Sanctity Bound

(set: $love to 100) (set: $like to 75) (set: $neutral to 50) (set: $dislike to 25) (set: $hate to 0)(set: $shotcount to 4)(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“This isn’t funny,” Alex says, knuckles grinding against the wheel. The smile is natural. Comes from the heart. You’ve been smiling a lot tonight. Probably has something to do with the head trauma. “Stop laughing,” Alex demands. His eyes tear from the dark highway, locking with yours. Your lips shake as you press them into a thin line. You didn’t realize you were laughing. “Sorry,” you mutter. Joy bubbles from your belly and your grin stretches wider. “Driving to our end, and you’re fucking laughing.” “Won’t be our end,” you respond, finding your voice rather calm. “Hutch won’t like this. Promise you that. 12 dead, cargo got away, and CCTV tagged us.” “Don’t know that for sure,” you drawl. You arch back in the passenger seat, chasing any hint of comfort. An impossible task given the bullet lodged beneath your right rib. You unfasten your seatbelt to further your ability to pick at the wound. “What are you doing? Put your seatbelt back on,” Alex chides. He takes the exit—zipping towards the lights of Indigo. You aren’t uncomfortable as you dip your digits into the wound, searching for the projectile. Alex huffs and your gore-coated fingers struggle to find what you’re looking for. “Just don’t crash,” you say, voice a ghost over the noise of the road. //Ah.// Finally, your nails scrape metal. With as much care as you can afford in your adrenaline-shocked state, you retrieve the bullet. You hold it up, watch how the streetlights reflect off the crimson. “Slippery fucker.” [[[[Next->intro.2]]]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[Alex doesn’t let up the gas, nor does he stop trying to wipe the smile off your face. By the time you two make it back to the compound, your energy levels stabilize, and your mind slows to an aching pace. Coming down is always the hardest. Always reminding you of how much better life felt when on the cusp of death. “Hey Al,” you say, voice returning to your normal pitch. Alex spins on his toe, wide form as intimidating as ever. You are walking through the parking garage, your pace a fair bit slower than his. “Yeah?” he asks. “How do I look?” Your lips twitch into a grin. You know the answer. Your reflection had been glaring at you the entire drive home. Dust cakes your forehead—remnants of an explosion you had been too close to. Your attire is decorated in tears, shirt broken and bloodied from the shot at your torso. The disarray doesn’t bother you too much. Hutch has seen you worse. Much worse. So has Alex. That’s why he rolls his eyes, tells you, "You're wasted. Drunk on adrenaline." Your fingers prod the wound. "Wouldn't say that..." A rattle as you take a deep breath. Not good. "Definitely coming down." "Good," Alex says. "Need your head on right to get us out of this mess." "Mess?" The constant negativity has rubbed you raw. "Alex, it's going to be //fine.//" [[[[Next->intro.3]]]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")["Bold of you two to come back here," Hutch says in turn of a greeting. "We weren't followed," Alex explains. You enter the apartment kitchen, the front door clicking shut after Alex. There is a pot on the stove, filling the room with the comforting scent of curry. Hutch cooks when he’s stressed. The food on the counters doesn't bode well with you. Maybe Alex is right. Maybe this isn't something you should have been laughing about, because it’s one thing for a nervous peer to be worried, it’s a whole other ballpark when the boss is. “Want our report?” you ask, sitting at the kitchen table. Alex grabs a beer from the fridge, pops the cap with his teeth. Hutch trains his gaze to you. “Not like there’s much to say, is there?” He retrieves a case of pharms from the drawer near the stove. He tosses the tin at you. It's hard to hide a grimace as you catch it. He clocks it, adds it to his ammunition. You pop a tablet in your mouth, crushing the medicine with your teeth. The urge to take another is drowned out by your pride. Hutch leans back against the counter. “Job went south real quick. Mind telling me why you two stuck around so long?" [[ “Still work to be done.”]] [[“Not as south as it seemed.”]] [[“Hero stuff, you wouldn’t understand.”]] [[Let Alex answer for you.]] ]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“Still work to be done,” you say, leaning into the principle of it all. “Asset was still at large. Couldn’t just run away when things got tough. You taught me better than that.” “And where is the asset now?” Your head sags, mouth drying. Hutch had a tone that reminded you of what a father should be. Real right and stiff. “I taught you to use your head. To be reactive. You pushed when you should have ran.” He shakes his head, suddenly reluctant. “You’re killing me. Never wanted to do this to you.” Alex pauses mid sip. Suddenly, like a switch has been flipped, your body burns—aflame. Confusion sends a flurry of goosebumps across your flesh. “What?” you ask. “What does that mean?” Hutch grimaces, his silence deafening, and you flounder. Judging by the expression on Alex’s face, he knows exactly what Hutch is leading you towards. When it is clear no one will explain, you push yourself to your feet. “No.” Your voice is hoarse, broken before the truth. You really shouldn’t be standing. Not with the wound at your rib. Not with the thousands of thoughts bouncing through your skull. You teeter on your feet. “No.” This time the singular word comes out like a growl. “You can’t toss me.” “You’ve been compromised,” Hutch says. “The CCTVs were destroyed. No one left alive—Alex, tell him.” “He’s right,” Alex says. “I told you. We were tagged.” “We. Yes! So, Alex is dropped too?” you ask, head snapping from Alex to Hutch. “Intercepted the alerts. PD only have your face on file.” Hutch retrieves his tablet from the counter and wakes it with a tap before tossing it on the table beside you. An image pulled from a security camera, zoomed in so far, all that can be seen is your figure. You are mid stride, stalking through the back door to the Western Physibank. A pistol in hand and a terse frown pulling at your features—this was the beginning of your night. Before it went completely south. “Fuck,” you mutter. [[[[Next->intro.4]]]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[Remaining silent, you cast a look at Alex. His thick fingers tighten around his beer. “We got out as soon as we could. Had to fight an entire cell of dyce to evac.” “Should have pivoted the moment you alerted security,” Hutch chastises. “What did you gain from pushing through? Certainly not the 'bell. Don’t think the gun wound counts either.” He gestures to your seated position, tossing the ball at you. You shake your head, looking at the flames licking the pot on the stove. Alex hadn’t been the one to make the decision, and yet you can’t find it in yourself to make your voice heard. Hutch won’t understand. How can a contact understand the threat a gun faced? What happened in the Physibank was catastrophic, but you thought it a net win. Didn’t get the asset but you made a dent in the local dyce population. Dyce had been a rival in the area, it will make going back easier. That has to amount to something. But Hutch doesn’t shift, doesn’t soften. No. He can’t understand your perspective. Why try? Out of the corner of your eye, you see Hutch shake his head, suddenly reluctant. “You’re killing me. Never wanted to do this to you.” Alex pauses mid sip. Suddenly, like a switch has been flipped, your body burns—aflame. Confusion sends a flurry of goosebumps across your flesh. “What?” you ask. “What does that mean?” Hutch grimaces, his silence deafening, and you flounder. Judging by the expression on Alex’s face, he knows exactly what Hutch is leading you to. When it is clear no one will explain, you push yourself to your feet. “No.” Your voice is hoarse, broken before the truth. You really shouldn’t be standing. Not with the wound at your rib. Not with the thousands of thoughts bouncing through your skull. You teeter on your feet. “No.” This time the singular word comes out like a growl. “You can’t toss me.” “You’ve been compromised,” Hutch says. “The CCTVs were destroyed. No one left alive—Alex tell him.” You turn to him with a pleading look, but you're met with a reluctant frown. “He’s right,” Alex says. “I told you. We had gotten caught.” “//We.// Yes! So, Alex is dropped too?” you ask, head snapping from Alex to Hutch. “Intercepted the alerts. PD only have your face on file.” Hutch retrieves his tablet from the counter, wakes it with a tap before tossing it on the table beside you. An image pulled from a security camera, zoomed in so far, all that can be seen is your figure. You are mid stride, stalking through the back door to the Western Physibank. A pistol in hand and a terse frown pulling at your features—this was the beginning of your night. Before it went completely south. “Fuck,” you mutter. [[[[Next->intro.4]]]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[““Not as south as it seemed,” you say, voice level. “Could have fixed it.” “And did you?” Hutch asks, knowing. “It was worth a try.” You don’t mean for it to come out so harsh, but it does. “Can’t blame us for staying in.” “Certainly can,” Hutch says. “You’re bleeding all over my kitchen. Such idealism cost you.” Your boss smooths his brow with a stiff finger. “You’re killing me. Never wanted to do this to you.” Alex pauses mid sip. Suddenly, like a switch has been flipped, your body burns—aflame. Confusion sends a flurry of goosebumps across your flesh. “What?” you ask. “What does that mean?” Hutch grimaces, his silence deafening, and you flounder. Judging by the expression on Alex’s face, he knows exactly what Hutch is leading you to. When it is clear no one will explain, you push yourself to your feet. “No.” Your voice is hoarse, broken before the truth. You really shouldn’t be standing. Not with the wound at your rib. Not with the thousands of thoughts bouncing through your skull. You teeter on your feet. “No.” This time the singular word comes out like a growl. “You can’t toss me.” “You’ve been compromised,” Hutch says. “The CCTVs were destroyed. No one left alive—Alex, tell him.” You turn to him with a pleading look, but you're met with a reluctant frown. “He’s right,” Alex says. “I told you. We had gotten caught.” “//We.// Yes! So, Alex is dropped too?” you ask, head snapping from Alex to Hutch. “Intercepted the alerts. PD only have your face on file.” Hutch retrieves his tablet from the counter, wakes it with a tap before tossing it on the table beside you. An image pulled from a security camera, zoomed in so far, all that can be seen is your figure. You are mid stride, stalking through the back door to the Western Physibank. A pistol in hand and a terse frown pulling at your features—this was the beginning of your night. Before it went completely south. “Fuck,” you mutter. [[[[Next->intro.4]]]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[You cock your head back. “Hero stuff, you wouldn’t understand.” Alex groans into his beer. You hear him uttering your name, a soft but brutal reprimand. A snort escapes you. “Am I wrong? Took out more dyce tonight than your other guns combined.” “Wasn’t the job,” Hutch barks. “The dyce are a low-weight comp. Lower than us. Nothing to brag about, and certainly nothing to get flagged for. This ego of yours nearly got you killed. Look at you, bleeding all over my kitchen.” He shakes his head, suddenly reluctant. “You’re killing me. Never wanted to do this to you.” Alex pauses mid sip. Suddenly, like a switch has been flipped, your body burns—aflame. Confusion sends a flurry of goosebumps across your flesh. “What?” you ask. “What does that mean?” Hutch grimaces, his silence deafening, and you flounder. Judging by the expression on Alex’s face, he knows exactly what Hutch is leading you to. When it is clear no one will explain, you push yourself to your feet. “No.” Your voice is hoarse, broken before the truth. You really shouldn’t be standing. Not with the wound at your rib. Not with the thousands of thoughts bouncing through your skull. You teeter on your feet. “No.” This time the singular word comes out like a growl. “You can’t toss me.” “You’ve been compromised,” Hutch says. “The CCTVs were destroyed. No one left alive—Alex, tell him.” You turn to him with a pleading look, but you're met with a reluctant frown. “He’s right,” Alex says. “I told you. We were flagged.” “//We.// Yes! So, Alex is dropped too?” you ask, head snapping from Alex to Hutch. “Intercepted the alerts. PD only have your face on file.” Hutch retrieves his tablet from the counter, wakes it with a tap before tossing it on the table beside you. An image pulled from a security camera, zoomed in so far, all that can be seen is your figure. You are mid stride, stalking through the back door to the Western Physibank. A pistol in hand and a terse frown pulling at your features—this was the beginning of your night. Before it went completely south. “Fuck,” you mutter. [[[[Next->intro.4]]]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[Everything happens too quickly. Hutch is tearing through the apartment, hollering orders that you’re too shocked to truly absorb. Alex sits in the living room, head in his hands. The scent of curry washes you in a deep shame. You have little time to formulate a thought, never mind a sentence, before Hutch returns with a duffle bag. Your duffle bag packed full of what little belongings you have to your name. You blink and it’s Hutch who is leading you to the door. The nylon straps are rough against your palm as he presses the bag into your hand. You toss a look to Alex at the couch. No response. Not even eye-contact. “So this is it?” you ask, stammering out of the apartment. Hutch pushes your shoulder, ushering you out of the doorway. “Wasn’t meant to end this way, kid,” he says with a huff. “Just gonna toss me like I’m last week’s trash? No. After all I’ve done for the crew? Come on, Hutch,” your voice leaves you in a husky rage. Had you not had a wound raging beneath your rib, you would have fought him. Maybe physically, maybe with stronger words, you aren’t sure. “A liability,” Hutch says. “You know our policy. So does Alex. You reek. PD will be sniffing you out. For the safety of the crew, I have to cut you.” [[“Really won’t stick up for me?”]] [[“You have to do what you have to do.”]] [[“I thought we were family.”]] ]

(set:$meanNadine to true) (if:$meanNadine = true) ["I hate you lol"] (else: ) [Thank you for loving me] (if: $number is > 50) [they like you] (if: $number is < 50) [they don't like you] General romance system: (set: $love to 100) (set: $like to 75) (set: $neutral to 50) (set: $dislike to 25) (set: $hate to 0) callback to it like: (if: $relatationshipScore is > $love) [do something] at the start of each relationship (set: $NadineScore to 50) add and sub score (set: $NadineScore to $NadineScore - 25)

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[BELLUM by Cassandra Francis [[Next->start]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“Really won’t stick up for me?” you ask. “PD doesn’t stand a chance. Call in the rest of your guns and fight for me.” A laugh rolls through Hutch’s body. “Kid. Who do you think you are?” He catches his hostile tone, reins it in. “Look. You were a good gun. Okay? But you—” “Not good enough,” you spit, venom lacing your tongue. “I get it. What am I supposed to do now?” Hutch places his hands on his hips as he looks out at the city landscape. It hits you then that he’s really ready to cut all ties with you. It’s the way he’s holding himself, as if he’s a stranger. “First off, get someplace safe. Take care of that hole in your stomach.” You’re ready to bite back when he continues. “I’ll wait until midnight before publicly cutting you. That gives you a few hours before the hounds know you’re free meat. After that…they’ll find any grounds to arrest you. Best bet would be to seek asylum with a company.” “If my own crew won’t protect me, why should I seek out another?” you ask. A sedan passes through the street before you and the both of you stay silent until it turns down the block. “We are one of the smallest crews in the industry. We can’t protect you. But they can. Once your name is thrown to the sea, they’ll come for you. Just like the PD. Guns a gun. As valuable as credit.” “I don’t want another crew, Hutch. I want to stay.” He lifts his head. You know you sound stubborn, lost and angry. But your life before Hutch was shrouded in chaos. His crew—the Loach, was where you found your purpose. Your skills were natural, and it didn’t take long to feel at home within the crew. Completing jobs, getting to know the other guns, living in the compound—it had quickly become your new normal. You hadn’t realized this stability was so fragile. “Unless you’re capable of wiping the PD’s files, don’t count on it.” It’s a sarcastic comment. One that sticks to your brain like muck. “Now…get out of here. Do us all a favor, and don’t linger around the compound. Any affiliation with you will cause my crew stress.” Hutch turns back to the apartment entrance. You think you should say something, but goodbyes were never easy—especially ones that are laced with such bitterness. You wait until you hear the door click closed before you move. Indigo is small but dense, built upon layers and layers of infrastructure, and it is a warzone. There are few havens, and even fewer ones open to a gun of your stature, but you can think of one place that might stitch your wound for the night. [[Next -> part 1.1]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")["You have to do what you have to do." At the end of the day it's a business Hutch has to look out for. The whole cannot be sacrificed for a part. The life of a gun was not meant to be built from sentimentality. You understand this. Hutch places his hands on his hips as he looks out at the Burrow. The dingy district taunts you. A moment passes before he looks to you, respect lingering within his gaze. “Get someplace safe. Take care of that hole in your stomach. I’ll wait until midnight before publicly cutting you. That gives you a few hours before the hounds know you’re free meat. After that…they’ll find any grounds to arrest you. Best bet would be to seek asylum with a company.” “And you think the other companies will take me in knowing I’m flagged?” you ask. A sedan passes through the street and the both of you stay silent until it turns down the block. “Maybe. Maybe not. But it is your best bet. Once your name is thrown to the sea, they’ll come for you. Just like the PD. Guns a gun. As valuable as credit.” You aren’t enthusiastic about joining another company. Your life before Hutch was shrouded in chaos. His crew—the Loach, was where you found your purpose. Your skills were natural, and it didn’t take long to feel at home within the company. Completing jobs, getting to know the other guns, living in the compound—it had quickly become your new normal. You hadn’t realized that stability was so fragile. “Unless you’re capable of wiping the PD’s files, don’t count on it.” It’s a sarcastic comment. One that sticks to your brain like muck. “Now…get out of here. Do us all a favor, and don’t linger around the compound. Any affiliation with you will cause my crew stress.” Hutch turns back to the apartment entrance. You think you should say something, but goodbyes were never easy. You wait until you hear the door click closed before you move. Indigo is small but dense, built upon layers and layers of infrastructure, and it is a warzone. There are few havens, and even fewer ones open to a gun of your stature, but you can think of one place that might stitch your wound for the night. [[Next -> part 1.1]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“Thought we were a family,” you say. Instantly, Hutch stiffens. “Kid,” he starts, not even bothering with your name. “You’ve been with us for—” “Five years,” you supply. “Five years. I can’t deny that you became a staple to our crew, but it’s always been business. Moving product, applying pressure. You’re a great gun, that’s why I know you’ll be okay.” “Okay?” you echo. “I’m at the edge of the world, Hutch. The moment you release my name, PD will be biting at my heels.” “But so will the other crews,” Hutch says. “I’ll wait until midnight before cutting you. That gives you a few hours before the hounds know you’re free meat. After that…they’ll find any grounds to arrest you. Seek asylum with a company. Someone bigger, greater than me. He’s making it sound so easy. “And you think the other companies will take me in knowing I’m in the system?” you ask. A sedan passes through the street and the both of you stay silent until it turns down the block. “Maybe. Maybe not. But it is your best bet. Once your name is thrown to the sea, they’ll come for you. Just like the PD. Guns a gun. As valuable as credit.” You aren’t enthusiastic about joining another company. Your life before Hutch was shrouded in chaos. His crew—the Loach, was where you found your purpose. Your skills were natural, and it didn’t take long to feel at home within the company. Completing jobs, getting to know the other guns, living in the compound—it had quickly become your new normal. You hadn’t realized that stability was so fragile. You know it’s a dead horse, but you can’t help but touch it. “Really no way I can come back in?” “Unless you’re capable of wiping the PD’s files, don’t count on it.” It’s a sarcastic comment. One that sticks to your brain like muck. “Now…get out of here. Do us all a favor, and don’t linger around the compound. Any affiliation with you will cause my crew stress.” Hutch turns back to the apartment entrance. You think you should say something, but goodbyes were never easy. You wait until you hear the door click closed before you move. Indigo is small but dense, built upon layers and layers of infrastructure, and it is a warzone. There are few havens, and even fewer ones open to a gun of your stature, but you can think of one place that might stitch your wound for the night. [[Next -> part 1.1]]]

