Cyber y2k wallpaper

I know you, you are the left circle of famous big brother, open mouth must mention a certain someone, mention the group will be called your group, the group of theoretical level of concern to the extreme, Lacan Zizek Aldu Selangsier Badiou Agan Ben is your ideological guide, everything is used to criticize the post-Marx, look at many can not save the common interest you began to worry about the future of the left circle, think the post-modern revolution has been hopeless, so came to the nearest Michelin restaurant ordered a medium rare tomahawk steak, by the way open their own Huawei 13promax far peak blue with WeChat elegant fingertip rotation to their own resentful species of national male old dad sent a sentence: "I have no money" so your bureaucratic father fire to send you 5000, you accept the transfer, the Satisfied with the intention to continue to buy the next imported Vaseline ointment night to Hilton Garden to study the archaeological out of the birth control supplies during the Cultural Revolution. Only, that night you waited in the hotel for a night to see the express delay So you completely become a Machiavellian junior high school Annacchyonism Yuyu bureaucratic family self-harm + international school + Nietzschean philosophy chanting hanging people proficient in P society games + Wen Ai brain people + online love + TNO bewitched secondary Stalinist preference for Western horses post-modern psychoanalysis check components virtual country proficient in German Russian and tno super event pre-liberal identifier social democratic identifier + Kautsky + un Akiko fan + committee communism + structuralism Marx + Foucault + Baudrillard + Sartre Zizek + Trotskyist + proficient in the history of the Spanish Civil War + proficient in modern European history + homosexuality + word game enthusiast + love game enthusiast + fps game enthusiast + proficient in the history of the German Social Democratic Party + Lassalist + labor unionist + ace songbird filler covers + net left group management + key political fan group management + qq group rules advocates + qq group democratic elections + fan group cliques + virtual state management + three worlds cutting + light mania + broken medicine + breakfast pie + Comrade Xiao Wang + Aristotle advocates + consumerism criticism + Heidegger + Benjamin and Adorno's negative dialectic + Slavic neo-paganism + Wittgenstein + Debo landscape society + Saussure + cyber psychosis + identity politics identity + Linguistic enthusiasts + Phenomenological studies + Gramscian cultural hegemony + Reformation + Anglicanism + Neoplatonists + Shankara pedestrian identifiers + History of the Communist movement + Maoists + Dawai + Pantheism + Spinozaism + Critique of the state ideological apparatus + Multi-layered determinism + Cynicism + Dog-intellectualism + Anti-Semitism + Hitchcock + Panekuk + New Left + Camus + Existentialism + Plekhanov Socialism + Neo-Kantianism + Agamben + David Harvey + Negri + Marcuse + Lukács + Deconstructionism + Poststructuralism + Catholic Socialism + Skepticism + Anti-Logocentrism + Deleuze + Derrida + Rancière + Mascheret + Archaeology of Knowledge + Frem + Catholic Social-Democratic Reformed Christian Anarchism + Anarchist Individualism + Hammarske + Lefebvre + Levinas + Genealogy + Barth + Bourdieu + 68 years of spirit, but Leningrad is still in the middle of the white night + quitting addiction + Internet book club + Internet communism achieved + mastery of the game of chess + 15 years old first communist fighter with 20 people armed revolution + British natural theology + rational deduction + first principles advocated + the grave of the dead in Ukraine, but your uncle died in the factory
Finally, you were violently beaten offline by people wearing Marxian headgear because of the violent theory, and indignantly withdrew from the network to return to your family, but after a year, you couldn't resist again.
You are now a famous v in the forensic circle, into the group with its own traffic, go out with its own aura, can speak eloquently about all international politics, will play a full game of chess in foreign conflicts, will believe in the state every time, will think that democracy is not Coca-Cola, every country is the same, and then attract countless people flock, you are convinced that it must be the quality of many people is not in place to cause the people's wisdom is not yet open, although in you saw the city police smashed some old people The stall has a touch of surprise, but you think about it and understand that this is a necessary initiative to create a civilized city, you persistently fight in the bluebird and Ab and hate the country party, each time with a different expression bag to show your patriotic enthusiasm. But you return home to see your parents are packing their bags, saying that they lost the political struggle so the embezzlement of workers' severance pay years ago was exposed, the east window called you to go together, you only panicked to pack your bags ready to fly to San Francisco, but you drove to the airport to find more than a dozen people in your once the car came around, you just completely become an accelerationist postmodern deconstructionist structuralist post-structuralist post Marxism positive horse progressive egalitarianism to pseudo-motherly dictatorship Stella Seibei Ichikai into the customs study extreme militarism Cincinnatus spirit of the Finnish White Guard military government Franco's legacy of the Spanish National Labour Corpsism Sorrelite neo-paganism Aryan Nations Great Revival One Drop of Blood principle of human purification theory geocentric Nazi supporters (2 years old) Finally you are planning to withdraw from the network. Now full of mouth is to build political circle of black words, real life friends and family take you as imbecile, the most basic ideology morphological impulse The most basic awareness of the shape of the conflict can not be done. You originally thought that the construction of the political are similar to their own, did not expect to be the system of the noble school. Now you spend all day except reading scriptures to the book is in the group Bianjing, day and night qq group Zhihu b station back and forth high intensity Bianjing, home out of what big things do not care but care about the great cause of those Bianjing. Chatting with girls is not more than five sentences but reciting the scriptures endlessly. Dress up are not, usually go out are a dress, wallpaper song list all Kang Mi, every day in the posting bar NetEase cloud high intensity patrol to see who is "capitalist". You've gone off the deep end, and if you don't move towards "reality", you'll become the Mr. Tree in the eyes of your relatives and friends. Religious ideological fervor can indeed compensate for your absence, but not for long, you intend to alabaster, good death good death (14 years old)
You are reincarnated as a virtual Napoleon, conquering the four corners of Cyberspace, only for the truth of that impossible existence of the individual. You exhausted your mind, but fell into the dead end of agnosticism, self-proclaimed rationalist but is nothing more than a pan-dog of consumerism, sad and pathetic
After reading the philosophical brain upgrade, you become a cyber hippie, but feel less than in quantum capitalism to combat like in the premise of the dissolution of the grand narrative to discover micro-politics + post-Marxism + cultural Marx + feminist Marxism + Marx of development theory + late Lukács + Frankfurt School + Habermas + ecological Marxism + everyday critique of life in urban society + exclusion metaphysics + theistic Marxism + Gutierrez's liberation theology + the hippies of semitone Marxism + the emergence of the momentary consciousness of construalism + Eastern European neo-Marxism + structuralist Marxist methodology + post-Hegelian vulgar ideologists + the dissolution of subjectivity landscapeism consumerist culture finds itself in relations of reproduction irrationalism and a priori self and self and self as of being Marx and subjectivity and being is perceived left-wing ideology and culture of the young family thug with a girlfriend of the left man of the anti-Rogers centrism of the difference of the nothing of the being of the fickle little king ideologists born and your favorite girlfriend of the modern school of socialist eastern Marxism, you of course want to see the skyscrapers with your girlfriend, after all that is the holy writ of communism.
But so what, you surf the Internet, addicted to consumerism does not intervene, however you can still be a monk dictatorship military state Comey a mutual aid swarmism post-modern critical view of Lacan Zizek Sigma / positive horse researcher doubling as a Hoxhaism Stalinist supporters but endorsed the constant revolutionary theory of the Committee Communism doubling as anarchist warriors and support social democratic reformism fraternity humane free trade plus a degree of authoritarian The political fact is that we still feel that the imperial system of the bull and support the country as a whole great Miles of State Fascist supporters also serve as the authentic Hisodian national community racial purification theory Burgundian monism original sin theory pure Christianity Great Patriarch Lightning Return hopefuls secretly transmitted spicy imperial state religion faith ideas faithful believers.

