hard to admit, her ramblings had a speck of truth in them. His word enough wouldn’t be enough to take down Amalgmation. Luckily, the OverDriver was stupid enough to show him photographic evidence.. All he needed to do was get it to the Pirate Party and -

Wait. Something was off. The evidence. He craned his head slowly to look at the smouldering inferno of the Duat. The evidence which was currently burning along with everything else in there.

“ Fuck!” He punched the pavement out of frustration. Then, again. And again. He continued until a spider web of cracks began forming in the syncrete. It was only until his arm began to ache that he stopped. Nothing. That was all he got from the Duat. Everyone by now had scattered from the Duat. They were alone, but not for long. He could hear sirens in the distance, noise coming their way, eyes that saw more than they should. Causing such a ruckus brought unnecessary attention. He needed to leave the scene.

“ Return,” he whispered out, hoping that his helmet’s internal uplink to the Jury Rigg was still functioning. His car remained still, unmoving. He would have to drag his broken body across the wet pavements just to unlock it. He tried to stand up again, falling back down again this time hissing as his left arm hung limp by his side. Broken wrist. Great. He would have to drive with one hand. He then stared at both of them before settling his gaze again on the UltraBartender.

“ Thanks for waking me up, but I’m didn’t come here to be lectured by you.” For the third time, he stood up, partially succeeding as his knees quivered. “ If both of you don’t want to help me out, then stay out of my way.”

Nothing more had exploded, and the fires continued to burn, some already turning into smoldering piles of ash. Olex’s initial apprehension eased and he finally entered the Duat, taking the surrounding destruction in completely. The bar was nearly unrecognizable. Even the disco ball he’d spent many a night staring at as he drank was gone. In its place, just a burnt, crispy set of metal wiring, errant sparks flickering out every now and again.

The entire bar was in a state of complete ruination, few bottles had been spared in the mayhem. Underneath his boots, the floor was slick with a variety of spirits, a small dash of blood entering the mix here and there. The smell of exhaust and burnt rubber permeated every nook and cranny, slowly bringing water to Olex’s eyes. He finally holstered his pistol, and helped the struggling man nearby get steady on his feet. Wrapping an arm around the man’s back, Olex held him steady, giving Stella a closer look up and down.

The man Olex currently had his arm wrapped around was clearly injured, motors whirred quietly trying to maintain a steady by gentle grip. Stella had seen better days, but didn’t look as badly injured as biker helmet. Soot, glass dust, dirt and liquor. A coat of paint Olex was familiar with, but not used to seeing on Stella. Olex sighed before he spoke.

”I’m sorry about the bar, Stell. Only place in town that had shit better than that swill they serve everywhere else.” More than a formality, there was genuine sadness in Olex’s now soft, quiet voice. Feeling nostalgic was strange, considering Olex hadn’t even been in the Reclaim for any sort of considerable time yet, but he couldn’t find any other way to describe the emotion that had washed over him.

A change of scenery was nothing new. He’d moved from region to region, town to town, many times over. Being somewhere new with no friends and no home was a familiar experience, one that he’d welcomed and thrived off of. But the Duat was something different. A small spot of luxury and intrigue nestled in the middle of another seedy hellhole, just like the one he’d left almost two decades ago.

Same as the luxurious mansion, fitted with polished doorknobs and a heated pool, the Duat felt like a small slice of home in the middle of ever present squalor. An ephemeral return to the luxury he’d shunned so far back in the past but had embarrassingly come to miss, even if only the slightest bit. A bit of familiar comfort in a life that had grown so accustomed to feeling strange and out of place. He could only hope this only meant the beginning of a new chapter and not the end of the book for his favorite slice of the highlife in the middle of Shittown.

Finally bringing his gaze back down to the people in front of him, he spoke again.

”I can tell you don’t seem eager to stick around for the lawmen, Biker Helmet. You got your own ride? ‘Cause if you don’t, you better get to limping away pretty quick. And what about you, Stella? Anything you need me to do?”

Stella smirked. She was tempted to say she did dodge the car. It was a more roundabout way of not getting targeted in the first place, the sort of thing the odd Reclaim street samurai would babble about when drunk, but she thought it applied. Earth, she thought. It had the strangest sorts. Everyone with a complex story, a vendetta, something to gain, something to lose. Someone to kill. This was Earth.