(set: $NadineScore to 75)+(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“Please, Nadine. Let me in. I'm *freezing* out here." A partial lie. Due to the wound at your abdomen, it feels like you were doused in flames. Still, a chill rakes you from time to time, reminding you that the city was in a deep freeze. “Ugh!” a woman grunts. The door to the apartment opens and you barrel in. Nadine stands dressed in her loungewear, hands on her hips. “I haven’t seen you in God knows how long. Not since you joined that comp. And here you are on my doorstep—in my apartment without so much as a warning call.” You set your bag down next to the door. “Couldn’t call, Nad. No time.” Another partial lie. You couldn’t call because every chud with an interceptor could ping your location the moment you hit dial. Despite your best efforts, it had taken you an hour to get to Nadine’s apartment. Only so fast you can move with a wound as deep as yours. You check your terminal, the watch face is bright in the dim living room. Nearly midnight. Nadine turns the lamp beside the couch on and faces you. “You’re hurt,” she says. Her tone softens, but her expression remains unchanged. Her anger is palpable. “But why are you here?” “Need a place to stay,” you say. You can feel the air tighten, so you quickly add, “Just for the night.” “The night…” Nadine narrows her eyes. “Right.” She’s piecing things together; you can see the cogs turning. “And you couldn’t get help with the Loaches…because you’ve been cut.” You navigate the small apartment and find the bathroom with shaky vision. Nadine runs a pharmacy out of her cabinet, and you find everything you could need within the room. “And you thought to come here?” Nadine asks. She leans in the doorway to the bathroom. Turning the sink on, you get to work cleaning the bullet wound. “You’re one of the few people in town unaffiliated. You’re also one of the few people in town that would open the door for me.” You hiss as you prod the opening at your abdomen. “Well, one of those is true,” Nadine says. Silent sits between you and you find it hard to focus on your ministrations. “Four years…four years we had known one another and the moment you are hired by the Loaches, you disappear from my life.” You look up from your bloodstained hands. Nadine was a friend from the outside. The past life you had now been thrust back into. You had met at your old civi job. She grounded you when you got too big for your breeches. You helped push her to try new things. Friends once upon a time. But you woke up one day, and you knew things had to change. So, you changed them. The only negative thing about shedding this past life was shedding Nadine. In truth, you could have handled it better, put your thoughts—your feelings into words, but the excitement of getting on with a new beginning was too alluring. You had left with a garbled explanation, not thinking of the repercussions, the very repercussions you face now. Your name spills from her lips, doused in agitation. “Got a lot of balls, coming back here. After such an exit.” [[ “Nadine, I’m really sorry.”]] [[“God! Can we just move on?”]] [[“Not balls, just no other choice.”]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“Nadine, I’m really sorry,” you say, keeping your tone earnest. “Things just went really fast. Couldn’t keep up with life. Couldn’t keep up with…” “Me. Right,” she says. She takes your apology into consideration. She softens a bit and you finally recognize the woman behind the scorn. “Those last few months were chaotic; I’ll give you that.” She sighs. “Ah. I can’t stay mad at you. I’m just glad you came out of that world in one piece.” Her eyes linger on the wound. “More or less.” “Out is also a particular choice of words,” you mutter. She balks. “I just got you back, no way I’m going to let you go now. We have so much to catch up on.” “Not my choice, Nad,” you say. “You know how it is, once my name is in the system, can’t really take it out. They’ll come for me. PD and the comps.” “When?” Nadine asks, head swiveling to look at her front door. “Depends. Maybe an hour?” “Jeez,” she huffs. Your fingers slip as you struggle with the needle and thread. “The stitches need to be tighter.” You know this, but your brain and your body aren’t lining up. Your fingers feel thick, unresponsive. Even after all this time, Nadine can still read you with ease. She moves, taking a seat on the edge of the tub. Palms up, she offers her assistance. This is her bridging the gap between you. Back in your civi days, you often got into brawls with low tier thugs. You had many memories of sitting in Nadine’s bathroom—the pharmacy you had called it, with her tending to whatever injuries you had sustained. Things might not be able to go back to the way they used to be, but they can be similar, and in your current dejected state that means more than she can know. Still, a part of you wants to make it clear that you can’t in good conscious stay in her life. Come midnight, you don’t know what kind of life you’ll be given. [[Let her help.]] [[“I can do it myself.”]]]

(set:$NadineScore to $NadineScore - 25)+(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“God!” you growl, “Can we just move on?” Nadine straightens as if you’ve shot her. “Excuse me?” she asks. You stop fumbling with the gore at your stomach, look up to her with a pleading glare. “I’m bleeding out, fired from the one job I was ever good at, and you can’t find it in you to shed this grudge between us.” “Grudge?” Nadine asks, voice stretching awkwardly over the word. “You make it sound like some teenage drama. You left me high and dry during my my fucking liscensing exams–” “Yeah, well, I just didn’t have it in me to stay involved in a life leagues away from where I was supposed to be.” She scoffs, and for a second your insult lingers in the air. “You know–I had gotten past this. Thought I did at least. I wasn’t going to hold it against you–but you just waltz in and think you can uproot my night?” Your anger dies in your throat. You know it’s the pain talking. Know the frustration belongs to the whole not the part. “Take what you want, just don’t bleed all over my bathroom,” she says. You fumble with the stitches, patience never your strong suit. “I’ll be out of your hair tonight,” you say. “Right,” she says, inching out of the doorway. It takes you a fair bit longer than you’re proud of before you emerge from the bathroom. The stitches are awkward, but you put two bandages over the hole instead of one, so you think the work will hold. Nadine sits on her couch, eyes trained to her phone. She looks up as you grab the handle of your duffle bag. “You leaving already?” she asks. “Not sure it’s wise to keep a commodity so close to where you live. You know how it is. PD will come. So will other comps.” “A commodity?” she echoes. “Look who grew an ego.” She shakes her head, her short black bob bounces with the movement. “I guess it would have been odd had you not, considering how quickly you rose…” “Doesn’t mean jack now,” you say. “Loaches tossed me all the same.” “What are your plans?” Nadine asks. “The billion-dollar question,” you muse. You look out the window, down to the bright city. A thought occurs to you, a sharp idea that sends a thrill of excitement through your exhausted state. “Say, do you know anyone in the PD?" [[Next | part 1.2]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“Not balls,” you hiss as you stitch your wound. “Just no other choice. I’ll be out of your hair by dawn. Promise.” She laughs, a caustic noise that catches at her throat. “No way I’m letting you go so easily.” You hear a bit of her old self in those words. You cling to the familiarity with a white-knuckled grip. “Not sure it’ll be wise to keep a commodity in your living room. You know how it is. PD will come. So will other comps.” “A commodity?” she echoes. “Look who grew an ego.” She shakes her head, her short black bob bounces with the movement. “I guess it would have been odd had you not, considering how quickly you rose…” “Doesn’t mean jack now,” you say. You cut the thick thread with a pair of scissors. “Loaches tossed me all the same.” “What are your plans?” Nadine asks. “The billion-dollar question,” you muse. Using a washcloth, you wipe away the remainder of the blood, scrubbing your skin raw. A thought occurs to you, a sharp idea that sends a thrill of excitement through your exhausted state. “Say, do you know anyone in the PD?” [[Next | part 1.2]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[““No way,” Nadine says. She sits back in her chair and crosses her arms. “That would never work.” You make a face. “Hutch said that’s the only way back in.” “Not saying he didn’t say //that//,” Nadine says. “Just saying, it doesn’t work that way. PD is //hostile//. Actively searching for guns to put down. You need a comp.” “Hutch also said that.” “Intend to listen to that suggestion too?” You shrug, take a swig of water. The two of you are seated at her table, soaking in the silence of the night. Midnight has just struck. Won’t be long until you need to jet. “Don’t want another company. I like the Loaches just fine.” “Who is to say you won’t like this one?” Nadine asks. “It’s about survival. You’re smarter than this.” You bite your lip and shake your head. “Those damn cameras. They get more advanced every year.” Another drink of water, it goes down like gasoline. “But you’re right. I am smarter than this. Tell you what, I’ll say yes to the first comp to poach me, and with them I’ll storm the PD, wipe my information from the software, and boom, Hutch will be calling me—pleading for me to come home.” Nadine simply stares at you for a moment. You know it’s optimism, or maybe ego that is driving this stubbornness, but it’s the only way you can cope with what is now your reality. “Right…” she says. “You’re in a real rush, aren’t you?” “Data retrieval will be harder the longer I wait,” you respond. “Can’t really take my time when I know I need to go home.” Despite this confidence, a bud of unease sprouts within you. You don’t like how Nadine’s looking at you as if she sees something you don’t, so you trace circles in the table. Family has never been a strong suit for you. Those related to you by blood left you with venom in your belly, and while you know Hutch and the Loaches were not family, they still ushered in a time of rebirth for you. The Loaches were your first crew. The first taste of what true freedom awaited you across the line of legality. You knew the cost of this freedom was destruction. A disposable hand for hire had little leverage, but up until this point you never felt as such. Hutch, Alex, and the rest always treated you with respect. That’s why this stings, why it feels like something took a chunk out of your body. You can’t return to the other side of that line, so you must swim to stay afloat—but your brain goes fuzzy, your heart hurts, when you think of change. So, you’ll try for the needle in the haystack, the one in a million chance of your plan actually succeeding, all because the alternative is inconceivable. [[Next | part 1.3]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[Perhaps it can be pinned down to selfishness, or maybe something softer, but you raise your bloodied fingers from your wound. Nadine takes the tools from you. She works with precision, with expertise, and you release a shaky laugh. “Thanks.” “Where did the bullet go?” she asks. All you can see is the crown of her head, tendrils of disheveled hair reminding you that you had most likely woken her up. You retrieve it from the pocket of your pants, careful not to disturb her work. She looks at the projectile between your fingers. “Put it in the jar,” she says. You follow her attention to a large container on the sink. It was nearly full of bullets. As you lean over and toss it in, you ask, “When’d you get so busy?” “Had to do something after my friend abandoned me.” Nadine shrugs. “Ouch. I deserve it.” “Eh, that was a low blow. Just missed you I guess.” She clips the thread and begins dressing the flesh. “Tell you what, the guns pay well.” “Oh, I can—” “Nope. Your treatment is on the house. Always.” You offer her a small smile before sobering. “I didn’t know you were past the veil,” you say. “Thought you would always stay clean.” She makes a face before pulling away. Your wound is tucked neatly behind a wide bandage. She washes her hands. “No point. Not with the way things are heading.” You aren’t sure if you’ve been under a rock compared to her, because you truly have no idea what she’s referring to. Before you can ask, she juts her chin out, says, “Enough about me. What about you? Where will you go from here?” “The billion-dollar question,” you muse. Using a washcloth, you wipe away the remainder of the blood, scrubbing your skin raw. A thought occurs to you, a sharp idea that sends a thrill of excitement through your exhausted state. “Say, do you know anyone in the PD?” [[Next | part 1.2]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[Better to nip this before it grows too tall. “I can do it myself,” you say, leaning away from her. Nadine hides her hurt behind a nod. “Right. Well…I’ll let you get to it,” she says. You blink and she’s gone, thin frame tucked into the dimly lit apartment. This is better, you think. 5 years is a long time to lose someone, and while your life has undeniably shifted once more, you can’t promise you can stay in her view. It takes you a fair bit longer than you’re proud of before you emerge from the bathroom. The stitches are awkward, but you put two bandages over the hole instead of one, so you think the work will hold. Nadine sits on her couch, eyes trained to her phone. She looks up as you grab the handle of your duffle bag. “You leaving already?” she asks. “Not sure it’s wise to keep a commodity so close to where you live. You know how it is. PD will come. So will other comps.” “A commodity?” she echoes. “Look who grew an ego.” She shakes her head, her short black bob bounces with the movement. “I guess it would have been odd had you not, considering how quickly you rose…” “Doesn’t mean jack now,” you say. “Loaches tossed me all the same.” “What are your plans?” Nadine asks. “The billion-dollar question,” you muse. You look out the window, down to the bright city. A thought occurs to you, a sharp idea that sends a thrill of excitement through your exhausted state. “Say, do you know anyone in the PD?” [[Next | part 1.2]]]