The idea is not originally there, but you kneel down, the idea comes 

Translated with www.DeepL.com/Translator (free version)

I'm working on shooting a music video for a Portland artist who embodies a unique cyber-Y2K aesthetic. To complement their style, I've envisioned capturing the video in liminal-like spaces that evoke a sense of mystery and transition.
Do you happen to know any locations around Portland that exude a liminal space vibe? These could be areas that feel in-between, abandoned, or slightly surreal, providing the perfect backdrop for our project.
My initial thought was to explore some of the empty sections of Lloyd Center, which has a captivating blend of nostalgia and forgotten charm. However, I'm curious if there are other spots you'd recommend or hidden gems that might align with our vision.
If you've come across any places in Portland that give off a liminal or transitional atmosphere—be it abandoned buildings, retro locations, or even unconventional public spaces—I'd greatly appreciate your suggestions. The more options we have, the better we can find the perfect fit for this music video.
Safety and respect for the locations are top priorities for us, so any advice on navigating these unique environments would be invaluable.
Thank you so much for taking the time to read this post, and I genuinely appreciate any insights or suggestions you can provide.

Sorry if this is too absurd. So i’ve been into cyber y2k style for a while but now i am very interested in frutiger aero,but i am obsessing with the fact that i will spend my money on new clothes and i don’t want to spend money,also i don’t want to switch interests that quick,i’ve been bothered with that since last year. imagining me using both of the styles combined or making content on social media about these two together makes me feel temporarily comfortable because then i don’t know how i am going to combine these two together,i know it sounds very absurd but i am even struggling with how i am going to organize my room because i am worried that i’ll hate my room and i’ve spent money just for the hell of it. I had the same trouble with my art style,it gives me a lot of distress.
I am also having OCD with my partner,which i am experiencing a backdoor spike but i am also worried about it.

PRICE - 50$
U can also buy my STARTER PACK - 50$
(v1, v2, v3 fkx themes + all seaggs assets + studio disk cyber y2k elements)
if u wanna buy hmu on insta (leakmaster335)

PRICE - 50$
U can also buy my STARTER PACK - 50$
(v1, v2, v3 fkx themes + all seaggs assets + studio disk cyber y2k elements)
if u wanna buy hmu on insta (leakmaster335)

Are you an iOS user? If yes, then you’ve probably heard of the latest Apple news – iOS 16.5 could be released in the next few hours! As an iOS enthusiast, it’s exciting to anticipate the latest features and improvements. But before that, let’s dive deeper into what you can expect from iOS 16.5.
Privacy and Security Improvements
With the escalating risks of cyber threats, Apple never ceases to focus on improving security features. In iOS 16.5, you can expect enhanced privacy and security measures, from the App Tracking Transparency feature to more secure Face ID authentication. This update allows you to maintain more control over your personal data and protect it from unwanted access and tracking.
More Conveniences in CarPlay
iOS 16.5 is expected to bring more conveniences in CarPlay. With the upcoming update, you can enjoy more personalized features, such as setting your preferred wallpaper, adding new app categories, and customizing your startup screen. The CarPlay experience is likely to be more seamless and enjoyable with this latest update...
Read On: https://respawn.insure/2023/05/18/ios-16-5-what-to-expect-from-the-latest-update/
Please Don't Forget To Like And Follow Us!

I notice when I have task manager up on my second monitor while playing warzone, it uses 0% GPU?
How could this actually be possible? It's running at all medium graphics at 165FPS consistently, so it must be using my 2070 Super, right? So why does task manager say it's not?
I think if I swapped to integrated graphics I would notice a difference....
Wallpaper engine uses 10% GPU but 165 FPS Medium setting Warzone uses 0%?
Does anyone know as to why this might be the case, it isn't just for this game either, does it on every game. (Assassins Creed Oddysey, Borderlands 3, CyberPunk all at 90 - 165 FPS high settings) I actually notice Valorant of all things uses more GPU than any of the other games I just listed, even TFT's uses more than CyberPunk.
But thing is, all the games pretty much run at the capped frame limit I have set for them either in game or on Nvidia Control panel?
I took this task manager screenshot while in game by the, I had Warzone up mid game on Exclusive Fullscreen and print screened and cropped this while the game was running, I was not tabbed out of the game, or it would use much less CPU as Warzone is set to go to 5FPS when not being the focused window on my PC.
​
I noticed this last night, and figured it had been 3 years since I did a factory reset on my PC, so I factory reset it, and installed the latest version of windows through a clean USB install. So any Software / Hardware issues also seem out of the question.
Also a GPU Benchmark will use 100% of GPU in task manager.
https://preview.redd.it/b3pfniewibza1.png?width=1127&format=png&auto=webp&s=907e9d65dbf4e8c2524c30dd71f5dcdabc2a6ef0

People are wasting potential.
The potential in concept in k pop is soo much. Y2K and Futuristic have barely been touched! Imagine a cyber core 2000s vibe-themed or a hot pink girlish comeback. The genres have barely been touched. And then there's the Alice in Wonderland concept, imagine tea parties, bright colors, and hues, weird core-inspired stuff. We can do city pop, funk, disco, punk, rock, etc. Yes, groups such as Aespa have done futuristic and new jeans for y2k but they have not done it to its full potential. A coquette lana del rey themed comeback would just be mwah. And a hyper-pop-themed comeback would just be the adrenaline and serotonin I need to be deeply back-invested into k pop.
The point is: is that there are unrealized concepts that could be so fruitful and overall really good for the k pop industry's growth and fanbase!
please share your thoughts about this and other concepts you think ppl should do more because I need to know I'm not the only one who thinks we can do so much more:'
( lmk if any spelling mistakes are there )

