Here we are, folks. The exciting climax of HR’s first arc. I had a ton of fun writing this, hope ya enjoy it just as much. ^~^

As usual, you can read it on my Neocities site. - Sofs

Chicago Hypernet, Layer 03; 8:50 AM

Shards of crimson code crunched beneath Velvet’s boots. Acrid smoke bleeded out between the cooling fins of her blaster rifle. All across the the pyramid’s flattened peak, mechanoids and machine gun turrets laid shattered and torn, condensing into heaps of amber flame. Heat was optional this deep in the Hypernet. Nonetheless, sweat beaded on her brow, ran down to cloud her vision beneath the armor’s visor. She shook it from her eyes, squinted towards the center of the summit. There stood the woman the witch’s garb, beside the beam of pure light.

The silhouette waved Velvet over. She wouldn’t keep her waiting.

“I’m not sure what I would’ve done without you,” Velvet confessed, retracting her visor. “Don’t think I even got your name!”

“Mari, darlin’,” she said, giving an elegant little bow, “Aetherlink explorer extraordinaire.“

VELVET.usr
[Hidden]: Failure.

“Cheeky, eh? You remind me of someone I know.” Velvet said, finally looking her head-to-toe. “That’s some rare cosmetics. I thought dot-Dungeon\\. skins got deprecated after EDEN 3.5.”

“Hah, well. They’re still around, if you know where to find ‘em.”

Mari took off her hat, unfurling long, straight locks of fire-red hair. A streak of azure neon fell beside her freckled face, laying lazily across white-golden robes. She must’ve noticed Velvet staring. She flashed her a wink.

“See somethin’ you like, sugar?” Velvet cast her gaze aside. Mari seemed satisfied with that. “Enough chitchat, though. You got a date with destiny.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Velvet caught the flash of magic in the corner of her eye, turned back in time to see the horizons shifting around her. She saw Mari waving her hands, shrinking? No, Velvet was rising. A glimmering magenta haloed her as she drew a sidearm, flung blaster bolts at Mari’s feet. They bounced harmlessly off an circle of swirling geometry, before weapon and armor were shorn to scrap around her.

“Sorry love, they don’t pay me to babysit!” Mari called, twirling her with a wave of her hands. “Other end of this uplink’s your personal pad. Try not to do anything stupid when ya decompress.”

Velvet could scream and flail all she’d want. Didn’t change that she was ten yards above the summit, drifting for the beam. Just as her mind flattened to bytecode, something sharp jabbed her in the side, and the world turned to white.

Eastside, Level B2; 8:45 AM

“Third row, nearside... Fuck!”

Outside was a problem: Big-ass semi-trailer parked wide between Amber and her bike. Its shrimp-chef mascot seemed to sneer at her through hologram eyes, made her howl bloody murder as she shoved between cars, bowled over an innocent, upstanding narcotics dealer. She swung herself under the trailer, dodged bullets while she leapt across the second row of cars, threw herself on her bike. Its Japanese motor roared as she tore out onto the road, cut beneath the offramp.

Amber Lu
Driving/TL9 (Motorcycle): 6 - Success.

Someone was following her. In fact, someone was right on her. Just as she’d committed, banked hard into the corner, a pair of blue headlights edged into her vision. Closer, closer- Too fuckin’ close! Just as impact seemed certain, she dipped low enough to touch her knee to the metal grates beneath the offramp. A sudden sound indicated her pants tearing open, followed by the ugly twang of skin across metal.

Amber Lu
Fast-Draw: 13 - Success.

She wouldn’t go down without a fight. She drew her Desert Eagle, fired wildly through the Toyota’s windshield, only to hesitate as the glass fell to pieces. There was Dutch at the wheel, flanked by Don flipping her the bird.

“You bitch! I just replaced that shit!” Don yelled via brainwave.

“Is it always about money with you?!” asked Riley, popping laser beams out the back window as they made for the freeway. “Ey- Ey-, Watch it, you’re gonna get us killed!”

“We got trailers, Dutch?” Amber asked.

“Who put you in charge?” he groaned.

“Fuckin’ tell me!”