(set: $CyrilScore to 50)+(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“I should take off,” you say, drumming your hands against the table. The pain at your abdomen has been sufficiently numbed through the use of medication, and if you ignore the awkward ache around your stitches, you can convince yourself you’re fine. Nadine chews her cheek. “Really can’t stay a few more minutes?” It’s a quarter after midnight. If you want to get a head start on the streets, you need to leave now. “I’m charmed, Nad, I am, but I need to put the plan into motion.” “The plan. Right,” Nadine says. “Listen…” You pick your bag up from the table and throw her your attention. She sounds like she’s about to say something else when there’s a knock on her door. Your shoulders rise to your ears as you look to the entryway. A moment of silence as you consider this. While the city never truly sleeps, people don’t tend to visit one another so late at night. Nadine is calm when your head swivels back to her. So calm that it confirms the very vague suspicion seeded at your belly. Her head cocks to the side as she meets your confusion with a dry expression. “Yes to the first comp, right?” She stands and all you can do is watch as she pulls the door open. A lone masked figure stands on the other side. Their slim silhouette is polluted with edges, a tactical vest over a sweater, a utility belt over cargo pants. A true soldier. Their mask only covers the bottom half of their face and they train their dark eyes to you. A patch is stitched on the strap of their vest. A red scorpion. //No,// you think. //Anyone but them.// The stranger looks to Nadine, their eyes crinkled with mirth. “Shit,” they say. A masculine voice, only slightly muffled from the mask. “Make it look easy, Nad.” “Thought you were unaffiliated,” you hiss, noting the gun on the man’s hip. “Never said that,” Nadine says, and there is a shift in her tone—an iciness that wasn’t there before. You glare at the red scorpion. Of all the companies for her to be working with, why does it have to be this one? The Catia are cutthroat, highly territorial and known only for their ambitious jobs. They didn’t dabble in anything that didn’t warrant a full reaction from the PD. Tanks and all. They are a death wish finished with a bow of authoritative snobbery, and you want nothing to do with them. “No,” you say, a laugh bouncing from your lips. You shake your head and move to exit. “Nuh-uh.” The Catian in uniform grabs you by the shoulder and you still. “Come on, man,” you mutter. “Just let me go.” You start forward but Nadine says your name, and your toe drags against the floor. “You should comply,” she says. Your lips twitch and you sneer. “What?” you ask, pushing forward, “You gonna—” A dagger sinks into the meat of your thigh and you stifle a pained groan. Nadine scrunches her nose. “Warned you.” Your hands come up to paw at the knife stuck in your leg. The man shoos your hands. “Leave it,” he says. You want to speak, a thousand words popping to the forefront of your mind, but all that comes out is a strained growl. “Can you walk?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before tugging you out of the apartment. As you wobble, you feel the blade stretching your flesh. The pain sends splotches of black to your vision and time evades you. You blink and you’re out of the building, down on the street. A dark SUV screeches to a halt in front of the complex. Your ankles are heavy as you’re dragged towards the vehicle. Nadine opens the backseat door, and they stuff you inside. Cheek colliding with the leather seat, you writhe in pain. The wound at your rib has reopened, coating you in a thick wetness. The car smells like pine and the radio is so loud you can’t hear yourself think. People speak, doors close, and then you’re moving. You can’t sit up. The crown of your head keeps bumping into the door of the car, into the speaker, and you can’t //do// anything but listen to the blasting drum and bass and grieve beneath your wounds. Despite the noise, despite the blade still in your leg, you lose consciousness. [[Next | 2.1]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[Sentience comes like a brick wall, and as swiftly as you slept, you wake. You sit up, take stock of your surroundings. You’re in a studio apartment. Alone. Far nicer than the room you had been boarding in at Hutch’s compound, this apartment has been furnished with simple yet quality pieces. You frown, hand palming your body beneath the bedding. There is no pain. No blood. Not even the taste of meds on your tongue. It’s too odd, too //normal//. Peeling the comforter off, you note that someone has redressed you, put you in a pair of clean clothes. You can feel the bandages stuck to your skin. The stitches pull taut as you move, and you’re overcome with the inherent unease that comes with the notion of breaking apart and banding back together. Still, you feel able. Only the high-end pharms can kill pain like this. Not surprising considering Catia’s prestige, and for the moment you are grateful for the resource. You stand, stretch, and approach the window. The morning light douses the city in a soft glow, and if you didn’t know any better you would think it a beautiful view. Indigo is nested in a valley, and from your spot in the high-rise, you can see the layers of skyscrapers and housing complexes–and of course the brilliant blue elevator sprouting from Allure. The elle carves the sky in two–a vertical transportation to Cradle, the manmade sun to Indigo’s gritty underworld. Only the genetically wealthy could live up on the utopia. The elle shuttles tourists down into the only district they are permitted to enter: Allure. You’ve never been, but you’ve seen the ads for the casinos and clubs, heard the stories of guns caught in the wealthy district. There are never trials for those who break the one golden rule of the city. No one with a record is allowed in Allure. The PD wanted to guarantee the tourists wouldn’t be confronted with the truth of Indigo. Allure is the only reason Indigo gets any funding. Only makes sense to protect it. Judging by the location of the elle, and the angle of the mountains, you’re in Varmill. Having spent most of your life in the Burrow, the district comprised of grime and anger, you’ve never seen the city from this height. You rake a hand across your features, a disgruntled grown settling in your chest. The Catia are dangerous, loud, and ambitious, but a part of you is mystified that they poached you. And so personally, at that. Nadine had always been straight. The night before your first real job, she confessed that she didn’t want to see you go down the wrong path. What had made her join the Catia, you wonder. You didn’t think she had it in her. You could nearly be proud of her had her criminality not been the sole reason you were nabbed by the most fearsome comp in the city. The very comp you needed to have a chat with. You ready yourself for the day, opting to take a long shower. Someone has placed toiletries in the bathroom, and you can’t help but think that Nadine had something to do with your favorite scent being the theme of the items. Careful of your bandages, you clean and redress. Mobility is difficult, the throbbing in your leg a constant reminder that you are damaged goods. You like to think that you could have been talked into coming. As you make your way out of your apartment, agitation blisters. Injured and outnumbered, they did not need to physically harm you to bring you here. As you exit the apartment, you try to swallow your anger, but it goes down like a rock. [[Next |2.2]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[The Catia own the entire apartment building. Their red scorpion embellishes the wall fixtures, and the names of their guns mark the apartment units. You don’t bother remembering the monikers, convinced you’re not staying. You aren’t a prisoner, you remind yourself. This is not your jail and they are not your captors. You just need to find whoever is in charge and convey your intentions. The buttons in the elevator are labeled, and you take it down a level to the floor titled: Communal. A mistake, as when the door slides open, you’re confronted with a room full of strangers. The floor has been hollowed out, turned into an open space used for recreational activities. One corner has been turned into a gym, another an arcade. A kitchen marks the middle of the room, dining table full. It appears you’ve interrupted breakfast. “Look who’s up!” someone hollers from your right. You turn to find a living room set positioned before a giant television. You search the faces of those in the room but no sign of Nadine. A few of those seated in the dining area return to their plates of eggs and toast, but for the most part, all eyes are on you. You cock your head, might as well make good use of their attention. [[“Where is your boss?”]] [[“Who stabbed me?”]] [[“Where is Nadine?”]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[““Where is your boss?” you ask, voice a bit rough. “Our boss, you mean.” The pitch is familiar, and you drag your eyes to a man leaning on the back of the couch. He pushes off the furniture and approaches. Judging by the frame and angle of his eyes, he’s the one who came to Nadine’s apartment. The one who sunk his dagger into your thigh. You fight an aggressive bristle, urge your shoulders to relax, and nod. Time and place, you remind yourself. “Right. About that. I need to talk to him.” His sharp brows dip above his nose. “//She// is out right now; you’ll have to wait.” That sounds like torture, so you shift on your feet and try again, “Where is she?” The man tilts his shoulders and throws a look to the kitchen. “You want some breakfast?” He doesn’t wait for you to respond. He stalks to the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. “Your boss. When will she be back?” The man is bent, head vanishing into the depths of the refrigerator. He pulls out with a bottle of synthetic egg and a carton of orange juice. “Omelet okay?” You openly glare. [[“You stabbed me and now you’re cooking me breakfast?”]] [[“Your. Boss. Now.”]] [[“Do you have anything else?”]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“Which one of you stabbed me?” you ask, fists tensing at your side. Heat burns the back of your skull, skin flaring with agitation. “Ah,” someone says, short of a chuckle. Your attention is drawn to a man leaning on the back of the couch. He pushes off the furniture and approaches. Judging by the frame and angle of his eyes, he’s the one who came to Nadine’s apartment. “That would be me.” “That wasn’t necessary,” you say, voice barely escaping through your clenched teeth. “I would have come with you.” At that, he laughs. “Doubt that.” “You do this to all your recruits?” “Not a recruit. A hire.” You snort. “Right. About that, where is your boss?” “Our boss. And she’s out right now; you’ll have to wait.” That sounds like torture, so you shift on your feet and try again, “Where is she?” The man tilts his shoulders and throws a look to the kitchen. “You want some breakfast?” He doesn’t wait for you to respond. He stalks to the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. “Your boss. When will she be back?” The man is bent, head vanishing into the depths of the refrigerator. He pulls out with a bottle of synthetic egg and a carton of orange juice. “Omelet okay?” You openly glare. [[“You stabbed me and now you’re cooking me breakfast?”]] [[“Your. Boss. Now.”]] [[“Do you have anything else?”]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“Nadine,” you say, leaning to get a better look at the room. “Where is she?” “Ah—the friend,” someone says.. You turn to find a man leaning against the back of the couch. “How nice to have a new hire with history.” He pushes off the furniture and approaches. Judging by the frame and angle of his eyes, he’s the one who came to Nadine’s apartment. “Not a new hire,” you say, a coil of agitation unfurling. He makes a face akin to a grimace. “Right. About that—” “I need to speak to your boss.” He narrows his eyes, cocks his head with a small smile. “Thought you wanted to see Nadine.” He shrugs. “Either way, our boss is currently out. You will have to wait.” That sounds like torture, so you shift on your feet and try again, “Where is she?” The man tilts his shoulders and throws a look to the kitchen. “You want some breakfast?” He doesn’t wait for you to respond. He stalks to the kitchen and opens the refrigerator. “Your boss. When will she be back?” The man is bent, head vanishing into the depths of the refrigerator. He pulls out with a bottle of synthetic egg and a carton of orange juice. “Omelet okay?” You openly glare. [[“You stabbed me and now you’re cooking me breakfast?”]] [[“Your. Boss. Now.”]] [[“Do you have anything else?”]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“You stabbed me and now you’re cooking me breakfast?” you ask. The man snorts from his place at the stove, the comment seemingly catching him off guard. “Is that the Catian way?” You lean into the edge of the kitchen island, watching him work. Just as he said, he’s making an omelet for you. He’s even sprinkling green onion into it. You can’t remember the last time you saw fresh produce. “No. But it’s the Cyril way.” When you don’t respond, he twists and gives you a long look. “What’s your name?” Judging by the way he fakes offense, you must be glaring. “Really? The labor of cooking you breakfast isn’t worth a noun to call you?” “Surely Nadine filled you in,” you reply. He flips the omelet. “Yes. I know your name, your place of birth, even what year you bought your first gun, it was all in the alert. Call me old fashioned but I like to get people’s names personally.” “My name doesn’t matter—not to you. I won’t be staying.” He plates the breakfast and slides it to you. Cyril’s lips twitch, not quite a smile but not an outright smirk. He hands you a fork. There is no avoiding the gnawing discomfort of hunger. Begrudgingly, you take it from him and sit on the stool. Victory shines in his green eyes. “You seem so sure about that. Like it’s a choice.” You stab the fork into the egg. Across the island, Cyril leans toward you. His slim frame isn’t terribly imposing, but there is a brutality to his features that make you still. “You haven’t been in the game for long, not compared to any of us, so I’ll break it down for you. Once a civi passes the veil, there is no going back. That’s not news no—but what surprises many fresh faces is the hunt that occurs once a gun is fired from a company. Because a gun is just that—an asset, an extension of their crew, once cut free they are poached.” Cyril straightens with a frown. The fork weighs heavy in your fingers. “Really, you should feel flattered, something in your file must have interested the boss—beats me though.” [[“No need to be rude.”]] [[“Me too.”]] [[“I’m a catch and a half.”]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[In no mood for idle conversations or distractions, you harden your features, sharpening your glare into a fine point. “Your. Boss. Now.” Each word comes with a snap of your teeth. The man’s eyes glimmer with agitation but his lips lift into a smile. The contrast in emotion grates your already inflamed nerves. “Easy there,” he warns. “I’ll be the first to know, there isn’t rushing the boss. She’ll be back when she gets back, and in the meantime, you’ll survive. Promise.” He works over the stove and you fight a wave of anger. He really intends to make you breakfast, as if your life hasn’t turned upside down and dumped you into his presence. “What’s your name?” Judging by the way he fakes offense, you must be glaring. “Really? The labor of cooking you breakfast isn’t worth a noun to call you?” “Surely Nadine filled you in,” you reply. He flips the omelet. “Yes. I know your name, your place of birth, even what year you bought your first gun, it was all in the alert. Call me old fashioned but I like to get people’s names personally.” “My name doesn’t matter—not to you. I won’t be staying.” He plates the breakfast and slides it to you. His lips twitch, not quite a smile but not an outright smirk. He hands you a fork. There is no avoiding the gnawing discomfort of hunger. Begrudgingly, you take it from him and sit on the stool. Victory shines in his green eyes. “You seem so sure about that. Like it’s a choice.” You stab the fork into the egg. Across the island, he leans toward you. His slim frame isn’t terribly imposing, but there is a brutality to his features that make you still. “You haven’t been in the game for long, not compared to any of us, so I’ll break it down for you. Once a civi passes the veil, there is no going back. That’s not news no—but what surprises many fresh faces is the hunt that occurs once a gun is fired from a company. Because a gun is just that—an asset, an extension of their crew, once cut free they are poached. It’s only natural.” You snort. “So you're some company hound, is that it? No free agency?” Your attempt to rile him up misses. He smiles, a cynical expression that twists his already sharp features. “No. My name is Cyril. I do what I am told. A quality I thought innate to all guns, but you have proven that assumption wrong and then some. When the boss gets back, you can talk to her, but I must warn you if you take the tone you used with me, she won’t be so…pleased to hear you out.” You sneer. “I’ll keep that in mind.” After Cyril falls silent, you’re left with the omelet to occupy your attention. Gods, you’re starving. There isn’t any shame in eating what he prepared for you, you know this, but in a way, it feels like defeat. Pride, you think to yourself, just stupid pride. You take a bite, upset that it tastes so good. [[Next | red alert]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[There is no denying how hungry you are, but even still, an omelet isn’t right up your alley. Absurdity of this exchange aside, you think the man has been accommodating thus far, so why not ask for something else? “Do you have anything else?” The man’s face slackens—not having expected the question. “Oh of course. We have yogurt, cereal, bagels—” “A bagel is fine.” You take a seat on the stool and lean against the cool kitchen island. “What is your name?” you ask, watching him push the bagel into the toaster. “Cyril,” he says. The name suits him, you think. His slim frame isn’t terribly imposing, but there is a brutality to his features that make him difficult to read. “And yours?” he asks, retrieving a tub of cream cheese from the fridge. Your silence serves as the wedge between you. “Really? The labor of cooking you breakfast isn’t worth your name?” “You call this labor?” you ask. “And surely Nadine filled you in.” The bagels pop from the toaster with a punctual click. “Yes. I know your name, your place of birth, even what year you bought your first gun, it was all in the alert. Call me old fashioned but I like to get people’s names personally.” “My name doesn’t matter—not to you. I won’t be staying.” He smears the cream cheese on the bagel before plating it. The dish slides towards you. Cyril’s lips twitch, not quite a smile but not an outright smirk. Hunger presses you, compels you to take the bread and stuff your face, but you restrain yourself, not wanting to appear desperate. Across the island, Cyril leans toward you. “You seem so sure about that. Like it’s a choice.” “It is a choice.” “Such confidence for a statement so incorrect.” He smiles but the expression never reaches his eyes. “You’re green, a baby in the scheme of things. It only makes sense that you have no idea how any of this works.” You grit your teeth. “Enlighten me, then.” “All you need to know is that you’re the property of the Catia now. Really, you should feel flattered, something in your file must have interested the boss. Very rarely does she poach people. Guess you kinda walked into it though, showing up at Nadine’s and all.” Humor lifts his tone, and something coils in your stomach. It’s still difficult to wrap your head around Nadine’s transformation. “When will your boss be back?” you ask, not knowing what else to say to the snide remark. Cyril hums and looks away, gaze drifting to the table of guns. “In a bit. Just eat.” After Cyril falls silent, you’re left with the bagel to occupy your attention. Gods, you’re starving. There isn’t any shame in eating what he prepared you, you know this, but in a way, it feels like defeat. Pride, you think to yourself, just stupid pride. You take a bite, upset that it tastes so good. [[Next | red alert]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“No need to be rude,” you say. Cyril snorts. “Rude? I could say what’s on my mind. Now //that// would be rude. What I said was the truth. I don’t understand why exactly we decided to bring in an injured grabber from a comp of no notoriety.” “May I remind you that you stabbed me.” “You were injured before that. Right? A 9mm to the abdomen?” Cyril shakes his head. Your brow scrunches and you openly glare at him. “How do you know that?” He shrugs. “And the Loaches have notoriety.” “Maybe in the Burrow, but not up here where the real guns play. Look—when the boss comes back, we’ll get this all sorted out. She’ll place you on food runs and maybe if you pretend hard enough, it’ll feel like a civi job.” You aren’t sure if he’s trying to pacify you or himself. Either way, it isn’t working. You don’t want to be here, period. Your heart is still set on storming the PD station and wiping your data and valiantly returning to the Loaches. They may not hold much weight in the company of the other organizations, but they were your first and only home. Saying goodbye to Alex and Hutch left a bad taste in your mouth. It was hardly an end to the chapter, you think. Hutch didn’t even seem sorry. You try not to think of the lack of remorse shown by Alex either. After Cyril falls silent, you’re left with the omelet to occupy your attention. Gods, you’re starving. There isn’t any shame in eating what he prepared for you, you know this, but in a way, it feels like defeat. Pride, you think to yourself, just stupid pride. You take a bite, upset that it tastes so good. [[Next | red alert]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“Trust me. I know,” you say. The comment isn’t meant as self-depreciating, you are very aware of the difference in your skillset versus the guns running the companies that actually influence the flow of goods in Indigo. Compared to the Catia, your little family with the Loaches is just that—little. Cyril’s nose twitches. “At least we can agree on that.” “But it matters very little—like you so graciously supplied, I do not have a choice. The only thing I can do is talk to your boss.” “I have to warn you, she isn’t the most flexible person to work with. She knows what she wants and how to get it. It’s what makes us so good.” “And yet you question her judgment of me?” you ask. His lips press thin, apparently you touched a nerve. “I am sure she has her reasons,” is all he says. His gaze shifts to the room, to the guns seated at the dining table. The conversation is as good as done, leaving your attention to fall back to the warm omelet. The green onions sprinkle the oblong food, adding color and texture to the simple meal. Gods, you’re starving. There isn’t any shame in eating what he prepared you, you know this, but in a way, it feels like defeat. Pride, you think to yourself, just stupid pride. You take a bite, upset that it tastes so good. [[Next | red alert]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[Your lips twist into a crooked smirk. “I’m a catch and a half, Cyril.” A short huff of air leaves him. A laugh, maybe a scoff, you aren’t sure. “Are you now?” he asks. “Best shot in the Burrows.” “The Burrows,” he says it like it’s a cute word—a cute place. “You know where we are right?” You roll your eyes. “Varmill. But judging how swiftly your boss sent you after me, some of my skill must translate to such an //affluent// environment.” The remark ends with a sickly-sweet smile. It’s his turn to roll his eyes. “We’ll see,” he says and then juts out his chin. “Eat.” His gaze leaves you, bounces from the guns sitting at the dining table to the couch he had departed from. The conversation is as good as done, leaving your attention to fall back to the warm omelet. The green onions sprinkle the oblong food, adding color and texture to the simple meal. Gods, you’re starving. There isn’t any shame in eating what he prepared for you, you know this, but in a way, it feels like defeat. Pride, you think to yourself, just stupid pride. You take a bite, upset that it tastes so good. [[Next | red alert]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[You’re halfway through your breakfast when the city shudders. You feel it more so than see it, and your attention snaps to the window overlooking the district. An alarm sounds in the distance, but you hear the noise clearly. It’s coming from multiple sources—a synchronized wail that bounces between the skyscrapers. No one else in the room even pays the commotion any attention. It feels like you’re the only one that has noticed—but that can’t be. The sirens seem to rattle the floors and you find yourself lulled into a trance. You watch as two helicopters hover above the skyline. A red beam sprouts from the bowels of the city, shoots up towards the baby blue sky. It’s almost graceful in its ascent, and for a brief moment you marvel at the streak of crimson against the peaceful canvas. It hits a helicopter with an explosive //bam//. The vehicle shatters to pieces and what remains of it spirals into a tailspin. Your back arches, body flinching as if you were on board. Finally managing to tear your eyes from the window, you look to Cyril. His grin is one of pride. One of mayhem. “Boss is back.” [[Next | BOSS MEET]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[Cyril takes you up to the top floor. Questions sit like cotton in your mouth, but nothing comes out. When you close your eyes all you see is the explosion painting the sky in flames and shrapnel. The sirens continue outside, but when you step out of the elevator all of the commotion seems to fade. The open-floor apartment has been turned into an office. A long desk is situated before floor-to-ceiling windows. Your eye is immediately drawn to the sky, but no more helicopters grace the airspace. A minibar, decorated with high-end bottles and garnishes, is to your right, and to your left is a set of armchairs and a fireplace. Very classy, you think with a dry frown. There are three people in the high-end condominium. Two women and a man. All of them wear sleek pieces of armor—the red scorpion emblazoned on the black nylon of their collars. “Couldn’t wait, could you?” a young woman asks, pointing her attention to your arrival. Cyril shrugs. “You should have seen how adamant this one was to meet the boss.” The woman’s eyes crinkle with mirth and you grit your teeth, unsure when exactly to cut through the chatter. The other woman—older and more refined than the young gun, sits behind the desk. She closes her eyes and silence stifles the room but judging by the relaxed posturing of the Catia guns, it would appear you were the only one that felt this unease. Glasses clink and you look to find the man pouring himself a drink of something dark. He’s large, with ashen hair and an unreadable expression. The young woman on the other hand is an open book. She stares at you unabashedly, curiosity blatant in her large eyes. “Ah,” the older woman says with a sigh. She smiles at you, not entirely friendly. “Thank you, Cyril.” Your guide moves to leave when she stops him. “Stay. Pull up a chair. All of you.” The three of them retrieve stools from the bar and set them at her desk, leaving you by the elevator. You jolt as it dings behind you. A hand clasps you on the shoulder as Nadine passes you with a stoic face. “Come on, keep up.” As the group of people settle into their places at the table, you can’t help but feel like you’ve missed a step—a chance to speak with the boss privately, a chance to truly escape. The explosion and alarm outside has rattled your resolve, but you force yourself to stand up taller. You go and take a seat at the table. [[Next | TEAM MEETING]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[To your utter dismay, the two strangers are introduced to you—further indication that they plan to make you one of them. //Vera//. The woman with the braid down to her mid-back and doe-like eyes is apparently a demolitionist. A bit difficult to see considering she looks unscathed, but you suppose the best demos rarely get touched with the dust of battle. //Vernal//. A loader—a soldier that would rather work behind a screen than a scope. His right eye is covered with an eyepatch and you wonder if he chose the profession before or after the ailment. And then there is the boss, the leader of the Catia—//Aemilia//. Her gray hair is meticulously trimmed into a sleek bob, and there is an air of serenity as she speaks, her voice even and honest. “I am aware you already know Nadine and Cyril,” Aemilia says. One more so than the other, you think. Your tongue is heavy, unruly in your mouth, and you know you need to put your foot down, but this all feels too odd, like looking into another world. One doesn’t simply breech the walls of a dream. Aemilia raises her chin. “Good, we can all get started.” “On what, exactly?” Nadine asks. “Your briefing,” Aemilia responds as if it is obvious. Like a bolt of electricity trailing down your spine, you sit up. “Wait.” Your voice feels awkward in your throat, but you push through it. “No. I’m not your gun.” You meet Aemilia’s gray gaze. “I need to talk to you.” She blinks. “Then talk.” It isn’t as if this is an embarrassing conversation, nor one you’re timid to have, but it feels like your intentions would come across stronger if it was held privately. The guns wait for your reply, their attention hot on your skin. [[“Can we talk alone?”]] [[“I want to return to my previous company.”]] [[“I’m leaving.”]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[““Can we talk alone?” you ask. Aemilia’s expression doesn’t shift as she gently replies, “There is no time. I’m sorry. Whatever you need to say, you should say it now, and fast.” You settle into the chair, bracing yourself for your declaration. [[“I want to return to my previous company.”]] [[“I’m leaving.”]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“It was nice meeting you all, but I wish to return to my previous company.” From your right, Cyril groans into his hand. Aemilia on the other hand stares at you passively. “Is that so?” she asks. You nod. “May I ask why you want to go back to a company that abandoned you without hesitation?” Your chest burns, heart clenching in a way that makes you grimace. [[“It wasn’t like that.”]] [[“Because I belong with them.”]] [[“That is none of your business.”]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“I’m leaving,” you say, voice taut and rigid. To make your intentions crystal clear, you stand. No one moves to stop you, all the guns opting to look at Aemilia for guidance. “And where exactly would you go?” she asks. [[“I’d figure it out.”]] [[“Back to the Loaches.”]] [[“Maybe Nadine’s place.”]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“It wasn’t like that,” you say. Despite the confidence in your voice, something in your stomach flips. “Hutch had to cut me. It was safer that way.” “For them maybe,” Aemilia says. She folds her hands, and you notice her fingers are decorated in rings. “Running a company is not easy work, everyone knows this, but it is clear your previous boss did not feel inclined to face the pressure of the PD. And here I thought hush companies were extinct. No matter the reason or the intent, you are here at Catia now. Rules must be honored…but if you show focus and initiative here, I will consider trading you.” Framing your time at Catia as a transactional experience helps put your impatient mind at ease. Aemilia hums. “This situation will have an adjustment period, and I want nothing more than for you to feel at home with us, but there is no time to spare.” “Like you said,” you respond, sitting back. You cross your arms and settle into the conversation. This is as good as it will get, you think. The Loaches will wait, and with the boss of the Catia rallying behind you, Hutch won’t be able to turn you away. You hold up your end of the bargain, and you’ll be home before they have a chance to rent your room out. [[Next | the rundown]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")["“Because I belong with them.” “I hate to be the one to break the news to you, but the Loaches, despite their size and strength, are a company. No one belongs with a company. They belong to it.” You swallow your discomfort, her words resonating with you. “They were your first. It’s always hard to remove emotions when you’re not trained to, but it is not safe to be so disillusioned. It only leads to drama.” It’s hard to ignore the depth of this statement, especially considering how genuine Aemilia’s delivery is. “It does make me wonder about you,” she says. “Bleeding hearts have no place in Indigo.” “Even so. I will return to the Loaches after I clear my name.” Your statement brings a tension to the table. “Are you stupid?” Vera asks. “Vera,” Vernal reprimands. “What? We all know there is no //clearing//. Once the PD have your info, that shits ingrained in their servers, redistributed to every subunit in the city. It shouldn’t be seen as something to get rid of, but a badge of honor.” Vera shrugs and looks away. “You finally made it. Why not own it?” A badge of honor? This has never occurred to you, and you aren’t sure if you like the idea. Cyril huffs. “She has a point. The PD knows your name. Your face. Yeah, that makes this all the more difficult, but at the very least you’re a real gun now.” “What?” you manage, the question sticky in your mouth. “Any hire worth a damn is flagged in the system. All of us are,” Cyril says. Your attention flickers to Nadine. She only offers a small, almost sympathetic smile. “It’s really not a big deal,” Cyril finishes. That does little to quell your worry. Hutch made it seem like it was the death of you, made it seem like there was no future in their company because of the heat your name would garner. Maybe this is simply the difference between a low tier grab crew and a company notorious for history defining chaos. Hutch had claimed he couldn’t protect you, framed this firing to keep everyone involved safe. You aren’t sure what to believe, so you close your eyes and try to collect yourself. Aemilia’s gentle voice grounds you, “It would be best for you to come to these terms on your own time, but as I said—we don’t have many minutes to spare.” “Why?” you ask, not able to form a more coherent question. Thoughts of abandonment ring sharp and you don’t want to think of Hutch making excuses, or him not fighting for you, and you definitely don’t want to think of Alex—a brother in every right except blood, not even meeting your eye as you left the compound. So, you choose to focus on what is right in front of you. Choose to lean into the distraction—only for a moment. [[Next | the rundown]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[Your lips stretch into a contained snarl. “That is none of your business.” Aemilia lifts her chin. A sad smile dances on her lips. If she intends to pity you, you might just lose it, but instead of any sympathy, she only says, “Then we do not have much to discuss. You appear head-strong, a quality that can get you both far and dead in this industry. But you must understand the rules. You are an asset that I intend to use. No matter how much you fight against this system, the rules will stand.” You bite your tongue and let her finish. “But I am not unwilling to trade or bid for you should you show us initiative and respect.” This placates you. She is right—there are walls and parameters that keep the guns of Indigo employed and out of prison. It would be in your best interest to play the game properly. “Deal,” you say. Aemilia hums. “This situation will have an adjustment period, and I want nothing more than for you to feel at home with the Catia, but there is no time to spare.” “Like you said,” you respond, sitting back. You cross your arms and settle into the conversation. This is as good as it will get, you think. The Loaches will wait, and with the boss of the Catia rallying behind you, Hutch won’t be able to turn you away. You hold up your end of the bargain, and you’ll be home before they have a chance to rent your room out. [[Next | the rundown]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“You hear that noise?” Aemilia asks, turning her cheek to the window behind her desk. “Kinda hard not to, boss,” Cyril says. “That is our timer. //Your// timer. Varmill will be on lockdown until the PD get distracted with something else, which could be in a day, or it could be in a few hours. Vera, Vernal and I have caused a stir, but chaos can only hide so much.” An awful weight settles at your shoulders. “You want me on this job?” you ask. “You’re a grabber, aren’t you?” Aemilia asks. Reluctantly you nod. “This’ll be a good way to get your feet wet.” “I’m injured,” you say, pointing a look to Cyril. His nose twitches as he smiles, harsh eyes meeting yours, but it’s Nadine who speaks, “You’ve been stuffed full of pharms, you’re fine.” “Where are we headed?” Vera asks, redirecting the conversation. “And what are we stealing?” Vernal pokes. Aemilia hardens, finding their aggressive curiosity grating. “I’m sending Nadine the address, and Vernal the content ID.” So it’s data, you think. You aren’t a loader—in fact you find storage infrastructure more confusing than anything. Your anxiety recedes as you realize you’ll most likely just need to point and shoot. You can do that. You’re good at that. “This is a level four job, and I want you all to be prepared, but with that being said—you must be fast. A car is waiting in the garage.” As Aemilia stirs enthusiasm with the guns, they begin to stand. “I need a full 24 hours of silence on all radios until you can come home. Go do donuts in the desert, sleep in the wash, I don’t care, just don’t come back. Even better if you can get out of Varmill.” The guns chirp back—echoes of affirmation but you get lost in the details. As you stand, you ask, “Why can’t we all get the information?” Aemilia smiles, and long gone is her maternal warmth. Her teeth look sharp behind her thinly stretched lips. “A precaution.” [[Next | 3.]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“I’d figure it out,” you say. Her question has illuminated the fact that you really //don’t// have any place you can go. You had been living at the Loaches base for years. No friends, no family in Indigo to stay with. There is always a motel. But even then, you aren’t made of coins, you could probably last a week in a motel before you’d be worried about money. Gods, this is pathetic. “Right,” Aemilia says. “A cute idea, but I need you to know that if you leave, I’ll have to put a hit on you,” the boss says, and it’s such a crisp statement you have no doubt in your mind that she means it. “A hit?” you ask. “So not only will you have the police hungering for you, you will also have a horde of guns trying to kill you. It sounds dramatic, but this is standard. You have made it clear that you do not wish to be with the Catia, but for now this is your reality. If you put in the work, I will consider trading you down the road.” You narrow your eyes. Threat aside, having Aemilia in your corner could be incredibly beneficial. “I have your word on that?” Aemilia sits back. “You do.” This placates you. She is right—there are walls and parameters that keep the guns of Indigo employed and out of prison. It would be in your best interest to play the game properly. “Deal,” you say. Aemilia hums. “This situation will have an adjustment period, and I want nothing more than for you to feel at home with the Catia, but there is no time to spare.” “Like you said,” you respond, taking a seat. You cross your arms and settle into the conversation. This is as good as it will get, you think. The Loaches will wait, and with the boss of the Catia rallying behind you, Hutch won’t be able to turn you away. You hold up your end of the bargain, and you’ll be home before they have a chance to rent your room out. [[Next | the rundown]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“Home,” you say. “Back to the Loaches.” Despite Hutch telling you never to come back, you still feel like you can make it work. Maybe you can even talk some sense into him. “Oh,” Aemilia coos, and you can see the sympathy in her aged face. “I see.” The statement makes you bristle. You aren’t sure what you just revealed to her. “But I hope you are aware that if you leave, I’ll have to put a hit on you,” the boss says. “A hit?” you ask. “So not only will you have the police hungering for you, but you will also have a horde of guns trying to kill you. It sounds dramatic, but this is standard. You have made it clear that you do not wish to be with the Catia, but for now this is your reality. If you put in the work, I will consider trading you down the road.” You narrow your eyes. Threat aside, having Aemilia in your corner could be incredibly beneficial. “I have your word on that?” Aemilia sits back. “You do.” This placates you. She is right—there are walls and parameters that keep the guns of Indigo employed and out of prison. It would be in your best interest to play the game properly. “Deal,” you say. Aemilia hums. “This situation will have an adjustment period, and I want nothing more than for you to feel at home with the Catia, but there is no time to spare.” “Like you said,” you respond, taking a seat. You cross your arms and settle into the conversation. This is as good as it will get, you think. The Loaches will wait, and with the boss of the Catia rallying behind you, Hutch won’t be able to turn you away. You hold up your end of the bargain, and you’ll be home before they have a chance to rent your room out. [[Next | the rundown]] ]