Blood and Betrayal
-Nico-
April 10th,6:30 PM, The Sprawl.
Four narrow walls framed the room; every visible surface was covered in a sheen of cheap, plastic padding. Across the room a compact screen was embedded in the wall, barely bigger than my head. Muted news streams, porno-flicks and chem commercials scrolled by in a perpetual loop of advertisements. There was barely enough room to sleep—let alone stand. Unfortunately, the Coffin House was all I could afford, at least until I found some work.
Five weeks ago, I'd escaped a dead-end job working security for Locust corp. Fled was more accurate, I suppose. In retrospect, leaving was liberating. Leaving with 500k worth of installed, unpaid augmentations was even better. Not that anyone ever really managed to pay their debts to Locust Corp. No, you worked until you died, and then they'd rip out your augs and slap it into the next schmuck that came along. Better to live as a free man. I’d spent too many years as a security guard to stick around once they’d finally given me top notch ware. Augs like this could buy me a new life.
The streets had proven more dangerous than I'd expected. It seemed that no matter where I went, Locust Mercenaries were always hot on my heels. I knew it wouldn’t be long until they found me again; I hadn't had any run ins for a couple days. I’d found the Coffin House in the heart of the Sprawl, in the Warzone. Even Locust’s most hardened troops wouldn’t set foot here, not without a platoon, a fleet of mechs and Xeno-grade weaponry.
Now, all that was left was to wait on Dennis' call. In a couple days, I'd have a new I.D., a fake passport, and be boarding hypersonic jet, headed halfway across the globe. I'd met Dennis the day I escaped. He'd been beat half to death, surrounded by cheap gangers. I didn’t plan to help him—I meant to mind my business. My security training had overtaken me, and in my haste, I'd forgotten about my new ware. I remembered when the first goon’s skull cracked like a grape in a vice.
Dennis was the one who set me up, helped me get some cash in my pockets. In return, I'd ventilated a couple of his debtors, sent out a message. We made a good team.
Finally, the notification pinged in my HUD. Before I could finish reading Dennis' message, I was halfway out the door. The smell of cigarettes clung to the peeling wallpaper; the hallway was just barely wide enough to walk through. The receptionist, a petite young woman with extensive dermal mods, shot me glance.
"Checking out, Nico?"
"Nah, just a quick run. I'll be back for my shit. Have a nice day, Akari," I replied, forcing a smile.
She grinned, revealing a neon smile. Her optics shifted colors, rotating in perfect time with her grill.
"Be safe out there! The news said we’re in a smog alert again, make sure you grab a mask!" She called out.
I didn’t. Fortunately, Locust corp had seen fit to install top of the line filtration into my respiratory system.
A frigid pallor hung above the city, as gusts of wind ripped through the streets. Droves of belligerent citizens were on the prowl, gunshots ringing out in the distance. I turned up my collar, trying to hustle through Black Powder Alley as quickly and discreetly as possible. This part of town was nothing but trouble, especially if the locals pegged you as an outsider. I suppose they called it the Warzone for a reason. My head moved on a constant swivel. It was best to avoid looking like a mark, otherwise it wouldn’t be hard to end up in some back alley chop shop, getting scrapped for parts; having ware like mine was a double edged sword—on one hand, it made a great deterrent for the low grade scum balls that stalked the streets—on the other hand, I was a walking pay day for anyone with a crew that could hold their own.
A group of gangers in red synth leather eyeballed me from across the way, each covered in a mural of tattoos and piercings. Sparks flickered across my cyber arms, working to project a message: ‘don’t fuck with me.’
Hopefully it would be enough.
And then it hit me: I recognized their leathers. Black Powder Angels. The same punks I'd ghosted my first night in town. Fuck. I'd been planning on picking up ammo at Dennis'. The last of mine had been spent on a would-be mugger, last week.
Our eyes locked in a moment, and I could see it, smell it. They thought I was prey, a mark to be defiled. I slid into an alley and took off. Before long I heard them behind me. Bullets tore through the air, as I frantically weaved. Too slow. Pain spread through my shoulder, as one clipped me. They raced on my heels like hyenas, chasing a wounded gazelle.
"Slow down, chrome dome, we just wanna talk, take a look at all those fancy augs!"
I ripped a brick from the wall, spinning my momentum into a deadly toss. An eruption of mortar and clay ensued, embedding itself into one of the gangers’ chests. It was perfect. His eyes went blank. With a wet squelch he slumped over, and I dove for his gun.
His body spasmed as I ripped the assault rifle from his hand. A moment later the corpse was airborne, hurtling towards his allies. The trigger compressed beneath my finger, and I filled the alley with hot lead. My feet moved of their own volition, initiating advanced evasion protocols.
I lost the crowd in just short of fifteen minutes; I’d never ran so hard in my life.
Finally, I reached Dennis’ shop, a small, ramshackle building with a neon sign that read ‘General Store’ perched above the door. Roman lingered in the alley, a stocky young Razor with a collection of last year’s ware and munitions from before the last war. He was green, but he was a good kid; Dennis said he was his nephew, hired him after his dad bit it. Nowadays he worked security for Dennis. All I knew was that the kid had taken a shine to me—and the feeling was mutual.
We exchanged nods, as I opened the bullet-proof glass door.
Relics of the 21st century decorated the shop. Tapes and CDs were displayed scattered along the shelves, beside busts of retro celebrities and archaic devices whose uses had been lost to the ravages of time. Dennis was leaning against the counter, the lights glistening upon his bald head. His clothes were nearly as old as I was.
His eyes circled, evading my gaze. The quivering of his lip was a tell-tale sign: he was nervous.
"Nico! You made it,” Dennis chuckled, his eyes darting to the closet before returning to mine.
I could hear it in his voice: he was scared.
"You got my new identity facilitated, then?" I asked nonchalantly.
With a thought my thermal vision clicked on, and I scanned the closet. Bingo: someone was hiding, likely waiting for me.
Damnit.
I really didn’t want to have to kill Dennis—he’d been kind to me when no one else was, even if I’d been reluctant to help him at first. I had to give him the benefit of the doubt. I slowly began making my way towards the closet, our eyes locked every step of the way.
"O-o-of course, Nico."
A volley of lead erupted from across the room. I caught two bullets in the leg before I pivoted away from the closet, ducking behind a shelf full of ancient electronics. Fuck. What a shit time to be out of bullets—I should have held on to the assault rifle.
I poked my head out and scanned the area. Sure as shit, there he was: a chromed out hitman, looming at nearly eight feet tall; the kind of bastard that would make the most eccentric auger blush. He loosed another volley and I darted behind a second shelf. My hands fumbled clumsily for something, anything, of use. Even with arms that packed enough voltage to fry an elephant, I’d need something extra to handle this.
Finally, I found it. An industrial pry bar that looked more like a gangland sword than a mechanic's tool. My left hand snatched a stack of pitted buzz saw blades. The combined rust from the two weapons was nearly enough to coat a hovercar.
I hurtled the blades and made my move.
Four buzzsaw blades entombed themselves in the bastard, finding purchase in his rib cage. He spat out a spray of blood and fired another volley, shredding my abdomen. I’d never been so grateful for dermal mesh.
Dennis flashed in the corner of my eye, running towards the door.
I tossed the final buzzsaw blade, and watched it rip Dennis’ right leg clean off.
Soon I was darting through the isle, and trying to pretend like I wasn't running head on into my death. He caught me again, twice in the leg. The last buzzsaw blade took his hand off. He scrambled trying to shift his cover. But it was too late. The pry bar found a home between his ribs. I left him there, slipping in a pool of his own blood.
Before long I was darting between aisles and trying to pretend I wasn’t charging headlong into certain death. Four rounds landed in my quad. Finally, I pulled back the pry bar and hurtled it like a spear, flying clean through the bastard’s hand before embedding in his chest. A wet squelch ensued, and I watched the life leave his eyes. I recognized him immediately: Quentin Rickson, Locust’s number two hit man. My replacement, judging by his augs. I ripped the pry bar from his chest. Though the life had left him, the cameras in his optics were still running—streaming a live feed to his operator at Locust H.Q.
“Keep sending your best, and I’ll keep frying them like krill,” I began, my eyes fixed on the cameras, “figure you just gave me my next payday—old Quentin’s augs will fetch me quite the pretty penny on the black market.”
My boot caved his skull in, destroying the cameras. I turned my attention to Dennis.
"You fucked me, Dennis," I laughed, dragging the pry bar along the shelves, and sending his inventory plummeting to the floor.
"I had no choice Nico! They were gonna-" He gasped.
His hand shattered beneath my boot, and a glob of spit found his forehead. I grabbed an oily rag from the counter and forced it inside his mouth.
"Who's in the fucking closet, Dennis?"
"Some street punk, he.... He found him out there, cut out his tongue so he couldn't scream. He was supposed to be a distraction, help him get the jump on you."
I could barely understand him with the gag in his mouth.
With a quick poke, the rag was lodged in his throat. I watched him struggle for air, turning blue while I doused the place with accelerant. The punk in the closet took off, non-verbally thanking me for his life. I followed close behind.
“What the hell happened in there?” Roman asked, awaiting outside with a revolver trembling in his hands.
I reached out and snatched it from his grip before he could squeeze the trigger.
“Your uncle tried to fuck me and paid the price. But your fate’s still your own kid—you don’t have to die here—but don’t think I’ll hesitate to zero your ass if you try anything. Understood?”
“Y-yes sir,” Roman answered, his tone shifting immediately.
“You got work, kid? Anything else you can go do?”
“No… the Brown Shirts wanted to recruit me—” he began.
“You’re going to go to work for the fucking Euro-Fascists? Kid, if that’s true, I might as well ventilate your ass right now,” I said, levelling the gun at his head.
“I don’t want to… but I got no street rep, and I’m all out of creds.”
“Tell you what—I’m looking for work, when I find some? I’ll call you. Until then, stay the fuck away from the Brown Shirts and the Neo Confederates.”
Roman gulped and nodded. I could see the anxiety behind his eyes. He was a good kid, no matter what kind of bonehead shit his uncle pulled. I lowered the gun and walked away.
Flames danced beneath the night sky, flickering in the breeze. I tried to ignore the stench of burnt flesh as I headed back to Coffin House. It was going to be a long month, at this rate.