Olex was eager to help the downed demon driver. Stella was hesitant, content for the moment to wistfully stare at her fallen place of work and then back to the broken man, wondering if this was really what the rest of her time on the planet would be like. She did help the struggling pair. They definitely needed it. While Olex did most of the heavy lifting, Stella leaned over with that immaculate posture and offered her hand for the dying driver to take. The stability in her grip was unwavering, but a single hand was all she could offer. The other was occupied by that briefcase and its ever-alluring, mysterious contents. She was sure to keep it back from the two men, concealed behind her body as best as she could.

“Duat was just another name, Olex. Just a place for congregation for the people speaking in dirges. Another church. Another Land of the Dead.” She met the gaze of Duat’s fallen sign one last time, letting that glow overload her optics and overpower even the dulling blazes. That hazy glow pervaded even through the thickening smoke. It watched them walk away as it did. Like an eye…

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closed or whatever don't look at this

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45

Movement overcomes cold,
Stillness overcomes heat.
Clear stillness is right for the world.

And She did well to bathe in the stillness, let herself embody it and, in turn, allow its objectivity to funnel into her senses. In chaotic places, She found, the Way helped quite often to make things a bit clearer. This situation—this chaos—was a bit of an exception. There were too many factors to keep track of, too many names and faces all vying to proclaim themselves as real creatures in their newfound Limbo. She preferred the opposite—would have rather lived in the negative space. The Stillness.

The mute girl, who introduced herself as Lillith based on a squinted reading of her scrawling, also seemed out of her mind. Much like Zoey, it was straight to magic, or in this case ‘the Extra-Normal’. She supposed she wasn’t much better, but it made sense that others sought a bright billboard welcoming them to their death, or whatever was next, wheresoever you choose to call it…

Zoey’s own appraisal of her manner of speech brought a smile to the enigmatic girl’s face. All too often, her progenitor sages were lumped together. The Old Master, the Lord of War, and… Haiku master Basho, it seemed. Any excuse to recede into the watcher was comforting enough. This was not the time or place, she thought, for elaborating on foundational principles. Alas, the maelstrom exchange game of names, and faces, and final resting places continued to reign; and up next was Stacey Gray.

His meek voice hardly carried, and as the doors propagated more and more new subjects of conversation, his words seemed swiftly overlooked. He did, however, manage to direct a modicum of attention in her direction, and she couldn’t quite deny the question. Was she afraid of being painted suspicious? No. Not in Limbo, but courtesy and poise couldn’t be foregone. Not even in some simulated abandoned place—their new hellscape. The girl slid her hand across the bar where she sat and secured a barback’s receipt pad. For a moment, it appeared as though she ignored Stacey, occupied instead with little, fervent slashes across her new canvas. 34 in total. It was just long enough, she hoped, for the attention to be eschewed elsewhere. Only then could the sage retain her constant state. Better off unknown... Better off dead...

It read: “魔緒”
The sort of characters daddy bribes the priest to paint on your grave.

“Mao.” She nodded to Stacey, not much caring to pursue the topic further. It was interesting, that subtle ability of hers to drop her words into the offbeats—as though waiting for moments when few were listening. Something else caught her attention. The jukebox activated just at the right moment—a sort of saving grace for Mao faux-focus on. Instead, her eyes lingered on the newcomer who entered purgatory dressed to head to the heavens. Mao knew her bet.

“Here for a reason,” she said. “Clever...” Mao started tapping arrhythmically against the bar as the music began to play. She wasn’t paying much mind to the words or even its musical measures for that matter. That was the Way of Niten, after all. Keep no distinct rhythm. Reinvent. Find your own. The investigator speech continued, and Mao only grew more amused as she followed along. It was getting harder to hide it all. She furrowed her brow, showed an angled grin.

“He’s dead,” Mao echoed, and couldn’t help but chuckle a bit. It only picked up when he withdrew the badge and proclaimed his position. “Occult and Paranormal Activity, yes.” Mao showed the slightest sign of second-guessing herself, bringing a palm against her cheek. They were all out of their minds, she thought, but perhaps that was the way to be. When met with the void, eschew the self. The sage assimilates with the Way.

“It just sounds professional...” Mao shifted herself up atop the bar, setting the empty drink down next to her. “We’re all agents of something these days. Aren’t we? Some more delusional than others... My money’s on the Void, investigator—give it one of a thousand different names.”