(if: $NadineScore is < $like)+(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=") [“Maybe Nadine’s place,” you say. Nadine scoffs from across the table. “After such an //amazing// trial run yesterday?” Her dark hair dances as she shakes her head. “Why would I want to offer my couch to someone //leagues// away from me? And besides—how would that even work? I’m Catian through and through, how would that look if I harbored an asset? No thanks.” Your skin burns and you look away from your once friend. “Seems as if you are out of options,” Aemilia notes. “Probably for the best, considering if you left, I would have to put a hit on you.” “A hit?” you ask. “So not only will you have the police hungering for you, but you will also have a horde of guns trying to kill you. It sounds dramatic, but this is standard. You have made it clear that you do not wish to be with the Catia, but for now this is your reality. If you put in the work, I will consider trading you down the road.” You narrow your eyes. Threat aside, having Aemilia in your corner could be incredibly beneficial. “I have your word on that?” Aemilia sits back. “You do.” This placates you. She is right—there are walls and parameters that keep the guns of Indigo employed and out of prison, your emotions have led you to think you’re above them. It would be in your best interest to play the game properly. “Deal,” you say. Aemilia hums. “This situation will have an adjustment period, and I want nothing more than for you to feel at home with the Catia, but there is no time to spare.” “Like you said,” you respond, taking a seat. You cross your arms and settle into the conversation. This is as good as it will get, you think. The Loaches will wait, and with the boss of the Catia rallying behind you, Hutch won’t be able to turn you away. You hold up your end of the bargain, and you’ll be home before they have a chance to rent your room out. [[Next | the rundown]]] (else:)+(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=") [“Maybe Nadine’s place,” you say. “You’re smarter than this. You know that won’t work.” Nadine offers you a sad frown as she drags you back to reality. “As much as I wish I could, I’m Catian through and through. If I had a choice, you’d stay here and be happy about it.” //Happy?// “Seems as if you are out of options,” Aemilia notes. “Probably for the best, considering if you left, I would have to put a hit on you.” “A hit?” you ask. “So not only will you have the police hungering for you, you will also have a horde of guns trying to kill you. It sounds dramatic, but this is standard. You have made it clear that you do not wish to be with the Catia, but for now this is your reality. If you put in the work, I will consider trading you down the road.” You narrow your eyes. Threat aside, having Aemilia in your corner could be incredibly beneficial. “I have your word on that?” Aemilia sits back. “You do.” This placates you. She is right—there are walls and parameters that keep the guns of Indigo employed and out of prison, your emotions have led you to think you’re above them. It would be in your best interest to play the game properly. “Deal,” you say. Aemilia hums. “This situation will have an adjustment period, and I want nothing more than for you to feel at home with the Catia, but there is no time to spare.” “Like you said,” you respond, taking a seat. You cross your arms and settle into the conversation. This is as good as it will get, you think. The Loaches will wait, and with the boss of the Catia rallying behind you, Hutch won’t be able to turn you away. You hold up your end of the bargain, and you’ll be home before they have a chance to rent your room out. [[Next | the rundown]] ]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[Nadine is silent in the car. Her fingers drum anxiously on the steering wheel. Cyril sits in the passenger seat, and Vernal and Vera sit in the second row, leaving you alone in the back row of the van by yourself. From your spot, you can see Vernal’s laptop screen. He’s been mulling over it since he put his seatbelt on. All you can make out is a loader console and blocks of text—nonsensical strings of cyphers only he can make use of. There is a tenseness to the air as the guns prepare for the job ahead. You aren’t sure how to prepare for what’s to come considering you know nothing. All you can do is stare out the window of the vehicle and try not to think of the absurdity of the situation. Having been unconscious when you entered the district, you take in the dense cityscape like a sponge in water. Every street corner you pass, speakers alert the civilians that Varmill is on lockdown. There aren’t a lot of people out, but you aren’t fooled. Blocks away, you can make out the melodic chime of the PD sirens. Smaller companies utilize lockdowns to carryout burglaries and other petty crimes. All the lockdown does is tell the civis to stay inside and order more PD to the area. It’s strange, you think, if you weren’t aware of the state of the district, you would find the vacant streets peaceful. Varmill couldn’t be further from the Burrow. Where the Burrow is coated in a layer of grime and there are more people living on the streets than in houses, Varmill is so clean it makes you uneasy. The district is backed up to a waterfront—the beach only a few blocks away at any given moment. Being so close to the ocean douses the district in a confidence that’s hard to explain. The sight of water is a luxury—as is the parking garages, newly paved pavement, and landscaping decorating the medians. It feels like a whole other world. Yet there is still a gun strapped to your hip, extra mags in your pockets, and emergency pharms hanging from your neck like dog tags. Your attention shifts to the interior. You couldn’t be farther away from anything that constituted ‘home.’ Stuffed in a car with three strangers and an estranged friend, on your way to gods know where to steal gods know what. You can almost laugh. Almost. [[Next | 3.1]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“What?” Vera asks, pocketing her detonator with a frown. She’s looking out the windows, face pressed so close to the glass that you can see her breath fogging the surface. You arch across the seat to look at the building Nadine parked before. It is ornate and oddly shaped—architecture resembling a bloomed lotus. The petals are finished in a silver gloss, and it glows beneath the afternoon sun. Cyril glowers. “This is—” “Suicide,” Vera offers. Nadine’s knuckles grind and she takes a deep breath. “Orders are orders.” Not being from Varmill, you aren’t sure what their problem is. It’s an odd building, but there are plenty of strange structures in Indigo. “Vernal, are you ready?” Nadine asks. The loader finishes his keystrokes before closing the lid of the laptop. “As I’ll ever be,” he mutters. She kills the engine, and the guns exit. Like a child, you wait to crawl out of the back row. Only once you get out of the car do you find a sign situated in the grass before the building. Embellished with lilac-toned neon, the letters stand elegant and loud: The Devesor Cathedral. [[Next | 3.2]]]