Blood and Betrayal
-Nico-
April 10th,6:30 PM, The Sprawl.
Four narrow walls framed the room; every visible surface was covered in a sheen of cheap, plastic padding. Across the room a compact screen was embedded in the wall, barely bigger than my head. Muted news streams, porno-flicks and chem commercials scrolled by in a perpetual loop of advertisements. There was barely enough room to sleep—let alone stand. Unfortunately, the Coffin House was all I could afford, at least until I found some work.
Five weeks ago, I'd escaped a dead-end job working security for Locust corp. Fled was more accurate, I suppose. In retrospect, leaving was liberating. Leaving with 500k worth of installed, unpaid augmentations was even better. Not that anyone ever really managed to pay their debts to Locust Corp. No, you worked until you died, and then they'd rip out your augs and slap it into the next schmuck that came along. Better to live as a free man. I’d spent too many years as a security guard to stick around once they’d finally given me top notch ware. Augs like this could buy me a new life.
The streets had proven more dangerous than I'd expected. It seemed that no matter where I went, Locust Mercenaries were always hot on my heels. I knew it wouldn’t be long until they found me again; I hadn't had any run ins for a couple days. I’d found the Coffin House in the heart of the Sprawl, in the Warzone. Even Locust’s most hardened troops wouldn’t set foot here, not without a platoon, a fleet of mechs and Xeno-grade weaponry.
Now, all that was left was to wait on Dennis' call. In a couple days, I'd have a new I.D., a fake passport, and be boarding hypersonic jet, headed halfway across the globe. I'd met Dennis the day I escaped. He'd been beat half to death, surrounded by cheap gangers. I didn’t plan to help him—I meant to mind my business. My security training had overtaken me, and in my haste, I'd forgotten about my new ware. I remembered when the first goon’s skull cracked like a grape in a vice.
Dennis was the one who set me up, helped me get some cash in my pockets. In return, I'd ventilated a couple of his debtors, sent out a message. We made a good team.
Finally, the notification pinged in my HUD. Before I could finish reading Dennis' message, I was halfway out the door. The smell of cigarettes clung to the peeling wallpaper; the hallway was just barely wide enough to walk through. The receptionist, a petite young woman with extensive dermal mods, shot me glance.
"Checking out, Nico?"
"Nah, just a quick run. I'll be back for my shit. Have a nice day, Akari," I replied, forcing a smile.
She grinned, revealing a neon smile. Her optics shifted colors, rotating in perfect time with her grill.
"Be safe out there! The news said we’re in a smog alert again, make sure you grab a mask!" She called out.
I didn’t. Fortunately, Locust corp had seen fit to install top of the line filtration into my respiratory system.
A frigid pallor hung above the city, as gusts of wind ripped through the streets. Droves of belligerent citizens were on the prowl, gunshots ringing out in the distance. I turned up my collar, trying to hustle through Black Powder Alley as quickly and discreetly as possible. This part of town was nothing but trouble, especially if the locals pegged you as an outsider. I suppose they called it the Warzone for a reason. My head moved on a constant swivel. It was best to avoid looking like a mark, otherwise it wouldn’t be hard to end up in some back alley chop shop, getting scrapped for parts; having ware like mine was a double edged sword—on one hand, it made a great deterrent for the low grade scum balls that stalked the streets—on the other hand, I was a walking pay day for anyone with a crew that could hold their own.
A group of gangers in red synth leather eyeballed me from across the way, each covered in a mural of tattoos and piercings. Sparks flickered across my cyber arms, working to project a message: ‘don’t fuck with me.’
Hopefully it would be enough.
And then it hit me: I recognized their leathers. Black Powder Angels. The same punks I'd ghosted my first night in town. Fuck. I'd been planning on picking up ammo at Dennis'. The last of mine had been spent on a would-be mugger, last week.
Our eyes locked in a moment, and I could see it, smell it. They thought I was prey, a mark to be defiled. I slid into an alley and took off. Before long I heard them behind me. Bullets tore through the air, as I frantically weaved. Too slow. Pain spread through my shoulder, as one clipped me. They raced on my heels like hyenas, chasing a wounded gazelle.
"Slow down, chrome dome, we just wanna talk, take a look at all those fancy augs!"
I ripped a brick from the wall, spinning my momentum into a deadly toss. An eruption of mortar and clay ensued, embedding itself into one of the gangers’ chests. It was perfect. His eyes went blank. With a wet squelch he slumped over, and I dove for his gun.
His body spasmed as I ripped the assault rifle from his hand. A moment later the corpse was airborne, hurtling towards his allies. The trigger compressed beneath my finger, and I filled the alley with hot lead. My feet moved of their own volition, initiating advanced evasion protocols.
I lost the crowd in just short of fifteen minutes; I’d never ran so hard in my life.
Finally, I reached Dennis’ shop, a small, ramshackle building with a neon sign that read ‘General Store’ perched above the door. Roman lingered in the alley, a stocky young Razor with a collection of last year’s ware and munitions from before the last war. He was green, but he was a good kid; Dennis said he was his nephew, hired him after his dad bit it. Nowadays he worked security for Dennis. All I knew was that the kid had taken a shine to me—and the feeling was mutual.
We exchanged nods, as I opened the bullet-proof glass door.
Relics of the 21st century decorated the shop. Tapes and CDs were displayed scattered along the shelves, beside busts of retro celebrities and archaic devices whose uses had been lost to the ravages of time. Dennis was leaning against the counter, the lights glistening upon his bald head. His clothes were nearly as old as I was.
His eyes circled, evading my gaze. The quivering of his lip was a tell-tale sign: he was nervous.
"Nico! You made it,” Dennis chuckled, his eyes darting to the closet before returning to mine.
I could hear it in his voice: he was scared.
"You got my new identity facilitated, then?" I asked nonchalantly.
With a thought my thermal vision clicked on, and I scanned the closet. Bingo: someone was hiding, likely waiting for me.
Damnit.
I really didn’t want to have to kill Dennis—he’d been kind to me when no one else was, even if I’d been reluctant to help him at first. I had to give him the benefit of the doubt. I slowly began making my way towards the closet, our eyes locked every step of the way.
"O-o-of course, Nico."
A volley of lead erupted from across the room. I caught two bullets in the leg before I pivoted away from the closet, ducking behind a shelf full of ancient electronics. Fuck. What a shit time to be out of bullets—I should have held on to the assault rifle.
I poked my head out and scanned the area. Sure as shit, there he was: a chromed out hitman, looming at nearly eight feet tall; the kind of bastard that would make the most eccentric auger blush. He loosed another volley and I darted behind a second shelf. My hands fumbled clumsily for something, anything, of use. Even with arms that packed enough voltage to fry an elephant, I’d need something extra to handle this.
Finally, I found it. An industrial pry bar that looked more like a gangland sword than a mechanic's tool. My left hand snatched a stack of pitted buzz saw blades. The combined rust from the two weapons was nearly enough to coat a hovercar.
I hurtled the blades and made my move.
Four buzzsaw blades entombed themselves in the bastard, finding purchase in his rib cage. He spat out a spray of blood and fired another volley, shredding my abdomen. I’d never been so grateful for dermal mesh.
Dennis flashed in the corner of my eye, running towards the door.
I tossed the final buzzsaw blade, and watched it rip Dennis’ right leg clean off.
Soon I was darting through the isle, and trying to pretend like I wasn't running head on into my death. He caught me again, twice in the leg. The last buzzsaw blade took his hand off. He scrambled trying to shift his cover. But it was too late. The pry bar found a home between his ribs. I left him there, slipping in a pool of his own blood.
Before long I was darting between aisles and trying to pretend I wasn’t charging headlong into certain death. Four rounds landed in my quad. Finally, I pulled back the pry bar and hurtled it like a spear, flying clean through the bastard’s hand before embedding in his chest. A wet squelch ensued, and I watched the life leave his eyes. I recognized him immediately: Quentin Rickson, Locust’s number two hit man. My replacement, judging by his augs. I ripped the pry bar from his chest. Though the life had left him, the cameras in his optics were still running—streaming a live feed to his operator at Locust H.Q.
“Keep sending your best, and I’ll keep frying them like krill,” I began, my eyes fixed on the cameras, “figure you just gave me my next payday—old Quentin’s augs will fetch me quite the pretty penny on the black market.”
My boot caved his skull in, destroying the cameras. I turned my attention to Dennis.
"You fucked me, Dennis," I laughed, dragging the pry bar along the shelves, and sending his inventory plummeting to the floor.
"I had no choice Nico! They were gonna-" He gasped.
His hand shattered beneath my boot, and a glob of spit found his forehead. I grabbed an oily rag from the counter and forced it inside his mouth.
"Who's in the fucking closet, Dennis?"
"Some street punk, he.... He found him out there, cut out his tongue so he couldn't scream. He was supposed to be a distraction, help him get the jump on you."
I could barely understand him with the gag in his mouth.
With a quick poke, the rag was lodged in his throat. I watched him struggle for air, turning blue while I doused the place with accelerant. The punk in the closet took off, non-verbally thanking me for his life. I followed close behind.
“What the hell happened in there?” Roman asked, awaiting outside with a revolver trembling in his hands.
I reached out and snatched it from his grip before he could squeeze the trigger.
“Your uncle tried to fuck me and paid the price. But your fate’s still your own kid—you don’t have to die here—but don’t think I’ll hesitate to zero your ass if you try anything. Understood?”
“Y-yes sir,” Roman answered, his tone shifting immediately.
“You got work, kid? Anything else you can go do?”
“No… the Brown Shirts wanted to recruit me—” he began.
“You’re going to go to work for the fucking Euro-Fascists? Kid, if that’s true, I might as well ventilate your ass right now,” I said, levelling the gun at his head.
“I don’t want to… but I got no street rep, and I’m all out of creds.”
“Tell you what—I’m looking for work, when I find some? I’ll call you. Until then, stay the fuck away from the Brown Shirts and the Neo Confederates.”
Roman gulped and nodded. I could see the anxiety behind his eyes. He was a good kid, no matter what kind of bonehead shit his uncle pulled. I lowered the gun and walked away.
Flames danced beneath the night sky, flickering in the breeze. I tried to ignore the stench of burnt flesh as I headed back to Coffin House. It was going to be a long month, at this rate.

Blood and Betrayal
-Nico-
April 10th,6:30 PM, The Sprawl.
Four narrow walls framed the room; every visible surface was covered in a sheen of cheap, plastic padding. Across the room a compact screen was embedded in the wall, barely bigger than my head. Muted news streams, porno-flicks and chem commercials scrolled by in a perpetual loop of advertisements. There was barely enough room to sleep—let alone stand. Unfortunately, the Coffin House was all I could afford, at least until I found some work.
Five weeks ago, I'd escaped a dead-end job working security for Locust corp. Fled was more accurate, I suppose. In retrospect, leaving was liberating. Leaving with 500k worth of installed, unpaid augmentations was even better. Not that anyone ever really managed to pay their debts to Locust Corp. No, you worked until you died, and then they'd rip out your augs and slap it into the next schmuck that came along. Better to live as a free man. I’d spent too many years as a security guard to stick around once they’d finally given me top notch ware. Augs like this could buy me a new life.
The streets had proven more dangerous than I'd expected. It seemed that no matter where I went, Locust Mercenaries were always hot on my heels. I knew it wouldn’t be long until they found me again; I hadn't had any run ins for a couple days. I’d found the Coffin House in the heart of the Sprawl, in the Warzone. Even Locust’s most hardened troops wouldn’t set foot here, not without a platoon, a fleet of mechs and Xeno-grade weaponry.
Now, all that was left was to wait on Dennis' call. In a couple days, I'd have a new I.D., a fake passport, and be boarding hypersonic jet, headed halfway across the globe. I'd met Dennis the day I escaped. He'd been beat half to death, surrounded by cheap gangers. I didn’t plan to help him—I meant to mind my business. My security training had overtaken me, and in my haste, I'd forgotten about my new ware. I remembered when the first goon’s skull cracked like a grape in a vice.
Dennis was the one who set me up, helped me get some cash in my pockets. In return, I'd ventilated a couple of his debtors, sent out a message. We made a good team.
Finally, the notification pinged in my HUD. Before I could finish reading Dennis' message, I was halfway out the door. The smell of cigarettes clung to the peeling wallpaper; the hallway was just barely wide enough to walk through. The receptionist, a petite young woman with extensive dermal mods, shot me glance.
"Checking out, Nico?"
"Nah, just a quick run. I'll be back for my shit. Have a nice day, Akari," I replied, forcing a smile.
She grinned, revealing a neon smile. Her optics shifted colors, rotating in perfect time with her grill.
"Be safe out there! The news said we’re in a smog alert again, make sure you grab a mask!" She called out.
I didn’t. Fortunately, Locust corp had seen fit to install top of the line filtration into my respiratory system.
A frigid pallor hung above the city, as gusts of wind ripped through the streets. Droves of belligerent citizens were on the prowl, gunshots ringing out in the distance. I turned up my collar, trying to hustle through Black Powder Alley as quickly and discreetly as possible. This part of town was nothing but trouble, especially if the locals pegged you as an outsider. I suppose they called it the Warzone for a reason. My head moved on a constant swivel. It was best to avoid looking like a mark, otherwise it wouldn’t be hard to end up in some back alley chop shop, getting scrapped for parts; having ware like mine was a double edged sword—on one hand, it made a great deterrent for the low grade scum balls that stalked the streets—on the other hand, I was a walking pay day for anyone with a crew that could hold their own.
A group of gangers in red synth leather eyeballed me from across the way, each covered in a mural of tattoos and piercings. Sparks flickered across my cyber arms, working to project a message: ‘don’t fuck with me.’
Hopefully it would be enough.
And then it hit me: I recognized their leathers. Black Powder Angels. The same punks I'd ghosted my first night in town. Fuck. I'd been planning on picking up ammo at Dennis'. The last of mine had been spent on a would-be mugger, last week.
Our eyes locked in a moment, and I could see it, smell it. They thought I was prey, a mark to be defiled. I slid into an alley and took off. Before long I heard them behind me. Bullets tore through the air, as I frantically weaved. Too slow. Pain spread through my shoulder, as one clipped me. They raced on my heels like hyenas, chasing a wounded gazelle.
"Slow down, chrome dome, we just wanna talk, take a look at all those fancy augs!"
I ripped a brick from the wall, spinning my momentum into a deadly toss. An eruption of mortar and clay ensued, embedding itself into one of the gangers’ chests. It was perfect. His eyes went blank. With a wet squelch he slumped over, and I dove for his gun.
His body spasmed as I ripped the assault rifle from his hand. A moment later the corpse was airborne, hurtling towards his allies. The trigger compressed beneath my finger, and I filled the alley with hot lead. My feet moved of their own volition, initiating advanced evasion protocols.
I lost the crowd in just short of fifteen minutes; I’d never ran so hard in my life.
Finally, I reached Dennis’ shop, a small, ramshackle building with a neon sign that read ‘General Store’ perched above the door. Roman lingered in the alley, a stocky young Razor with a collection of last year’s ware and munitions from before the last war. He was green, but he was a good kid; Dennis said he was his nephew, hired him after his dad bit it. Nowadays he worked security for Dennis. All I knew was that the kid had taken a shine to me—and the feeling was mutual.
We exchanged nods, as I opened the bullet-proof glass door.
Relics of the 21st century decorated the shop. Tapes and CDs were displayed scattered along the shelves, beside busts of retro celebrities and archaic devices whose uses had been lost to the ravages of time. Dennis was leaning against the counter, the lights glistening upon his bald head. His clothes were nearly as old as I was.
His eyes circled, evading my gaze. The quivering of his lip was a tell-tale sign: he was nervous.
"Nico! You made it,” Dennis chuckled, his eyes darting to the closet before returning to mine.
I could hear it in his voice: he was scared.
"You got my new identity facilitated, then?" I asked nonchalantly.
With a thought my thermal vision clicked on, and I scanned the closet. Bingo: someone was hiding, likely waiting for me.
Damnit.
I really didn’t want to have to kill Dennis—he’d been kind to me when no one else was, even if I’d been reluctant to help him at first. I had to give him the benefit of the doubt. I slowly began making my way towards the closet, our eyes locked every step of the way.
"O-o-of course, Nico."
A volley of lead erupted from across the room. I caught two bullets in the leg before I pivoted away from the closet, ducking behind a shelf full of ancient electronics. Fuck. What a shit time to be out of bullets—I should have held on to the assault rifle.
I poked my head out and scanned the area. Sure as shit, there he was: a chromed out hitman, looming at nearly eight feet tall; the kind of bastard that would make the most eccentric auger blush. He loosed another volley and I darted behind a second shelf. My hands fumbled clumsily for something, anything, of use. Even with arms that packed enough voltage to fry an elephant, I’d need something extra to handle this.
Finally, I found it. An industrial pry bar that looked more like a gangland sword than a mechanic's tool. My left hand snatched a stack of pitted buzz saw blades. The combined rust from the two weapons was nearly enough to coat a hovercar.
I hurtled the blades and made my move.
Four buzzsaw blades entombed themselves in the bastard, finding purchase in his rib cage. He spat out a spray of blood and fired another volley, shredding my abdomen. I’d never been so grateful for dermal mesh.
Dennis flashed in the corner of my eye, running towards the door.
I tossed the final buzzsaw blade, and watched it rip Dennis’ right leg clean off.
Soon I was darting through the isle, and trying to pretend like I wasn't running head on into my death. He caught me again, twice in the leg. The last buzzsaw blade took his hand off. He scrambled trying to shift his cover. But it was too late. The pry bar found a home between his ribs. I left him there, slipping in a pool of his own blood.
Before long I was darting between aisles and trying to pretend I wasn’t charging headlong into certain death. Four rounds landed in my quad. Finally, I pulled back the pry bar and hurtled it like a spear, flying clean through the bastard’s hand before embedding in his chest. A wet squelch ensued, and I watched the life leave his eyes. I recognized him immediately: Quentin Rickson, Locust’s number two hit man. My replacement, judging by his augs. I ripped the pry bar from his chest. Though the life had left him, the cameras in his optics were still running—streaming a live feed to his operator at Locust H.Q.
“Keep sending your best, and I’ll keep frying them like krill,” I began, my eyes fixed on the cameras, “figure you just gave me my next payday—old Quentin’s augs will fetch me quite the pretty penny on the black market.”
My boot caved his skull in, destroying the cameras. I turned my attention to Dennis.
"You fucked me, Dennis," I laughed, dragging the pry bar along the shelves, and sending his inventory plummeting to the floor.
"I had no choice Nico! They were gonna-" He gasped.
His hand shattered beneath my boot, and a glob of spit found his forehead. I grabbed an oily rag from the counter and forced it inside his mouth.
"Who's in the fucking closet, Dennis?"
"Some street punk, he.... He found him out there, cut out his tongue so he couldn't scream. He was supposed to be a distraction, help him get the jump on you."
I could barely understand him with the gag in his mouth.
With a quick poke, the rag was lodged in his throat. I watched him struggle for air, turning blue while I doused the place with accelerant. The punk in the closet took off, non-verbally thanking me for his life. I followed close behind.
“What the hell happened in there?” Roman asked, awaiting outside with a revolver trembling in his hands.
I reached out and snatched it from his grip before he could squeeze the trigger.
“Your uncle tried to fuck me and paid the price. But your fate’s still your own kid—you don’t have to die here—but don’t think I’ll hesitate to zero your ass if you try anything. Understood?”
“Y-yes sir,” Roman answered, his tone shifting immediately.
“You got work, kid? Anything else you can go do?”
“No… the Brown Shirts wanted to recruit me—” he began.
“You’re going to go to work for the fucking Euro-Fascists? Kid, if that’s true, I might as well ventilate your ass right now,” I said, levelling the gun at his head.
“I don’t want to… but I got no street rep, and I’m all out of creds.”
“Tell you what—I’m looking for work, when I find some? I’ll call you. Until then, stay the fuck away from the Brown Shirts and the Neo Confederates.”
Roman gulped and nodded. I could see the anxiety behind his eyes. He was a good kid, no matter what kind of bonehead shit his uncle pulled. I lowered the gun and walked away.
Flames danced beneath the night sky, flickering in the breeze. I tried to ignore the stench of burnt flesh as I headed back to Coffin House. It was going to be a long month, at this rate.