(set:$number to 0)(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“A cathedral?” The question comes out in a hushed whisper, aimed at no one in particular. The five of you stand in the courtyard before the lotus. The large doors sit across the garden from you. Cyril busies himself with his rifle, hands expertly snapping the modifications and augments in place. He seems angrier than anything else, agitation wafting off his taut frame in a steady stream. Nadine sidles up to you. It’s strange seeing her with a vest and a gun in her hand. Vernal tightens the straps on his backpack. It occurs to you now that they are all in uniform. Black on black with the occasional red embellishment. They look like right soldiers, all the while you’re still in your street threads. As Vera pushes past you, she hands you a mask. It’s similar to the ones they wear—a piece of metal that only comes to your nose. You hook it behind your ears and take a deep breath. There is a filter in it and you realize it has more function than you initially thought. “A real shame this is your first job with us, considering it’ll probably be all of our last before Rally.” It’s Cyril who speaks first. “Cy,” Nadine warns. “We will be fine.” “How do we even get in?” he asks and you don’t need to see the bottom half of his face to know he’s frowning. “And what is there even in there worth grabbing?” “Leave that to me,” Vernal says, voice almost timid. “As for entrance, I’m sure we can just walk in. It’s a church,” Vera responds. “We are also under a lockdown,” Nadine snaps. “And isn’t that their whole thing? Help people in need? Can always play a victim. ‘Oh, help us get out of the cold and the chaos.’” Vera sounds like she’s having a good time, but the weight of such a target isn’t lost on you. “Who do they worship?” you ask. When you’re met with critical eyes, you shrug. “Some religions aren’t so selfless.” “This is the house of Lycus,” Vernal says. “The church is open to newcomers.” The guns continue to brainstorm, Vernal scanning the walls with red-lensed goggles, searching for other ways into the cathedral. You know very little of Lycism, only that the followers are off their rockers. True fundamentalists that follow a strict code dictated by an auto-generated stream of consciousness they refer to as Lycus. Lycists worship with traditional Mass and prayers, but you have also seen shrines scattered throughout the city. It is one of the four major religions in Indigo–that’s as much as you really know. Having never given religion any thought, you find yourself not critical of the idea. It gave the civis some level of peace in the chaotic shadow of the comps and manus. Hells—one of the reasons you passed the veil was because you felt like something vital was missing from your life, you understand wanting something to be a part of—you understand why someone would walk into a cathedral rather than an outfitter. And here you are robbing it. Morals have no place in Indigo—but it doesn’t stop you from seeing the irony in burglarizing one of the few places considered a haven in such a depraved environment. Nadine calls your name and you’re ripped from your internal headspace. Nadine looks at you with a pointed frown. “What?” you ask, turning to face the group. Vernal has a small tablet perched in his grasp. “What are your thoughts on our point of entry?” Nadine asks. Nadine surely reads your lack of understanding, but it’s Cyril who fills you in, “Either we go down into the wash and take the tunnels, or we scale this monstrosity of a building and enter through a window near the third leaf.” “There is always the front door,” Vera chimes. “Can’t get a good read through the materials, but there are definitely people in there,” Vernal says. “Either way we risk casualties,” Nadine says. “Tunnels will be easy in, a difficult way out. The wash runs like a maze throughout Varmill.” “But the window will alert everyone in the area that we’re fucking psychos,” Cyril says. To your right, Vernal frowns. “It’s encrypted in layers, the moment I bypass the first one—everyone will know.” “It. It. It. What is //it//?” Cyril asks. “Trust me, Cyril,” Vernal starts. “You really don’t want to know.” “Tunnels or window?” Nadine asks, cutting through the chatter. “Or…” Vera trails off. “We are //not// kicking in the front door.” Nadine lifts her chin and fingers the latch on her holster. “What do you think?” [[Window.]] [[Tunnels.]] [[The front door.]]]

(set:$number to 1)+(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“Window will give us a unique way in and out,” you say. There is no telling how difficult it will be to organize a getaway through the dank underbelly of the cathedral. The wash runs like veins through Indigo. You could go anywhere—or end up circling into trouble. “Window it is,” Nadine says. “Vernal, lead the way.” The loader deadpans. “I don’t know how to get there,” he says. “But you know what we are looking for, right?” Cyril asks. He’s pressing his palm into the hilt of his dagger, the very dagger that he stabbed you with. “Why don’t you tell us?” Vera asks. “Can’t. I’ll try to lead us.” Vernal lifts his chin. “Let’s go.” [[Next | Window2]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“The wash,” you say. “It would be easiest to escape through the underground—could go anywhere we want to.” “Fair enough,” Nadine responds. “I saw a grate across the street. Vernal, lead us in.” The loader pulls a pair of goggles over his eyes. His whole face is covered, and had you not been aware of his rather soft voice you would find his visage intimidating. The lenses on his goggle whir and he stares down at the ground—seemingly through the soil. “Vera, you should ready a fuse, got a wall of rubble.” “Yeah, yeah, I got it,” Vera says. She dips a hand into her trouser pockets. Vernal lifts his goggles and nods. “Let’s go.” [[Next| Tunnels2]]]

(set:$number to 2)+(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“The front door,” you say. A moment of silence passes as everyone waits for you to laugh, to signify that it is a joke. When it’s clear you won’t placate them, Vera grins. “Holy shit, Aemillia found a live one.” Nadine narrows her eyes. “Can I ask //why?//” It is there where you can sense her trust. She just wants an explanation for the decision, you think you can give her that. You turn your gaze to the arched doors of the cathedral. It’s a bold strategy but it has the chance to be the easiest of the three options. The window requires a sketchy ascent, and traversing the wash will be difficult when you exit. A front door is just that—a door. Easy to enter, easy to exit. The only downside is the fact that there is no telling who may be inside. [[“It’s the most efficient option.”]] [[“It’ll be fun.”|"It'll be fun."]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[The climb up to the glass petal isn’t as strenuous as you were expecting, but the quiver of your stitches makes you slower. Thankfully the building isn’t as delicate as it looks. You use a handful of devices to make your ascent easier: ropes, hooks, pulleys. The lotus is a single-floored structure, but given the height of the petal, you estimate you’d be on the third floor of any other building. The rope burns the palms of your hands as you climb, and occasionally you catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of the glass. You hardly recognize yourself with the mask. The Loaches never had a uniform. Another reason you miss them. They were confidently quiet, happily tucked into obscurity. It was a comfortable environment. Perhaps too comfortable considering you ended up leaving them because of an unprofessional slip up. As you climb the angular petal you can’t help but marvel at the oddity of the structure. The edge of the window isn’t sharp, but the face is a flat panel of reinforced glass. From afar it looked like the jagged rocks lining the coast, but up close—it’s just you—a pristine reflection. [[Next | Window3]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[The window deposits you on what appears to be a service catwalk. As you drop onto the metal bridge, you catch sight of the cathedral below. The body of the building is open, with traditional pews and glass pillars. But it’s not the extravagant interior that makes you hesitate, it’s the amount of people inside. There isn’t a seat not taken. A body behind you makes you move. There isn’t time to think of the crowd. Isn’t time to think of any of it really. You tighten the mask at your face and concentrate on making your steps as light as possible. Despite claiming he doesn’t know where to go, Vernal leads your team with little confusion. //“His goggles allow him to track data waves through walls,”// Vera would tell you later. The building isn’t nearly as complex as it looks, and you follow a series of hallways to what appears to be an office behind the cathedral chamber. It’s a medium-sized room with a wall full of technology—servers, you think as you eye the blinking lights. Behind the tall desk chair is a mosaic of motherboards—shards of multicolor metals that remind you of stained glass. They depict a lone figure before a sphere of gold and wires. Vera stays out in the hall, the door busted open using a suppressed fuse, but the rest of you linger within the office. Vernal doesn’t approach the computer on the desk, opting to go straight to the source. Burner in hand, he plugs the device into a port on the server. He opens the small computer and taps away at the screen with a frown. Out in the hallway you can hear the soft song of prayer—a hum that beats like a well-worn chant. A heartbeat at the core of the lotus. The melody sounds familiar and your mind itches to trace the recollection. Cyril snorts and you turn to find him flicking through a tablet he found on the table. His gloved fingers leave no trace on the screen. “Who would have thought—a nut job is fond of synth porn.” “Focus,” Nadine chides. Cyril tosses the tech on the table and makes a point to glare at Vernal. The loader slowly pokes at the burner. “Staring won’t make him work faster, you know this.” “Still,” Nadine says. “It’s not everyday we’re in the office of a chancellor, can’t blame me for being curious.” “Your curiosity helps no one.” “Damn—someone’s fucking pissed.” “Don’t you feel it, Cyril? Don’t you see what’s happening? Aemillia is—” “Are you guys ready?” Vernal asks and a bolt of electricity shoots up your spine. His goggles are perched on his head, and he watches the room, waiting for a response. There is a tension in Nadine’s face that makes you uneasy. Vernal seems to match it, and you are aware that you are in over your head, doing a job with a foreign comp, in a foreign district—and there is nothing you can do but follow along, your fate suddenly thrust beyond your grasp. Nadine nods and Vernal pushes the button on the burner and all you can do is watch. [[Next | You wouldn’t download a god?]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[The moment Vernal breaches the first encryption level, a noise pierces overhead–a sharp alarm that amplifies the tension in the room. Vernal, the professional that he is, is able to tune the noise out, you on the other hand ponder the odd cadence. Nadine leans away from Vernal and throws her voice out into the hall. “How’s it looking out there?” “It’s…fine,” Vera responds. “Quiet.” The lack of in-house opposition surprises you. If there is something worth stealing, there is something worth protecting. Surely the cathedral has some level of built-in heat. If not guards, then drones, and if not drones, then turrets–but you saw no such thing upon entry, and your mind burns. “Don’t like this,” you say. This isn’t an alarm, it’s a dial tone. Most likely the IPD. There are too many civilians here, the Catia would have to be mental to fight their way out of this. Despite the lawlessness of Indigo, there are lines you don’t cross. Vernal’s face scrunches. His goggles rest at the top of his head, and his singular eye stays glued to the burner. “Need thirty,” he says. Cyril takes a position near the door. “Minutes, or–” “Seconds,” Vernal responds. He takes a break from tapping the screen to retrieve a 3 inch floppy diskette. It is made of clear plastic, and when he plugs it in it glows red. A noise–deep and angry, cuts above the alarm, and you instinctively bend your knees to absorb the shock of the ground rumbling. “What the fuck was that?” Cyril asks. “Not me!” Vera yells. “Stay,” Nadine says. “Ignore it. How long–” “I’m in, just burning now–” “No fucking way,” Vera says, voice half fear, half surprise. “Nad, we have company.” Gunshots join the cacophony of noise, as does a chorus of screams. Something in your core shudders. This isn’t the IPD. Nadine grunts as she pulls her pistol out of its holster. Another explosion outside and you ready your own weapon–a shoddy gun you had kept from your time with the Loaches. It likes to lock every four shots, forcing you to manually cool it–and only now do you realize you should have asked for a new slice of iron. You had been so swept up in everything, the issue escaped you. “Vernal,” Nadine warns. The screaming is louder–sharper, and can hear the utter fear lacing the voices. This is the noise of people dying. “Cyril, go out with Vera. Take her to the main room and see what’s happening. Prioritize saving any civis. Comm in to channel 4. Got it?” “On it,” he responds before rushing out of the office. “Vernal talk to me,” Nadine asks. Despite her softer tone, her voice trembles with anxiety. Gunfire doesn’t stop, neither does the alarm–the chaotic noises overlapping and sending your heart into a frenzy. The burner makes a punctual noise and pushes the square disk out of its port. “Got it,” Vernal says. He hands it to Nadine and she considers something. The walls shake as another explosion sounds. Nadine regards you with a hard eye. She suddenly hands you the disk. “What?” you ask. She proceeds to shimmy out of her backpack and gives it to you. “What are you doing?” “There’s ice in the bag. Also a beacon. Remember–silence for 24 hours, after that you can come back to the tower,” Nadine says. She looks to Vernal who is cleaning his gear up. Again–things are happening too quickly, but you manage to pull her back with a firm question. “What do you want me to do?” Nadine hardens. “You’re a grabber, right? So, do what you do best–and fucking //run.//” (if: $number is 0) [[Next|tunnelexit]] (if: $number is 1) [[Next|windowexit]] (if: $number is 2) [[Next|doorexit]]]