Blood and Betrayal
-Nico-
April 10th,6:30 PM, The Sprawl.
Four narrow walls framed the room; every visible surface was covered in a sheen of cheap, plastic padding. Across the room a compact screen was embedded in the wall, barely bigger than my head. Muted news streams, porno-flicks and chem commercials scrolled by in a perpetual loop of advertisements. There was barely enough room to sleep—let alone stand. Unfortunately, the Coffin House was all I could afford, at least until I found some work.
Five weeks ago, I'd escaped a dead-end job working security for Locust corp. Fled was more accurate, I suppose. In retrospect, leaving was liberating. Leaving with 500k worth of installed, unpaid augmentations was even better. Not that anyone ever really managed to pay their debts to Locust Corp. No, you worked until you died, and then they'd rip out your augs and slap it into the next schmuck that came along. Better to live as a free man. I’d spent too many years as a security guard to stick around once they’d finally given me top notch ware. Augs like this could buy me a new life.
The streets had proven more dangerous than I'd expected. It seemed that no matter where I went, Locust Mercenaries were always hot on my heels. I knew it wouldn’t be long until they found me again; I hadn't had any run ins for a couple days. I’d found the Coffin House in the heart of the Sprawl, in the Warzone. Even Locust’s most hardened troops wouldn’t set foot here, not without a platoon, a fleet of mechs and Xeno-grade weaponry.
Now, all that was left was to wait on Dennis' call. In a couple days, I'd have a new I.D., a fake passport, and be boarding hypersonic jet, headed halfway across the globe. I'd met Dennis the day I escaped. He'd been beat half to death, surrounded by cheap gangers. I didn’t plan to help him—I meant to mind my business. My security training had overtaken me, and in my haste, I'd forgotten about my new ware. I remembered when the first goon’s skull cracked like a grape in a vice.
Dennis was the one who set me up, helped me get some cash in my pockets. In return, I'd ventilated a couple of his debtors, sent out a message. We made a good team.
Finally, the notification pinged in my HUD. Before I could finish reading Dennis' message, I was halfway out the door. The smell of cigarettes clung to the peeling wallpaper; the hallway was just barely wide enough to walk through. The receptionist, a petite young woman with extensive dermal mods, shot me glance.
"Checking out, Nico?"
"Nah, just a quick run. I'll be back for my shit. Have a nice day, Akari," I replied, forcing a smile.
She grinned, revealing a neon smile. Her optics shifted colors, rotating in perfect time with her grill.
"Be safe out there! The news said we’re in a smog alert again, make sure you grab a mask!" She called out.
I didn’t. Fortunately, Locust corp had seen fit to install top of the line filtration into my respiratory system.
A frigid pallor hung above the city, as gusts of wind ripped through the streets. Droves of belligerent citizens were on the prowl, gunshots ringing out in the distance. I turned up my collar, trying to hustle through Black Powder Alley as quickly and discreetly as possible. This part of town was nothing but trouble, especially if the locals pegged you as an outsider. I suppose they called it the Warzone for a reason. My head moved on a constant swivel. It was best to avoid looking like a mark, otherwise it wouldn’t be hard to end up in some back alley chop shop, getting scrapped for parts; having ware like mine was a double edged sword—on one hand, it made a great deterrent for the low grade scum balls that stalked the streets—on the other hand, I was a walking pay day for anyone with a crew that could hold their own.
A group of gangers in red synth leather eyeballed me from across the way, each covered in a mural of tattoos and piercings. Sparks flickered across my cyber arms, working to project a message: ‘don’t fuck with me.’
Hopefully it would be enough.
And then it hit me: I recognized their leathers. Black Powder Angels. The same punks I'd ghosted my first night in town. Fuck. I'd been planning on picking up ammo at Dennis'. The last of mine had been spent on a would-be mugger, last week.
Our eyes locked in a moment, and I could see it, smell it. They thought I was prey, a mark to be defiled. I slid into an alley and took off. Before long I heard them behind me. Bullets tore through the air, as I frantically weaved. Too slow. Pain spread through my shoulder, as one clipped me. They raced on my heels like hyenas, chasing a wounded gazelle.
"Slow down, chrome dome, we just wanna talk, take a look at all those fancy augs!"
I ripped a brick from the wall, spinning my momentum into a deadly toss. An eruption of mortar and clay ensued, embedding itself into one of the gangers’ chests. It was perfect. His eyes went blank. With a wet squelch he slumped over, and I dove for his gun.
His body spasmed as I ripped the assault rifle from his hand. A moment later the corpse was airborne, hurtling towards his allies. The trigger compressed beneath my finger, and I filled the alley with hot lead. My feet moved of their own volition, initiating advanced evasion protocols.
I lost the crowd in just short of fifteen minutes; I’d never ran so hard in my life.
Finally, I reached Dennis’ shop, a small, ramshackle building with a neon sign that read ‘General Store’ perched above the door. Roman lingered in the alley, a stocky young Razor with a collection of last year’s ware and munitions from before the last war. He was green, but he was a good kid; Dennis said he was his nephew, hired him after his dad bit it. Nowadays he worked security for Dennis. All I knew was that the kid had taken a shine to me—and the feeling was mutual.
We exchanged nods, as I opened the bullet-proof glass door.
Relics of the 21st century decorated the shop. Tapes and CDs were displayed scattered along the shelves, beside busts of retro celebrities and archaic devices whose uses had been lost to the ravages of time. Dennis was leaning against the counter, the lights glistening upon his bald head. His clothes were nearly as old as I was.
His eyes circled, evading my gaze. The quivering of his lip was a tell-tale sign: he was nervous.
"Nico! You made it,” Dennis chuckled, his eyes darting to the closet before returning to mine.
I could hear it in his voice: he was scared.
"You got my new identity facilitated, then?" I asked nonchalantly.
With a thought my thermal vision clicked on, and I scanned the closet. Bingo: someone was hiding, likely waiting for me.
Damnit.
I really didn’t want to have to kill Dennis—he’d been kind to me when no one else was, even if I’d been reluctant to help him at first. I had to give him the benefit of the doubt. I slowly began making my way towards the closet, our eyes locked every step of the way.
"O-o-of course, Nico."
A volley of lead erupted from across the room. I caught two bullets in the leg before I pivoted away from the closet, ducking behind a shelf full of ancient electronics. Fuck. What a shit time to be out of bullets—I should have held on to the assault rifle.
I poked my head out and scanned the area. Sure as shit, there he was: a chromed out hitman, looming at nearly eight feet tall; the kind of bastard that would make the most eccentric auger blush. He loosed another volley and I darted behind a second shelf. My hands fumbled clumsily for something, anything, of use. Even with arms that packed enough voltage to fry an elephant, I’d need something extra to handle this.
Finally, I found it. An industrial pry bar that looked more like a gangland sword than a mechanic's tool. My left hand snatched a stack of pitted buzz saw blades. The combined rust from the two weapons was nearly enough to coat a hovercar.
I hurtled the blades and made my move.
Four buzzsaw blades entombed themselves in the bastard, finding purchase in his rib cage. He spat out a spray of blood and fired another volley, shredding my abdomen. I’d never been so grateful for dermal mesh.
Dennis flashed in the corner of my eye, running towards the door.
I tossed the final buzzsaw blade, and watched it rip Dennis’ right leg clean off.
Soon I was darting through the isle, and trying to pretend like I wasn't running head on into my death. He caught me again, twice in the leg. The last buzzsaw blade took his hand off. He scrambled trying to shift his cover. But it was too late. The pry bar found a home between his ribs. I left him there, slipping in a pool of his own blood.
Before long I was darting between aisles and trying to pretend I wasn’t charging headlong into certain death. Four rounds landed in my quad. Finally, I pulled back the pry bar and hurtled it like a spear, flying clean through the bastard’s hand before embedding in his chest. A wet squelch ensued, and I watched the life leave his eyes. I recognized him immediately: Quentin Rickson, Locust’s number two hit man. My replacement, judging by his augs. I ripped the pry bar from his chest. Though the life had left him, the cameras in his optics were still running—streaming a live feed to his operator at Locust H.Q.
“Keep sending your best, and I’ll keep frying them like krill,” I began, my eyes fixed on the cameras, “figure you just gave me my next payday—old Quentin’s augs will fetch me quite the pretty penny on the black market.”
My boot caved his skull in, destroying the cameras. I turned my attention to Dennis.
"You fucked me, Dennis," I laughed, dragging the pry bar along the shelves, and sending his inventory plummeting to the floor.
"I had no choice Nico! They were gonna-" He gasped.
His hand shattered beneath my boot, and a glob of spit found his forehead. I grabbed an oily rag from the counter and forced it inside his mouth.
"Who's in the fucking closet, Dennis?"
"Some street punk, he.... He found him out there, cut out his tongue so he couldn't scream. He was supposed to be a distraction, help him get the jump on you."
I could barely understand him with the gag in his mouth.
With a quick poke, the rag was lodged in his throat. I watched him struggle for air, turning blue while I doused the place with accelerant. The punk in the closet took off, non-verbally thanking me for his life. I followed close behind.
“What the hell happened in there?” Roman asked, awaiting outside with a revolver trembling in his hands.
I reached out and snatched it from his grip before he could squeeze the trigger.
“Your uncle tried to fuck me and paid the price. But your fate’s still your own kid—you don’t have to die here—but don’t think I’ll hesitate to zero your ass if you try anything. Understood?”
“Y-yes sir,” Roman answered, his tone shifting immediately.
“You got work, kid? Anything else you can go do?”
“No… the Brown Shirts wanted to recruit me—” he began.
“You’re going to go to work for the fucking Euro-Fascists? Kid, if that’s true, I might as well ventilate your ass right now,” I said, levelling the gun at his head.
“I don’t want to… but I got no street rep, and I’m all out of creds.”
“Tell you what—I’m looking for work, when I find some? I’ll call you. Until then, stay the fuck away from the Brown Shirts and the Neo Confederates.”
Roman gulped and nodded. I could see the anxiety behind his eyes. He was a good kid, no matter what kind of bonehead shit his uncle pulled. I lowered the gun and walked away.
Flames danced beneath the night sky, flickering in the breeze. I tried to ignore the stench of burnt flesh as I headed back to Coffin House. It was going to be a long month, at this rate.

Blood and Betrayal
-Nico-
April 10th,6:30 PM, The Sprawl.
Four narrow walls framed the room; every visible surface was covered in a sheen of cheap, plastic padding. Across the room a compact screen was embedded in the wall, barely bigger than my head. Muted news streams, porno-flicks and chem commercials scrolled by in a perpetual loop of advertisements. There was barely enough room to sleep—let alone stand. Unfortunately, the Coffin House was all I could afford, at least until I found some work.
Five weeks ago, I'd escaped a dead-end job working security for Locust corp. Fled was more accurate, I suppose. In retrospect, leaving was liberating. Leaving with 500k worth of installed, unpaid augmentations was even better. Not that anyone ever really managed to pay their debts to Locust Corp. No, you worked until you died, and then they'd rip out your augs and slap it into the next schmuck that came along. Better to live as a free man. I’d spent too many years as a security guard to stick around once they’d finally given me top notch ware. Augs like this could buy me a new life.
The streets had proven more dangerous than I'd expected. It seemed that no matter where I went, Locust Mercenaries were always hot on my heels. I knew it wouldn’t be long until they found me again; I hadn't had any run ins for a couple days. I’d found the Coffin House in the heart of the Sprawl, in the Warzone. Even Locust’s most hardened troops wouldn’t set foot here, not without a platoon, a fleet of mechs and Xeno-grade weaponry.
Now, all that was left was to wait on Dennis' call. In a couple days, I'd have a new I.D., a fake passport, and be boarding hypersonic jet, headed halfway across the globe. I'd met Dennis the day I escaped. He'd been beat half to death, surrounded by cheap gangers. I didn’t plan to help him—I meant to mind my business. My security training had overtaken me, and in my haste, I'd forgotten about my new ware. I remembered when the first goon’s skull cracked like a grape in a vice.
Dennis was the one who set me up, helped me get some cash in my pockets. In return, I'd ventilated a couple of his debtors, sent out a message. We made a good team.
Finally, the notification pinged in my HUD. Before I could finish reading Dennis' message, I was halfway out the door. The smell of cigarettes clung to the peeling wallpaper; the hallway was just barely wide enough to walk through. The receptionist, a petite young woman with extensive dermal mods, shot me glance.
"Checking out, Nico?"
"Nah, just a quick run. I'll be back for my shit. Have a nice day, Akari," I replied, forcing a smile.
She grinned, revealing a neon smile. Her optics shifted colors, rotating in perfect time with her grill.
"Be safe out there! The news said we’re in a smog alert again, make sure you grab a mask!" She called out.
I didn’t. Fortunately, Locust Corp had seen fit to install top of the line filtration into my respiratory system.
A frigid pallor hung above the city, as gusts of wind ripped through the streets. Droves of belligerent citizens were on the prowl, gunshots ringing out in the distance. I turned up my collar, trying to hustle through Black Powder Alley as quickly and discreetly as possible. This part of town was nothing but trouble, especially if the locals pegged you as an outsider. I suppose they called it the Warzone for a reason. My head moved on a constant swivel. It was best to avoid looking like a mark, otherwise it wouldn’t be hard to end up in some back alley chop shop, getting scrapped for parts; having ware like mine was a double edged sword—on one hand, it made a great deterrent for the low grade scum balls that stalked the streets—on the other hand, I was a walking pay day for anyone with a crew that could hold their own.
A group of gangers in red synth leather eyeballed me from across the way, each covered in a mural of tattoos and piercings. Sparks flickered across my cyber arms, working to project a message: ‘don’t fuck with me.’
Hopefully it would be enough.
And then it hit me: I recognized their leathers. Black Powder Angels. The same punks I'd ghosted my first night in town. Fuck. I'd been planning on picking up ammo at Dennis'. The last of mine had been spent on a would-be mugger, last week.
Our eyes locked in a moment, and I could see it, smell it. They thought I was prey, a mark to be defiled. I slid into an alley and took off. Before long I heard them behind me. Bullets tore through the air, as I frantically weaved. Too slow. Pain spread through my shoulder, as one clipped me. They raced on my heels like hyenas, chasing a wounded gazelle.
"Slow down, chrome dome, we just wanna talk, take a look at all those fancy augs!"
I ripped a brick from the wall, spinning my momentum into a deadly toss. An eruption of mortar and clay ensued, embedding itself into one of the gangers’ chests. It was perfect. His eyes went blank. With a wet squelch he slumped over, and I dove for his gun.
His body spasmed as I ripped the assault rifle from his hand. A moment later the corpse was airborne, hurtling towards his allies. The trigger compressed beneath my finger, and I filled the alley with hot lead. My feet moved of their own volition, initiating advanced evasion protocols.
I lost the crowd in just short of fifteen minutes; I’d never ran so hard in my life.
Finally, I reached Dennis’ shop, a small, ramshackle building with a neon sign that read ‘General Store’ perched above the door. Roman lingered in the alley, a stocky young Razor with a collection of last year’s ware and munitions from before the last war. He was green, but he was a good kid; Dennis said he was his nephew, hired him after his dad bit it. Nowadays he worked security for Dennis. All I knew was that the kid had taken a shine to me—and the feeling was mutual.
We exchanged nods, as I opened the bullet-proof glass door.
Relics of the 21st century decorated the shop. Tapes and CDs were displayed scattered along the shelves, beside busts of retro celebrities and archaic devices whose uses had been lost to the ravages of time. Dennis was leaning against the counter, the lights glistening upon his bald head. His clothes were nearly as old as I was.