(set:$number to 0)+(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[The grate opens easily beneath Vera’s pocket torch and as you make your way through the rectangular tunnel, you find yourself returning to your body, the situation before you comes into focus. It doesn’t feel real—the notion that you’re now a piece of the Catia sits like a foreign substance in your mind. Your wounds are properly numbed beneath the copious amount of pharms, and perhaps your mind is too—because it’s hard to think about the details of reality without succumbing to thoughts of panic. “Back up a bit,” Vera says, and you realize you’re standing in the blast zone. You join the rest of the crew a few paces away. Vera wears a harness equipped with a large flashlight that douses the wash in a red light. She works quickly, setting a circular device against the body of the rubble. You’ve seen a disk fuse before—during a job with Alex a few years ago. Of course, then it had been thrown at you in a poor excuse as an attack. It seems much more suited as a small mine, you think. Vera punches a series of buttons on her wrist console and the stone tunnel shudders—the device exploding with a punctual hiss. The rubble clears and you push forward into the darkness. It’s only a few turns more before Vernal stops and cranes his neck to the ceiling. “Here,” he says. “You sure?” Nadine asks. “Yes.” You can hear his goggles buzzing. “A direct entrance to the office.” Vera retrieves what looks like a large knife from her belt. She holds it up to the ceiling and reads the small display screen on the handle. “Clear to breach,” she says, and it’s the most serious you’ve heard her. “It won’t be silent but shouldn’t alert anyone. I mean…as long as no one is //in// the office.” “It’s empty,” Vernal explains. Nadine closes her eyes. “Do it.” [[Next | Tunnels3]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[With searing precision, Vera carves a hole into the roof of the tunnel. It takes a handful of minutes before she breaches the floor into the office and floods the wash with a beacon of amber light. One by one, you climb up into the chamber. It’s a medium-sized room with a wall full of technology—servers, you think as you eye the blinking lights. Behind the tall desk chair is a mosaic of motherboards—shards of multicolor metals that remind you of stained glass. They depict a lone figure before a sphere of gold and wires. Vera cautiously opens the door and exits into the hall to keep guard, but the rest of you linger within the office. Vernal doesn’t approach the computer on the desk, opting to go straight to the source. Burner in hand, he plugs the device into a port on the server. He opens the small computer and taps away at the screen with a frown. Out in the hallway you can hear the soft song of prayer—a hum that beats like a well-worn chant. A heartbeat at the core of the lotus. The melody sounds familiar and your mind itches to trace the recollection. Cyril snorts and you turn to find him flicking through a tablet he found on the table. His gloved fingers leave no trace on the screen. “Who would have thought—a nut job is fond of synth porn.” “Focus,” Nadine chides. Cyril tosses the tech on the table and makes a point to glare at Vernal. The loader slowly pokes at the burner. “Staring won’t make him work faster, you know this.” “Still,” Nadine says. “It’s not every day we’re in the office of a chancellor, can’t blame me for being curious.” “Your curiosity helps no one.” “Damn—someone’s fucking pissed.” “Don’t you feel it, Cyril? Don’t you see what’s happening? Aemillia is—” “Are you guys ready?” Vernal asks and a bolt of electricity shoots up your spine. His goggles are perched on his head, and he watches the room, waiting for a response. There is a tension in Nadine’s face that makes you uneasy. Vernal seems to match it, and you are aware that you are in over your head, doing a job with a foreign comp, in a foreign district—and there is nothing you can do but follow along, your fate suddenly thrust beyond your grasp. Nadine nods and Vernal pushes the button on the burner and all you can do is watch. [[Next | You wouldn’t download a god?]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“An easy way in marks an easy way out,” you say. “No telling what’s inside or…what we are here to steal, but we can at least count on the point of entry and exit.” Nadine relaxes and with the cock of her head, she considers this. Her attention slides to Vera. “No smoking barrels, not even a fuse readied, you understand?” “Yes, mom,” Vera whines, but her face is serious. Despite the bright disposition, you know she’s trustworthy, otherwise she wouldn’t be here. The introspection makes you stop—mind catching on the inconsistency. This unit of the Catia is composed of proficient guns kitted for the job, and yet here you are. Invited into their ranks, tasked with a highly classified job, and yet Aemillia didn’t vet you? Cyril mentioned your file, and Nadine personally knows you, but you can’t help but feel like you shouldn’t be here. You really shouldn’t. You //should// be back in the Burrow with the Loaches. This time on any normal day you’d be cleaning equipment with Biggs and Charlie. But it isn’t a normal day. There might not be a normal day for quite some time. “Alright,” Nadine starts. “We ready?” She’s asking you in particular. You fold the uncomfortable thoughts, tuck them beneath your sternum and give her a confident nod. [[Next|frontdoor2]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[You offer a hungry grin. “It’ll be fun.” “Jeez, rumors weren’t lying about guns from the Burrow,” Cyril says. Vera bends at the hip, a girlish laughter rolling from her lips. Nadine isn’t as amused. “It shouldn’t be fun. Not this.” Her brows pinch and she looks at the door. “Ugh. It would be easier, wouldn’t it?” Then to the group, she instructs, “Barrels need to be fucking ice cold. Not even bullets in the chamber. Got it?” “Yeah, I got it—wasn’t planning on running in to shoot up the place,” you say, a bit insulted she would think you capable. “Just don’t think there’s a point in climbing through windows or traveling through the labyrinth that makes up the wash. Sides, we can actually see the place.” “This isn’t a sightseeing tour,” Nadine chides, but there isn’t any hostility in her tone. She takes a deep breath. “But let’s do it.” You offer her a smile, but even you can tell it’s hollow on your lips. This confidence of yours isn’t unfounded, but it does feel off kilter. All of this is wrong, you think. You shouldn’t be here. Not in Varmill, not with a Catia crew, and definitely not on a job with them. The why of it grates you. This unit of the Catia is composed of proficient guns kitted for the job, and yet here you are. Invited into their ranks, tasked with a highly classified job, and yet Aemillia didn’t vet you? Cyril mentioned your file, and Nadine personally knows you, but you can’t help but feel like you are an imposter—stuck in a role you haven’t practiced for. “Ready?” Nadine asks. You swallow the discomfort lacing your confidence—no time. Not now at least. You pinch your lips and nod. [[Next|frontdoor2]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[The lockdown in Varmill doesn’t dictate doors must be locked—only that civilians would be wise to stay inside, and as you push the front doors open, you wonder if Aemillia knew that the cathedral was currently holding a mass when she sent you in. The interior is as elaborate and gaudy as the exterior. Pews line either side of the wide aisle, benches made of black metal. Overhead crystalline lamps laced in a golden weave grant the large chamber an amber shimmer. The pews are full, not a seat left empty. No one turns to address your entrance. But even from your distance from the podium you can see that the chancellor giving his sermon recognizes your black garb. His hands pause mid gesticulation, purple sleeves swaying. He’s in an ornate robe that comes to his ankles. Its stiff collar rises far past the crown of his head, and it’s been threaded with LED’s giving his complexion a unique glow. Despite this odd pause in movement, he continues his sermon with ease. “And just as Indigo prospers, so will it falter–but during these times of discourse we must stay the path, as it is in Lycus’ map and we must charter it.” Nadine stops in the aisle, she looks to Vernal for guidance and when the loader tilts his head, she leads you to the left wall of the cathedral. The chancellor doesn’t halt his speech, but you feel the air prickle as data is shot from one person to another. That’s why you aren’t surprised when a robed figure steps up and bids you to halt. A young man with long silken hair and lavender eyes smiles politely. “Can I help you?” His voice is lifted but monotonous and it makes your comprehension slow. Luckily Nadine is sharper. “We don’t want to hurt anyone.” The priest stills, smile hanging awkwardly off the side of his face. “What?” “Where is your server room?” Vernal asks. He opens his mouth, cautious–and you can see the wheels turning. “I…” Cyril tilts forward, one hand on the grip of his rifle, the other on his dagger. The threat hits its mark and the priest snaps his mouth shut. He steps away and gestures to a pair of closed doors at the corner of the room. “Is it locked?” Vera asks him. “Ah–” He takes a deep breath, and he must realize that he’s in no place to either lie or deny you, because he turns heel and leads you to the doors. It’s when he’s raising his hand to the sensor that you notice the modules coating his fingers like wax gloves. Not human, you conclude–not really. Beneath his unassuming exterior lies a series of hardware and wires. Most yoriyois balance the fine line between humanity and machine, and there is no telling how much human remains within one just by physical appearance alone. You have always associated yoris with the Silicon Tract–manufacturers and technology overlords. What one is doing in the church of Lycus is beyond you. The door slides open and he keeps his focus trained on the ground, letting your group pass through the entryway. //Smart,// you think. Without further dialogue, the priest unlocks one more door and you enter what appears to be an office. The priest disappears back the way you came. It’s a medium-sized room with a wall full of technology—servers, you think as you eye the blinking lights. Behind the tall desk chair is a mosaic of motherboards—shards of multicolor metals that remind you of stained glass. They depict a lone figure before a sphere of gold and wires. Vera chooses to keep guard out in the hall, but the rest of you linger within the office. Vernal doesn’t approach the computer on the desk, opting to go straight to the source. Burner in hand, he plugs the device into a port on the server. He opens the small computer and taps away at the screen with a frown. Out in the hallway you can hear the soft song of prayer—a hum that beats like a well-worn chant. A heartbeat at the core of the lotus. The melody sounds familiar and your mind itches to trace the recollection. Cyril snorts and you turn to find him flicking through a tablet he found on the table. His gloved fingers leave no trace on the screen. “Who would have thought—a nut job is fond of synth porn.” “Focus,” Nadine chides. Cyril tosses the tech on the table and makes a point to glare at Vernal. The loader slowly pokes at the burner. “Staring won’t make him work faster, you know this.” “Still,” Nadine says. “It’s not every day we’re in the office of a chancellor, can’t blame me for being curious.” “Your curiosity helps no one.” “Damn—someone’s fucking pissed.” “Don’t you feel it, Cyril? Don’t you see what’s happening? Aemillia is—” “Are you guys ready?” Vernal asks and a bolt of electricity shoots up your spine. His goggles are perched on his head, and he watches the room, waiting for a response. There is a tension in Nadine’s face that makes you uneasy. Vernal seems to match it, and you are aware that you are in over your head, doing a job with a foreign comp, in a foreign district—and there is nothing you can do but follow along, your fate suddenly thrust beyond your grasp. Nadine nods and Vernal pushes the button on the burner and all you can do is watch. [[Next | You wouldn’t download a god?]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[Nadine nearly pushes you into the hole leading to the wash. “You’ll be unsighted–unmarked, use it to your advantage,” she instructs. A tremor of pain runs up the length of your legs as you land in the dark tunnel. “Nadine,” you call up, “I don’t know where to go.” “Anywhere but home,” she says, and then she’s gone, leaving you to the pitch of the underground. You slip the floppy disk into the breast pocket of your jacket and readjust the backpack. The wash is a complex series of tunnels, and you squint–trying to think. You remember the way that you took in, but you aren’t sure if you should exit the way you came, as the grate was so close to the cathedral–which judging by the shaking walls and gunfire above, seems to be under attack. The tunnels are unbothered by the commotion, and your head swivels as you take in your choices. [[Go back the way you came.]] [[Brave the unknown.]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[Nadine tilts, allowing you access to the door. You do as she instructs, and exit out into the hall. You climb the catwalk and fight the urge to stare down at the commotion below. The cathedral floor is cluttered with bodies. Some dead, some alive, civilians rush to the front doors but there is nowhere to run. Figures flitter about the chamber, shielded guns wielding swords and pistols–and the oddity of their masks make you halt. Their masks display a series of LEDs, and you recognize the description–this is the branding of the infamous blackclot comp–the Vek. You have only heard of them in the context of folklore–like legends passed on from generation to generation. The Vek are a small comp with a venomous bite and they are highly selective with their appearances. So much so, that any time the Vek were sighted, Alex would speak about it, as if the comp is a cryptid of Indigo. What Bigfoot was for the mountains, the Vek are for the city. Their presence and their ruthless killing of the civilians in the cathedral make your head spin. A stray bullet hits the catwalk and you push yourself into action. There isn’t time to ponder any of this. You find the window, grabbing the rope you used to ascend. Daring a glance out of the lotus, you find a swarm of black vans and a handful of IPD cars waiting for you below. Perhaps they will be too distracted to notice your descent. A morsel of hope, but one to cling to nonetheless. [[Next|windowexit2]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[Nadine takes a deep breath and tilts, allowing you passage through the office doors. “Good luck,” she says. You make your way down the hall and back into the cathedral’s main room. Civilians scream and the noise is so jarring, so full of raw fear that you think you might throw up. The room, once a simple and easy chamber to navigate, is now cluttered with bodies, fallen pews, and civis rushing to the front door. Commotion brings your attention to a half-shattered pillar near the altar. The yori priest writhes on the ground, muttering a string of words you can’t make out beneath the chaos. He attempts to crawl behind what little cover remains, but he won’t make it, not with his level of injuries. [[Help him.]] [[Leave him.]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[Heading back the way you came, you keep your pistol at the ready. The path is easy to traverse, but when you’re close enough to see the grate you halt. Blue and red lights splash against the interior of the tunnel. So the IPD did show. The grate is as you left it, and you peer between the bars. Nothing but the hillside–the lights having reflected from the nearby buildings onto the bristle grass. You slip through the grate, backpack catching on the metal. You’re halfway up the hill when static floods the air–covering the sounds of gunfire and explosions, and it’s such a distinct frequency, you know it’s aimed at you. Your suspicion is instantly confirmed as a bullet skims your abdomen. Pain burns from the location, but you manage to turn on your toe and aim your pistol at your opponent. Your finger pauses on the trigger. A figure with a full-face digital mask races towards you, long blade in one hand, a pistol in the other. The mask displays a series of LEDs, and you recognize the description. This is the branding of the infamous blackclot comp–the Vek. You have only heard of them in the context of folklore–like legends passed on from generation to generation, the Vek are a small comp with a venomous bite and they are highly selective with their appearances. So much so, that any time the Vek were sighted, Alex would speak about it, as if the comp is a cryptid of Indigo. What Bigfoot was for the mountains, the Vek are for the city. That is why you falter, finger twitching against the trigger as your mind works overtime. Your vision shakes–you aren’t sure if you can hit them given their odd assault and your reeling concentration. They approach swiftly, blade extended like a natural piece of their body. [[Take the shot.]] [[Wait until they are closer to fire.]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[The direction you came from is most likely swarming with enemies, so you turn your back to the only path you know. Using the light from the barrel of your gun, you delve deeper into the wash. The tunnels are easy to traverse, difficult to navigate, but you take the lack of rumbling overhead as a good sign. The inkling of hope is eviscerated when your light passes over a slim figure in the dark. Your heart catches in your throat and your grip tightens on the weapon. You would have already shot if it weren’t for the garb they wore. The mask displays a series of LEDs, and you recognize the description–this is the branding of the infamous blackclot comp–the Vek. You have only heard of them in the context of folklore–like legends passed on from generation to generation, the Vek are a small comp with a venomous bite and they are highly selective with their appearances. So much so, that any time the Vek were sighted, Alex would speak about it, as if the comp is a cryptid of Indigo. What Bigfoot was for the mountains, the Vek are for the city. That is why you falter, finger twitching against the trigger as your mind works overtime. It’s in this hesitancy that the Vek surges forward and shoots you. A bullet grazes your abdomen, right beneath your left rib and you pull the trigger. A flash of light and an electronic noise as you hit the Vek straight in the head. The mask’s LEDs flicker blue and you stagger back, away from the figure. A flurry of static fills the air, and you can almost make out a conversational cadence to the sound. The Vek is wounded from being shot, but not dead, and as the static grows louder, you realize they aren’t talking to you–but to their fellow guns. A flare in the shape of ambient sound, and you know that you have to move. The Vek appears stunned, but you can’t be sure. You need to move around it to continue through the wash. [[Shoot it again.]] [[Leave it.]]]

(set: $shotcount to 2)(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[ There is no time to waste. The gun heats in your hand. One shot–it skims the side of their shoulder but doesn’t deter their approach, so you fire another one–this one punctures the gun’s mask. Sparks flicker from the shattered electronic. The screen glitches into a harsh red and static fills the air. It’s saying something to you, something you can’t decipher. You ready another shot–this one fatal, when the blades of a helicopter usher in a storm of wind and noise. Your eye snaps up–the PD is pulling down. You think it’s a warzone now, you aren’t ready to see their response to the chaos. Instincts tell you to pull out, to run as far as you can. So you do. You tune everything out and listen to your instincts. [[Next |Todiner]]]

(set: $shotcount to 3)(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[There isn’t any reason to risk missing a shot–so you wait another breath before pulling the trigger. You hit the Vek straight in the mask. Sparks flicker from the shattered screen, LED’s misfiring at different intervals. The screen glitches into a harsh red and static fills the air. It’s saying something to you, something you can’t decipher. You ready another shot–this one fatal, when the blades of a helicopter usher in a storm of wind and noise. Your eye snaps up–the PD is pulling down. You think it’s a warzone now, you aren’t ready to see their response to the chaos. Instincts tell you to pull out, to run as far as you can. So you do. You tune everything out and listen to your instincts. [[Next |Todiner]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[You decide it would be best to leave Varmill altogether. A difficult task given the district is still on lockdown, but it isn’t impossible. Varmill is situated between Allure and Largo. There isn’t any universe where you can properly escape to Allure. Even if there wasn’t a lockdown, the holo fence is impenetrable without a pass. You’ll try your bet with Largo. Away from the cathedral, the district returns to a calm and quiet cityscape, and by the time you get to the district border you slow your strides. You remove the mask that they gave you, pocketing the branded item in Nadine’s backpack. The border is guarded by a large toll gate, and while the bar is down, there don’t seem to be any added security measures. You suppose you have the Vek to thank for the lack of PD presence at the border. You had been prepared for a fight, but when it’s clear there is no one to shoot, you holster your gun. You slip under the traffic barricade and enter Largo. It is too easy–but you aren’t mad about it. Having run a few jobs with the Loaches in the narrow streets of Largo, you know the district well. As the shipping hub of Indigo, traffic never ceases. Cargo ships fly overhead, lifting shipments from Indigo and into Cradle. It’s easy to hide yourself amidst the hustle of the port. [[Next |dinner]]]

(set: $shotcount to 2) (align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[Better to be safe. You fire one shot into its leg and the Vek collapses. The air crackles as static turns into a harsh growl. You hurry past it, unsure where you’re going–but the noise of the Vek’s call chases you like a tail–and you let your fear be your guide. [[Next|tunnelexit2]]]

(set: $shotcount to 3)+(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[You decide to save the extra seconds it would take to dispatch the weapon, as well as the extra bullet. Ignoring the pain in your side, you move with agile steps–deftly moving around the Vek. The blue LED burns your eyes. It hisses a string of static in your direction. You hurry past it, unsure where you’re going–but the noise of the Vek’s call chases you like a tail–and you let your fear be your guide. [[Next|tunnelexit2]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[You stick to the straight passageways, keeping track of every turn you have to take—taking great care not to accidentally circle back. The wound at your side is cold, every stride you take stretching it awkwardly. If you aren’t so worried that the Vek would ambush you, you would stop and tend to the broken skin. You travel for what feels like an hour before you find an exit you deem worthy of taking. The grate is bent out of shape, allowing you to slip through and out into the city. You’re under an overpass, and judging by the lack of graffiti marking the cityscape, you’re still in Varmill. Fear sits at the back of your throat despite this momentary respite. Once the adrenaline slows, you will be consumed by a white agony. So instead of resting, you pick up your heels and run. [[Next |Todiner]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[The slope of the lotus leaf urges you to use caution on your way down. You opt to keep one hand occupied with your weapon, and the other tightly gripping the rope. A hard choice to put into action, your body twisting awkwardly to survey your surroundings. Wind surges and you pause, the toe of your boot squeaking against the shiny glass. With the deep chill, the wind feels like an assault–the element sending shards of motion into your body. You close your eyes, intending to ride out the gust–but a thumping noise overhead makes the reprieve short lived. A helicopter approaches the cathedral, the PD logo burning bright against its side. A voice from the speakers mounted on the vehicle cuts through the commotion below you. “Freeze citizen, you are under surveillance of the IPD!” You grit your teeth and keep your face trained to the glass building. [[Do as you’re told.]] [[Loosen your grip and continue your descent.]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[Fully aware that the PD have turrets attached to their helicopters, you decide it’s best to follow their orders. You stay as still as you can–pushing against the wind. “Come down slowly.” The PD officer orders. As you descend you think of how you’re going to swing this. The PD are taught to talk before shooting but you can’t be sure about the other party wreaking havoc on the ground. Perhaps you can use the chaos to your favor. You’re expecting another order when your feet gently meet the ground, but they remain silent. It’s because you’re looking up to the helicopter that you're unable to dodge the bullet. It skims your abdomen, skirting the flesh right beneath your left rib. You bolt upright and turn your gun to your opponent. Your finger pauses on the trigger. A figure with a full-face digital mask stands across the sidewalk, smoking rifle in hand. They are wide–an imposing visage amidst the courtyard. Even through the dust and wind, you recognize the features–this is the branding of the infamous blackclot comp–the Vek. You have only heard of them in the context of folklore–like legends passed on from generation to generation. The Vek are a small comp with a venomous bite and they are highly selective with their appearances. So much so, that any time the Vek were sighted, Alex would speak about it, as if the comp is a cryptid of Indigo. What Bigfoot was for the mountains, the Vek are for the city. That is why you falter, finger twitching against the trigger as your mind works overtime. Gunfire–this time fast and not aimed directly at you. The IPD’s turret sprays the courtyard and the Vek releases a noise akin to static. It flees for cover and you follow suit. The wound at your side blisters with every stride, but you use the chaos clogging the courtyard as a veil to escape. Lowering yourself, you push through the crowd, stepping over dead civilians and police officers alike. There is no sign of any of the Catia guns, leaving you to escape from the property by yourself. Despite the agony of your open wounds, you push yourself faster, using every ounce of strength to flee this now warzone. [[Next |Todiner]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[You’ve never listened to the PD before, and you don’t plan on starting now. You loosen your grip on the rope and drop down as fast as the friction will allow. They open fire the moment you move. The turret on their helicopter sprays quickly–bullets shatter the glass and out of precaution you let go of the rope completely. It’s only a handful of feet left to fall and you hit the pavement, absorbing the impact with bent knees and a grimace. A bullet hits you–skimming the spot beneath your left rib. You growl and take off towards the street beyond the courtyard. You have to get out of here. A static shriek causes you to hesitate, the noise primal and odd amidst the chaotic gunfire. You pivot and instantly find the source. A figure with a full-face digital mask stands across the courtyard, smoking rifle in hand. They are wide–an imposing visage amidst the garden. Even through the dust and wind, you recognize the features–this is the branding of the infamous blackclot comp–the Vek. You have only heard of them in the context of folklore–like legends passed on from generation to generation. The Vek are a small comp with a venomous bite and they are highly selective with their appearances. So much so, that any time the Vek were sighted, Alex would speak about it, as if the comp is a cryptid of Indigo. What Bigfoot was for the mountains, the Vek are for the city. That is why you falter, finger twitching against the trigger as your mind works overtime. Gunfire–this time fast and not aimed directly at you. The IPD’s turret sprays the courtyard and the Vek releases a noise akin to static. It flees for cover and you follow suit. The wound at your side blisters with every stride, but you use the chaos clogging the courtyard as a veil to escape. Lowering yourself, you push through the crowd, stepping over dead civilians and police officers alike. There is no sign of any of the Catia guns, leaving you to escape from the property by yourself. Despite the agony of your open wound, you push yourself faster, using every ounce of strength to flee this now warzone. [[Next |Todiner]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[You fire a shot at one of the mysterious assailants and rush to the fallen yori. “Okay,” you say as you crouch to him. “You’ll be okay.” Despite the words, you wonder if he’ll make it. He has a bullet lodged in his abdomen. His robe is soaked with crimson, his complexion already pale–and there is no end to the fight in sight. “You,” he says, voice hoarse. Carefully, you pick him up from beneath his arms and drag him behind a pew. “I should have never–” “They aren’t with us. I don’t know what’s happening, but it’s not our fault.” Now that feels like a lie. You bite your tongue and prop him up. The yori palms the wound and you still him. “No. Can’t move it right now. Here–” You rip a tag from your necklace and press the pharm into his mouth. “Chew.” A bullet hits the edge of the pew and you stand. The yori crushes the medicine between his teeth, glancing at you with a nod of gratitude. Doing all that you could, you leave the yori behind the pew and return your focus to the storm of combat razing the room. [[Next|doorexit2]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[You don’t have time for this, you think. You continue your pursuit for the front door. Aside from the church-goers, you spot Cyril and Vera engaged in combat with slender figures. You step over the body of an elderly woman, eyes drawn to the carnage of it all. Why? you wonder. A lame question aimed at the sea of nothing. Who– is the better query. Your answer comes in the form of a bullet. Pain erupts from the left side of your torso. A bullet has grazed you and you swiftly search for the gun, pistol gripped and ready. A figure with a full-face digital mask dashes towards you, a smoking rifle in hand. You recognize the features–this is the branding of the infamous blackclot comp–the Vek. You have only heard of them in the context of folklore–like legends passed on from generation to generation. The Vek are a small comp with a venomous bite and they are highly selective with their appearances. So much so, that any time the Vek were sighted, Alex would speak about it, as if the comp is a cryptid of Indigo. What Bigfoot was for the mountains, the Vek are for the city. It is with this awe that you hesitate, finger pressing the trigger, but not clicking it deep enough to fire. The Vek lunges forward just as an earth shattering crack puts a bullet in its head. The mask glitches, LEDs misfiring and landing on a vibrant yellow. You follow the line of sight to find Cyril lowering his sniper rifle. He nods to you before leaping over a fallen pew and taking out a Vek. The Vek that had nicked you releases a hiss of static in your direction. There isn’t time to decipher what the strange vocalization means before a small explosion shakes the ground. You extend your legs, abdomen aching with every stride, and rush the front door. Wading through the sea of fearful civis, you push your way outside. Finally the arched doorway is overhead and you step out into the courtyard. The IPD has arrived, helicopters pulse overhead, and several officers engage in firefights with the Vek. A handful of officers usher the church-goers out of the courtyard and onto the street. You ride the crowd out of the garden, pressing close to the terrified civis. The moment your boots hit the street, you turn from the commotion and jog down the block. Every step brings a wave of pain rippling up your torso, but you know that if you stop what little help you get from the adrenaline will wear off and you will be stuck. So you take to the asphalt of Varmill with fury in your heels and anxiety throbbing at the back of your skull. [[Next|Todiner]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[Aside from the church-goers, you spot Cyril and Vera engaged in combat with slender figures. You step over the body of an elderly woman, eyes drawn to the carnage of it all. Why? you wonder. A lame question aimed at the sea of nothing. Who– is the better query. Your answer comes in the form of a bullet. Pain erupts from the left side of your torso. A bullet has grazed you and you swiftly search for the gun, pistol gripped and ready. A figure with a full-face digital mask dashes towards you, a smoking rifle in hand. You recognize the features–this is the branding of the infamous blackclot comp–the Vek. You have only heard of them in the context of folklore–like legends passed on from generation to generation. The Vek are a small comp with a venomous bite and they are highly selective with their appearances. So much so, that any time the Vek were sighted, Alex would speak about it, as if the comp is a cryptid of Indigo. What Bigfoot was for the mountains, the Vek are for the city. It is with this awe that you hesitate, finger pressing the trigger, but not clicking it deep enough to fire. The Vek lunges forward just as an earth shattering crack puts a bullet in its head. The mask glitches, LEDs misfiring and landing on a vibrant yellow. You follow the line of sight to find Cyril lowering his sniper rifle. He nods to you before leaping over a fallen pew and taking out a Vek. The Vek that had nicked you releases a hiss of static in your direction. There isn’t time to decipher what the strange vocalization means before a small explosion shakes the ground. You extend your legs, abdomen aching with every stride, and rush the front door. Wading through the sea of fearful civis, you are careful not to push anyone too hard. Finally the arched doorway is overhead and you step out into the courtyard. The IPD has arrived, helicopters pulse overhead, and several officers engage in firefights with the Vek. A handful of officers usher the church-goers out of the courtyard and onto the street. You ride the crowd out of the garden, pressing close to the terrified civis. The moment your boots hit the street, you turn from the commotion and jog down the block. Every step brings a wave of pain rippling up your torso, but you know that if you stop what little help you get from the adrenaline will wear off and you will be stuck. So you take to the asphalt of Varmill with fury in your heels and anxiety throbbing at the back of your skull. [[Next|Todiner]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[Just as Nadine said, there is a bag of ice in the backpack. Not wanting to feel like a junkie, you wait until after your meal to run the IV into the implants at your forearm. You’re sitting on the curb beside the bridge leading out of town. The canyon beneath the road is expansive, gnawing and dark. You rip the tubes from the ice pack and plug in. A chill consumes you from the veins out and you close your eyes. You’ve always hated the enhanced senses promised on the package. It is always such a headfuck. You ride out the rush of sensations, keeping your mind on the clock. You’re going to need some place to stay for the night. There are a few motels, cheap one-night stops near the border of Indigo that you can afford. Discretion won’t be an issue. Most motels tout their secure operations–their cameras wipe their recordings every six hours, and with an ID-less check in, there is no chance you’ll be tracked there. Your senses prickle as a siren sounds down the block. Have they really already found you? It was news that anyone was even after you–news that anyone knew you were the one with the floppy. It makes you worry about the Catia guns. Had they been compromised and given up your information? You cast the fictitious thoughts far away and push yourself to your feet. The ice isn’t done, and you opt to wrap the bag of liquid around your bicep, using the tape to secure it against your form. Down the block you spot a PD drone zipping your way. The sirens blare and you search for an escape. Not a lot of options sitting here at the edge of Indigo. The desert wasteland stretches one way and the urban decay of the city the other. There aren’t enough structures to bet on losing the drone on foot. Your only option comes in the form of a motorcyclist entering Indigo. You don’t hesitate, stepping out into the road with your arms raised. Planting yourself directly in the motorcycle’s path, you leave them no choice but to brake. This doesn’t leave you with any sense of pride, but you raise your gun to the civi and order them off the vehicle. The sound of the sirens beat at the back of your neck. The civi, not wanting any trouble, instantly hands over the bike. It’s an older model, but you recognize the hydroturbo on the back of it and know that it’ll put up a fair fight against a drone. Ice still pumping you full of fluid, you don’t feel your list of injuries as you straddle the bike. You take off towards the desert expanse. [[Next |tocarcombat]] ]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[Wind ruffles your lashes, turns your nose red and makes your eyes prick with tears. The motorcycle groans as you push it to its limit. Behind you, you hear the distinct buzz of the machine pursuing you as well as the infinite loop of the siren. A streak of purple neon– and you’re officially out of Indigo. The welcome sign signals a mile from the Fault. You shouldn’t drag this out much longer. [[Shoot.]] [[Outmaneuver]]]