His eyes circled, evading my gaze. The quivering of his lip was a tell-tale sign: he was nervous.
"Nico! You made it,” Dennis chuckled, his eyes darting to the closet before returning to mine.
I could hear it in his voice: he was scared.
"You got my new identity facilitated, then?" I asked nonchalantly.
With a thought my thermal vision clicked on, and I scanned the closet. Bingo: someone was hiding, likely waiting for me.
Damnit.
I really didn’t want to have to kill Dennis—he’d been kind to me when no one else was, even if I’d been reluctant to help him at first. I had to give him the benefit of the doubt. I slowly began making my way towards the closet, our eyes locked every step of the way.
"O-o-of course, Nico."
A volley of lead erupted from across the room. I caught two bullets in the leg before I pivoted away from the closet, ducking behind a shelf full of ancient electronics. Fuck. What a shit time to be out of bullets—I should have held on to the assault rifle.
I poked my head out and scanned the area. Sure as shit, there he was: a chromed-out hitman, looming at nearly eight feet tall; the kind of bastard that would make the most eccentric auger blush. He loosed another volley and I darted behind a second shelf. My hands fumbled clumsily for something, anything, of use. Even with arms that packed enough voltage to fry an elephant, I’d need something extra to handle this.
Finally, I found it. An industrial pry bar that looked more like a gangland sword than a mechanic's tool. My left hand snatched a stack of pitted buzz saw blades. The combined rust from the two weapons was nearly enough to coat a hovercar.
I hurtled the blades and made my move.
Four buzzsaw blades entombed themselves in the bastard, finding purchase in his rib cage. He spat out a spray of blood and fired another volley, shredding my abdomen. I’d never been so grateful for dermal mesh.
Dennis flashed in the corner of my eye, running towards the door.
I tossed the final buzzsaw blade, and watched it rip Dennis’ right leg clean off.
Soon I was darting through the isle, and trying to pretend like I wasn't running head on into my death. He caught me again, twice in the leg. The last buzzsaw blade took his hand off. He scrambled trying to shift his cover. But it was too late. The pry bar found a home between his ribs. I left him there, slipping in a pool of his own blood.
Before long I was darting between aisles and trying to pretend I wasn’t charging headlong into certain death. Four rounds landed in my quad. Finally, I pulled back the pry bar and hurtled it like a spear, flying clean through the bastard’s hand before embedding in his chest. A wet squelch ensued, and I watched the life leave his eyes. I recognized him immediately: Quentin Rickson, Locust’s number two hit man. My replacement, judging by his augs. I ripped the pry bar from his chest. Though the life had left him, the cameras in his optics were still running—streaming a live feed to his operator at Locust H.Q.
“Keep sending your best, and I’ll keep frying them like krill,” I began, my eyes fixed on the cameras, “figure you just gave me my next payday—old Quentin’s augs will fetch me quite the pretty penny on the black market.”
My boot caved his skull in, destroying the cameras. I turned my attention to Dennis.
"You fucked me, Dennis," I laughed, dragging the pry bar along the shelves, and sending his inventory plummeting to the floor.
"I had no choice Nico! They were gonna-" He gasped.
His hand shattered beneath my boot, and a glob of spit found his forehead. I grabbed an oily rag from the counter and forced it inside his mouth.
"Who's in the fucking closet, Dennis?"
"Some street punk, he.... He found him out there, cut out his tongue so he couldn't scream. He was supposed to be a distraction, help him get the jump on you."
I could barely understand him with the gag in his mouth.
With a quick poke, the rag was lodged in his throat. I watched him struggle for air, turning blue while I doused the place with accelerant. The punk in the closet took off, non-verbally thanking me for his life. I followed close behind.
“What the hell happened in there?” Roman asked, awaiting outside with a revolver trembling in his hands.
I reached out and snatched it from his grip before he could squeeze the trigger.
“Your uncle tried to fuck me and paid the price. But your fate’s still your own kid—you don’t have to die here—but don’t think I’ll hesitate to zero your ass if you try anything. Understood?”
“Y-yes sir,” Roman answered, his tone shifting immediately.
“You got work, kid? Anything else you can go do?”
“No… the Brown Shirts wanted to recruit me—” he began.
“You’re going to go to work for the fucking Euro-Fascists? Kid, if that’s true, I might as well ventilate your ass right now,” I said, levelling the gun at his head.
“I don’t want to… but I got no street rep, and I’m all out of creds.”
“Tell you what—I’m looking for work, when I find some? I’ll call you. Until then, stay the fuck away from the Brown Shirts and the Neo Confederates.”
Roman gulped and nodded. I could see the anxiety behind his eyes. He was a good kid, no matter what kind of bonehead shit his uncle pulled. I lowered the gun and walked away.
Flames danced beneath the night sky, flickering in the breeze. I tried to ignore the stench of burnt flesh as I headed back to Coffin House. It was going to be a long month, at this rate.

Idk where else to go for this but I've been trying to rearranging my pinterest boards and such and not sure if my frutiger video game shots, stuff like dreamcast, etc from sonic specially should go with the frutiger.. also liminal spaces and dream core type stuff, blue skies, clouds, and empty green hills and fields type.. there's y2k that somehow touches the fruitger vibe because of all the tech and cyber stuff. Vaporwave seems more pink and purple, but help me out here!!!