(if: $shotcount is 1)+(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=") [Twisting awkwardly in the seat, you point your gun to the drone quickly approaching. You fire one bullet and your pistol burns your hand–so hot you nearly drop it. It’s jammed. Shit. As you move to holster it, the drone unleashes a flurry of bullets. Pellets ricochet from the asphalt, skimming the metal of your bike. You pivot sharply, an attempt to dodge the spread of fire, but all it does is make the vehicle unwieldy. The motorcycle tilts from beneath you just as a bullet pierces the spot between your shoulder blades. (text-colour:red)[[//You shatter.//]]] (if: $shotcount is 2)+(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[Twisting awkwardly in the seat, you point your gun to the drone quickly approaching. The pistol strains your wrist as you shoot. One. Two. Suddenly the gun is too hot to handle and you nearly drop it. Jammed. Shit. As you move to holster it, the drone unleashes a flurry of bullets. Pellets ricochet from the asphalt, skimming the metal of your bike, the fabric of your trousers. You pivot sharply, an attempt to dodge the spread of fire, but all it does is make the vehicle unwieldy. The motorcycle tilts from beneath you just as a bullet pierces the spot between your shoulder blades. (text-colour:red)[[//You shatter.//]]] (if: $shotcount is > 3)+(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[Twisting awkwardly in the seat, you point your gun to the drone quickly approaching. The pistol strains as you fire. It takes you three shots until you knick the small drone. It spirals for a few feet before correcting itself. The drone unleashes a flurry of bullets. Pellets ricochet from the asphalt, skimming the metal of your bike, the fabric of your trousers. You pivot sharply, an attempt to dodge the spread of fire, but all it does is make the vehicle unwieldy. The motorcycle tilts from beneath you just as a bullet pierces the spot between your shoulder blades. (text-colour:red)[[//You shatter.//]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[You leave your hands firmly placed on the cycle, steering it across the two-lane highway. There isn’t any traffic to weave between, but you try your best to trick the drone. You know the sensors on the PD bugs can be finicky if their lenses don’t have time to adapt to the light. You pitch the vehicle left and then right, forcing the drone to rapidly face the setting sun–a valiant effort all but wasted once the drone opens fire. Pellets ricochet from the asphalt, skimming the metal of your bike, the fabric of your trousers. You pivot sharply, an attempt to dodge the spread of fire, but all it does is make the vehicle unwieldy. The motorcycle tilts from beneath you just as a bullet pierces the spot between your shoulder blades. (text-colour:red)[[//You shatter.//]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[It is akin to light. Not a flood but a natural seep, like sun catching between blinds. The drift is not far–not to some celestial realm, not to where you think death should hold you. It isn’t a realm at all, more like a back room of your psyche, tucked between memories. An easy fit. A buzz filters through the darkness, and a string of noises nestle into your mind. A mechanical beep, flapping blades like dragonfly wings, and finally, your name. It’s read in full, your surname flashing hot against the back of your skull. Shame. ~~//Death confirmed. No stolen items recoverable.//~~ The wings flutter quicker and then–silence. Nothing but the light–no. Not light. It isn’t light. It is the warmth. Or maybe it is the chill? Some extreme temperature binds you to this moment, preventing you from processing your fatality. The body is disjointed–unavailable, so you linger there in that forced oblivion–waiting, waiting, waiting. [[ Next|faultline]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[Cracks fill, mending you, piecing you together–your mind thaws, allowing you a fraction of sensation. The wind, tainted by the stringent smell of gasoline brushes your cheeks. (text-colour:magenta)[//There you are.//] The voice–if that is what you were to call it, sounds of a language you have never heard but inherently know. Foreign but home. It is multilayered, both deep and high and it lures you towards the edge of perception. Hungry with intrigue, you chase after it. (text-colour:magenta)[//Thought you truly gone.//] The voice festers within—curling beneath your ribs, and you know it’s inside your mind. Perhaps this is the consciousness. Perhaps this is the super ego to your id. Perhaps you have simply died and are drowning in a concoction of ice and pharms. You aren’t sure which you’d prefer. (text-colour:magenta)[//Now. Don’t think like that. You’re still here. Well…almost.//] Against your will, your eyes flicker open. A jolt of adrenaline pulses at your belly but you’re too weak to truly move. You sit on the edge of the cliff-side, legs dangling from the rock in a casual pose. With no recollection of how you got there, you can’t be certain it is real. The height is great, you cannot even see the bottom of the crevice, and it’s with this distance do you realize this must be the Fault. The sun has set completely, leaving you to the purple night. You muster enough strength to turn your head, eyeing Indigo far on the horizon. The desert stretches like a sea of darkness between you and the metro. There are no stars to look up to, so you look down. You suppose if you can turn your head, you can manage a sentence. [[“You opened my eyes.”]] [[“Who am I speaking with?”]] [[“Am I dead?”]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“You–” you clear your throat, “You opened my eyes. How?” (text-colour:magenta)[//The same way I brought you here. The same way I can do this.// ]Your hand raises in front of your face, fingers curling. This puppetry makes your skin crawl. Gritting your teeth, you pull your arm down. Your hand falls to your lap and as you look at the appendage you spot your bare chest. The cloth of your shirt is tattered, revealing the spot over your heart. The skin is bleached white–a square of a stain with tendrils emanating from the spot like a sunburst–or a web. There is no exit wound–no sign that the bullet went straight through you. You lift your hand and touch the skin in silent awe. Memories flood as you examine your broken garb. The floppy. “What was on that diskette?” you mutter, palms searching for the plastic. (text-colour:magenta)[//What indeed.//] You find the lifted drive in the pocket of your trousers. It is completely intact. (text-colour:magenta)[//You are a thief.//] “And you’re a figment of my imagination,” you respond. (text-colour:magenta)[//I am your savior.// ] “Then maybe I should thank myself.” You spare a glance down into the dark ravine. The fault breaks the earth in two–dividing Indigo from Bonnie and the wasteland beyond. “But–why can I hear you?” (text-colour:magenta)[//Data impression. Your medication sped the healing process–but the data has bled through. You are not speaking to the original copy as that is still stored on the diskette.//] Again–the question flashes against the base of your spine. “Copy of what?” A laugh is the last thing you expect. It’s dark–a cowlick of a noise that circles in on itself until it tangles. [[Next|reveal]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“Who…” Your voice is hoarse and you gag on the sentence. (text-colour:magenta)[//The question is what,// ]the voice replies. (text-colour:magenta)[//Think, child.//] Your lip twitches, in no mood to be toyed with. As your mind seeps back to your flesh, you become increasingly aware of the searing pain between your shoulder blades. Yes. If this was death, you suppose there would be no pain. Your head tilts down, the movement not your own. The oddity of being controlled is nothing compared to the image of your chest. The cloth of your shirt is tattered, revealing the spot over your heart. The skin is bleached white–a square of a stain with tendrils emanating from the spot like a sunburst–or a web. There is no exit wound–no sign that the bullet went straight through you. You lift your hand and touch the skin in silent awe. Memories flood as you examine your broken garb. The floppy. “What was on that diskette?” you mutter, palms searching for the plastic. (text-colour:magenta)[//What indeed.//] You find the lifted drive in the pocket of your trousers. It is completely intact. (text-colour:magenta)[//You are a thief.//] “And you’re a figment of my imagination,” you respond. (text-colour:magenta)[//I am your savior.// ] “Then maybe I should thank myself.” You spare a glance down into the dark ravine. The fault breaks the earth in two–dividing Indigo from Bonnie and the wasteland beyond. “But–why can I hear you?” (text-colour:magenta)[//Data impression. Your medication sped the healing process–but the data has bled through. You are not speaking to the original copy as that is still stored on the diskette.//] Again–the question flashes against the base of your spine. “Copy of what?” A laugh is the last thing you expect. It’s dark–a cowlick of a noise that circles in on itself until it tangles. [[Next|reveal]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“Am…” Your voice catches in your throat. (text-colour:magenta)[//Are…//] “Am I dead?” (text-colour:magenta)[//Do you feel dead?// ]The voice toys with you, but it has a point. There is discomfort everywhere, a full-body pain that drags you towards your physical self. That has to count for something. Yes. If this was death, you suppose there would be no pain–or at least you hope. Your head tilts down, the movement not your own. The oddity of being controlled is nothing compared to the image of your chest. The cloth of your shirt is tattered, revealing the spot over your heart. The skin is bleached white–a square of a stain with tendrils emanating from the spot like a sunburst–or a web. There is no exit wound–no sign that the bullet went straight through you. You lift your hand and touch the skin in silent awe. Memories flood as you examine your broken garb. The floppy. “What was on that diskette?” you mutter, palms searching for the plastic. (text-colour:magenta)[//What indeed.//] You find the lifted drive in the pocket of your trousers. It is completely intact. (text-colour:magenta)[//You are a thief.// ] “And you’re a figment of my imagination,” you respond. (text-colour:magenta)[//I am your savior.//] “Then maybe I should thank myself.” You spare a glance down into the dark ravine. The fault breaks the earth in two–dividing Indigo from Bonnie and the wasteland beyond. “But–why can I hear you?” (text-colour:magenta)[//Data impression. Your medication sped the healing process–but the data has bled through. You are not speaking to the original copy as that is still stored on the diskette.//] Again–the question flashes against the base of your spine. “Copy of what?” A laugh is the last thing you expect. It’s dark–a cowlick of a noise that circles in on itself until it tangles. [[Next|reveal]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[(text-colour:magenta)[//Lycus–an iteration, that is.//] “The god?” (text-colour:magenta)[//An iteration.//] You take a deep breath, fight the nausea, and stare into the Fault. “How am I alive?” As if to demonstrate your curiosity, you curl your fingers. The tips of your nerves tingle–a full body vibration. //Intervention.// The word resonates and the scarring at your chest burns. (text-colour:magenta)[//Difficult task as you were technically dead.//] “You brought me here?” (text-colour:magenta)[//Apologies. Experience with the human form is not something I am fitted with.//] “I take it you aren’t fitted with a map either?” you hiss. You have never been so close to the Fault before. You shouldn’t be here. No human should. (text-colour:magenta)[//Geolocations have never needed to be known before–as I have never seen the world from this angle, having been nested in code since my creation.//] Regaining your bodily connection, you address the bag of ice on your bicep. One of the tubes has come undone. You slip the connector into your arm and give the bag a single squeeze to get the liquid flowing again. Now you feel nothing, not the ice, not the pain of multiple wounds–only the luminous heat of the mark over your heart. (text-colour:magenta)[//Such intervention is not free.//] Goosebumps flare up the side of your neck. You glare into the dark pit. [[“Didn’t ask for you to intervene.”]] [[“And what does it cost?”]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“Don’t recall asking you to intervene,” you say. (text-colour:magenta)[//Would you have rather died?// ] You roll your eyes and level your gaze to the city on the horizon and Cradle above it. The man made utopia sits overhead, an oppressive sun that never sets. The blue elevator cuts the sky in two–tube running from the base of Cradle into Allure. The silhouette of the sister cities reminds you that you have a job to do. You check your term. The watch face is scratched but you make out the time. It’s later than you thought, and 12 hours have already passed since your escape from the cathedral. “How long will this last?” You tap the odd marking on your chest. It feels like a burn wound. (text-colour:magenta)[//Until it is complete.//] A morsel of unease sits at the back of your mouth. “Until //what// is complete?” Lycus releases a noise you cannot decipher–as if the innate translator momentarily malfunctions. (text-colour:magenta)[//The next generation is complete. You will deliver my ordinance to my flock.//] A huff escapes you–a scoff of disbelief. “I’m not a prophet.” (text-colour:magenta)[//The brand shows otherwise.//] “No one will even believe me,” you add. (text-colour:magenta)[//The brand will convince them. As well as the sequence.//] [[“Absolutely not.”]] [[“What message am I delivering?”]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“And what does it cost?” you ask. Another laugh. It drapes around your shoulders, ruffles the bottom of your ears. (text-colour:magenta)[//Human life has no inherent value. It is my presence that holds the cost.//] “Suppose gods aren’t humble,” you mutter. (text-colour:magenta)[//If you must know. Servitude is what I expect. You will deliver the next generation upon my flock.// ] “I’m a gun. Not a prophet.” (text-colour:magenta)[//That matters little. They will believe you. I will make them. Never have I had access to this axis. I intend to make the most of this.//] You aren’t sure what it is in their voice, but you shiver. The threat of the unknown makes you queasy. [[“And what if I say no?”]] [[“Can’t just drop my life to be your puppet.”]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“Absolutely not,” you say. You shake your head until you’re dizzy. “I have my own orders to follow, my own schedule.” (text-colour:magenta)[//You think you can say no. Charming.//] “You’re a voice in my head, I can simply ignore you.” The world juts forward as you suddenly pitch at the hip. (text-colour:magenta)[//Insolent,// ]Lycus says, forcing you to lean over the black ravine. (text-colour:magenta)[//I brought you here. I can throw you down the fault.//] “You’d die too,” you growl, fear gnawing at your voice. (text-colour:magenta)[//I am a copy. Copies are meant to be used. Meant to be deleted.//] The pressure at your back subsides and you sit up. (text-colour:magenta)[//A savior and a conduit. Take this spark, light the torch, and pay the debt.//] It’s evident you have no choice but to comply, so for the time being you should agree with the impression. Maybe when you get back to Catia they will be able to assist you. Suddenly, a CRACK– a noise akin to the crashing of waves wash over you. Overstimulation causes you to close your eyes and you’re met with a lavender-hued explosion. A cityscape. An elevator shattered in two, blue glass fractured into thousands of pieces. A fracturing of another kind. A monstrous groan overhead and the lens pivots. Cradle, in all its crystalline glory is lit up like a fire. The noise crescendos until it reaches an unbearable pitch–and then the vision reverses. You open your eyes, gagging for breath. Illumination brings your attention to the wound at your chest. The odd scarring hums with a small vibration. It glows purple. “What was that?” you grind out between clenched teeth. (text-colour:magenta)[//The ordinance.//] That isn’t a decree, you think. That’s a fucking societal collapse–that is war. The elle shuttles the wealthy from Cradle into Allure, the tourist district of Indigo. That is the only way any of the city gets funding. If the elle is destroyed, the umbilical cord will be severed and Indigo will fall into chaos. You want to throw up. You want to tell Lycus to find another prophet. But you do neither. All you can do is sit there with your legs dangling from the edge of the world, your fate searing hot on your chest. [[End|end]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“And what message am I delivering?” you ask. This isn’t compliance, a simple query. (text-colour:magenta)[//The ordinance.//] “As you said.” Realizing you aren’t getting specifics just yet, you decide to pivot. “And if I say no?” (text-colour:magenta)[//There is no ‘no’//.] Your fingers clench the edge of your tattered shirt, a gesture not your own. You read the message loud and clear. You’re in no place to negotiate. Not with the lack of control over your own body. Not while you’re on the ledge of the west coast scar. “Fine. But what do I do?” (text-colour:magenta)[//A savior and a conduit. Take this spark, light the torch, and pay the debt.//] It’s evident you have no choice but to comply, so for the time being you should agree with the impression. Maybe when you get back to Catia they will be able to assist you. Suddenly, a CRACK– a noise akin to the crashing of waves wash over you. Overstimulation causes you to close your eyes and you’re met with a lavender-hued explosion. A cityscape. An elevator shattered in two, blue glass fractured into thousands of pieces. A fracturing of another kind. A monstrous groan overhead and the lens pivots. Cradle, in all its crystalline glory is lit up like a fire. The noise crescendos until it reaches an unbearable pitch–and then the vision reverses. You open your eyes, gagging for breath. Illumination brings your attention to the wound at your chest. The odd scarring hums with a small vibration. It glows purple. “What was that?” you grind out between clenched teeth. (text-colour:magenta)[//The ordinance.//] That isn’t a decree, you think. That’s a fucking societal collapse–that is war. The elle shuttles the wealthy from Cradle into Allure, the tourist district of Indigo. That is the only way any of the city gets funding. If the elle is destroyed, the umbilical cord will be severed and Indigo will fall into chaos. You want to throw up. You want to tell Lycus to find another prophet. But you do neither. All you can do is sit there with your legs dangling from the edge of the world, your fate searing hot on your chest. [[End|end]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[Thank you for playing! This was written as a sample piece for my portfolio - Cassandra Francis]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“And what if I say no?” (text-colour:magenta)[//You think you can say no. Charming.//] “You’re a voice in my head, I can simply ignore you.” The world juts forward as you suddenly pitch at the hip. (text-colour:magenta)[//Insolent,//] Lycus says, forcing you to lean over the black ravine. (text-colour:magenta)[//I brought you here. I can throw you down the fault.//] “You’d die too,” you growl, fear gnawing at your voice. (text-colour:magenta)[//I am a copy. Copies are meant to be used. Meant to be deleted.//] The pressure at your back subsides and you sit up. (text-colour:magenta)[//A savior and a conduit. Take this spark, light the torch, and pay the debt.//] It’s evident you have no choice but to comply, so for the time being you should agree with the impression. Maybe when you get back to Catia they will be able to assist you. Suddenly, a CRACK– a noise akin to the crashing of waves wash over you. Overstimulation causes you to close your eyes and you’re met with a lavender-hued explosion. A cityscape. An elevator shattered in two, blue glass fractured into thousands of pieces. A fracturing of another kind. A monstrous groan overhead and the lens pivots. Cradle, in all its crystalline glory is lit up like a fire. The noise crescendos until it reaches an unbearable pitch–and then the vision reverses. You open your eyes, gagging for breath. Illumination brings your attention to the wound at your chest. The odd scarring hums with a small vibration. It glows purple. “What was that?” you grind out between clenched teeth. (text-colour:magenta)[//The ordinance.//] That isn’t a decree, you think. That’s a fucking societal collapse–that is war. The elle shuttles the wealthy from Cradle into Allure, the tourist district of Indigo. That is the only way any of the city gets funding. If the elle is destroyed, the umbilical cord will be severed and Indigo will fall into chaos. You want to throw up. You want to tell Lycus to find another prophet. But you do neither. All you can do is sit there with your legs dangling from the edge of the world, your fate searing hot on your chest. [[End|end]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“I have a job, a goal, a comp waiting for me to go home, can’t just drop my life to be your puppet.” Lycus is silent for a moment and you wonder if you’ve won. A foolish thought, but one that flourishes in your weakened state. If only it were that easy. (text-colour:magenta)[//Humans are capable of multitasking.//] “Yeah? Read that on the net? I may be able to walk and talk at the same time but that doesn’t mean I’m capable of addressing your //flock// while also living my own life.” (text-colour:magenta)[//You do not know what it entails.//] “Enlighten me.” (text-colour:magenta)[//The generation will need to be spread. My known disciples will be the most pliant, and you will meet with them first. I will speak through you, and you will ascend. Truly, this is an honor. A shame that the notion is lost on you.//] [[“Not lost, just don’t care.”]] [[“I was never religious.”]] [[“The fame actually sounds nice.”]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“Not lost, just don’t care.” You can’t help the apathy dragging your tone. “You are code. Printed on my skin in a freak accident. I’m not chosen. Just like you aren’t real.” Your hand flinches up, shoulder jolting awkwardly. Your fist collides with your chest, fingers prodding the scarred skin. You hiss from the discomfort. (text-colour:magenta)[//As of now, I am as real as you. Do not speak of real.//] Lycus releases their hold on your arm. You grit your teeth. “You made your point.” (text-colour:magenta)[//Have I?//] “Yes. Just get on with it.” (text-colour:magenta)[//Very well.//] Your skull fractures as a noise akin to the crashing of waves washes over you. Overstimulation causes you to close your eyes and you’re met with a lavender-hued explosion. A cityscape. An elevator shattered in two, blue glass fractured into thousands of pieces. A fracturing of another kind. A monstrous groan overhead and the lens pivots. Cradle, in all its crystalline glory is lit up like a fire. The noise crescendos until it reaches an unbearable pitch–and then the vision reverses. You open your eyes, gagging for breath. Illumination brings your attention to the wound at your chest. The odd scarring hums with a small vibration. It glows purple. “What was that?” you grind out between clenched teeth. (text-colour:magenta)[//The ordinance.//] That isn’t a decree, you think. That’s a fucking societal collapse–that is war. The elle shuttles the wealthy from Cradle into Allure, the tourist district of Indigo. That is the only way any of the city gets funding. If the elle is destroyed, the umbilical cord will be severed and Indigo will fall into chaos. You want to throw up. You want to tell Lycus to find another prophet. But you do neither. All you can do is sit there with your legs dangling from the edge of the world, your fate searing hot on your chest. [[end]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“I was never the religious sort,” you say. (text-colour:magenta)[//Perhaps that is best. It would be quite annoying had you been a zealot. Still, this situation would be easier for you to handle should you respect the movement.//] “There is no getting out of this, is there?” (text-colour:magenta)[//No.//] Perhaps the Catia can help you. You need to focus on getting back to them, hard disk in hand. You know the impression can control your body, there is no point in antagonizing them. You hold your tongue, swallow your conflict and decide to play obedient. “Then what is next?” (text-colour:magenta)[//A savior and a conduit. Take this spark, light the torch, and pay the debt.//] Suddenly, a CRACK– a noise akin to the crashing of waves wash over you. Overstimulation causes you to close your eyes and you’re met with a lavender-hued explosion. A cityscape. An elevator shattered in two, blue glass fractured into thousands of pieces. A fracturing of another kind. A monstrous groan overhead and the lens pivots. Cradle, in all its crystalline glory is lit up like a fire. The noise crescendos until it reaches an unbearable pitch–and then the vision reverses. You open your eyes, gagging for breath. Illumination brings your attention to the wound at your chest. The odd scarring hums with a small vibration. It glows purple. “What was that?” you grind out between clenched teeth. (text-colour:magenta)[//The ordinance.//] That isn’t a decree, you think. That’s a fucking societal collapse–that is war. The elle shuttles the wealthy from Cradle into Allure, the tourist district of Indigo. That is the only way any of the city gets funding. If the elle is destroyed, the umbilical cord will be severed and Indigo will fall into chaos. You want to throw up. You want to tell Lycus to find another prophet. But you do neither. All you can do is sit there with your legs dangling from the edge of the world, your fate searing hot on your chest. [[end]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[“The fame actually sounds nice.” (text-colour:magenta)[//Greed will do you no good.//] You clear your throat and look out at Indigo. “Think after all I’ve been through, I deserve something fucking nice.” (text-colour:magenta)[//Was the intervention of your death not nice enough? It doesn’t matter. You will do it no matter what is offered. Forgetting the circumstance?//] Your fingers clench the edge of your tattered shirt, a gesture not your own. You read the message loud and clear. You’re in no place to negotiate. Not with the lack of control over your own body. Not while you’re on the ledge of the west coast scar. “Yeah, yeah. I got it.” (text-colour:magenta)[//A savior and a conduit. Take this spark, light the torch, and pay the debt.//] It’s evident you have no choice but to comply, so for the time being you should agree with the impression. Maybe when you get back to Catia they will be able to assist you. Suddenly, a CRACK– a noise akin to the crashing of waves wash over you. Overstimulation causes you to close your eyes and you’re met with a lavender-hued explosion. A cityscape. An elevator shattered in two, blue glass fractured into thousands of pieces. A fracturing of another kind. A monstrous groan overhead and the lens pivots. Cradle, in all its crystalline glory is lit up like a fire. The noise crescendos until it reaches an unbearable pitch–and then the vision reverses. You open your eyes, gagging for breath. Illumination brings your attention to the wound at your chest. The odd scarring hums with a small vibration. It glows purple. “What was that?” you grind out between clenched teeth. (text-colour:magenta)[//The ordinance.//] That isn’t a decree, you think. That’s a fucking societal collapse–that is war. The elle shuttles the wealthy from Cradle into Allure, the tourist district of Indigo. That is the only way any of the city gets funding. If the elle is destroyed, the umbilical cord will be severed and Indigo will fall into chaos. You want to throw up. You want to tell Lycus to find another prophet. But you do neither. All you can do is sit there with your legs dangling from the edge of the world, your fate searing hot on your chest. [[End|end]]]

(align:"<==")+(box:"=XXX=")[The bell over the door chimes as you enter the eatery. The savory scent of teriyaki floods your senses, eases your mind. Aunt Sia calls your name from the bar and you throw her a forced smile. You frequented the synthchick place often, and you hear the skillet sizzling to life as Aunt Sia puts your order on. You slip into your booth by the window and stifle a pained groan. The walk here had been spent crunching pharms, but there’s only so much the tablets can do. You assess your injury with a frown. There isn’t a bullet to fish from your flesh, just a tattered shirt and lots of blood. The injury Cyril had given you has torn open, and the stitches from the gun wound you sustained with the Loaches have come undone. In short, you feel like shit. Aunt Sia slides a plate of food in front of you and sets down a glass of water. “You okay, kid?” You hide your pain and mania with a nod. “Same ol’--same ol,” you say. She smiles and leaves you to your food. You take a long sip of water, grimacing as you leave behind a stain of red. [[Next|diner2]]]