Circumstance answered that for her. An armored brick of black metal sweved into the onramp, bristling guns and snarling gangers. Their beams and bullets lit the ten-lane tunnel like fireworks on crack, sending Amber and Dutch weaving between panicked traffic.

Highway 94 tunnel, Southbound; 9 AM

Amber Lu
Vision: 15 - Failure.
Tactics: 11 - Success.

Amber grit her teeth as she banked into the next curve, felt the rush of stale air against her skinned knee. A glance over her shoulder nearly cost her an eye - the trailer next to her flashed as a beam-laser sliced across it.

“What the hell are you doin’?!” Dutch snarled.

“Buyin’ us time. You wanna see somethin’ crazy?” she asked, not waiting for an answer. “Suppress ‘em!”

Amber Lu
Driving/TL9 (Motorcycle): 6 - Success.

Tires squealed as she made her move. She cast the cycle in a wide, sweeping arc back through traffic, fingers tightening around her ten-mill. Short bursts of Riley’s rifle kept the Hyenas buttoned up as she emptied her mag at the the tires, sent the whole van careening towards the median. She pulled the throttle, saw the driver aim to crush her against the jersey barrier, then pinned the brakes and slipped behind. The resulting whirlwind of metal and ferrocrete damn near took her head off.

“Amber!” cracked the shortwave.

“I’m fine, don’t worry!”

“Behind you!”

Amber’s eyes flitted to the mirror. A blur of black and red neon jumped from car to car, launched itself off a sedan right at her. A sickle-like blade emerged as Samira bounded through the air, grazed her neck just as she ducked her head. That same moment found her stuffing the spent iron in her pocket, drawing her Desert Eagle for return-fire. Its fifty-cals felt like thunderclaps in the cavernous tunnel, drowned out the firefighting robots racing by on the roof.

“I’ll fucking kill you!” said Samira, eyes blazing. Amber pulled the throttle, dodged the next swing, before Samira impacted another car, whipped out a some sorta SMG. “Aw, fuck you. I got bigger fish to fry!”

Amber Lu
Dodge: 10 - Success!

The spray of bullets found their home in Amber’s cycle. In seconds, the front wheel warped, gyrated, folded in on itself and sent her flying.

Her screams lasted well past landing on her back. She scrambled around, tried to get her bearings in the blur of pain and fear, till pneumatic hands clamped onto her limbs, held her still as the tunnel roof raced by above her.

She was fine. No, she’d been saved. A firefighting robot rolled beside her on hyperskates, holding the rescue capsule like an EMT. As its doors folded shut over Amber, a mauve datagram slipped between the closing cracks.

VELVET: Take a breather, girl. We’ll be fine.

Highway 394, Brownell Industrial Park, 9:15 AM

By time Riley emerged into the foggy morn, Samira had found a shiny Mercedes to close the cap. Crimson lasers bounced off its polychrome coat, left his rifle of little use. In return, he’d dodge wild sprays of lead from Samira’s gun, leaving the fastback riddled with holes.

“Can’t this thing go any faster?!” Riley shouted, bracing against yet another swerve.

“I knew I shoulda gotten the turbo!” Don growled. “Ey, ey- Watch the traffic!”

Metal groaned, plastic strained as Dutch jerked the wheel, sent the car careening for the railing. The morning gridlock had choked the highway proper, leaving them threading the needle along the shoulder.

“We’re screwed!” Don shouted.

“It ain’t over till it’s over.” Dutch replied, wiping the sweat dripping down his visor. A moment later, he unholstered his pistol and shoved it in Don’s hands. “Get ready.”

“The hell am I spos’da do with this?!”

The answer was coming into view. Squinting, Don saw the flashing lights of a police barricade through the thickening mist. The offramp down was guarded only by a sawhorse, and the cyan mesh of a portable gravfield.

“Shoot the projector,” Dutch barked, “Shoot the fuckin’ projector!”

Don Testarossa
Guns/TL9 (Pistol): 9 - Success.

Don was way ahead of him. He grabbed a pair of sunglasses from the glovebox, stabilized himself against the center console. “Keep ‘er steady. Steady!” he seethed through gritted teeth. Just as the sawhorse splintered against the front bumper, Don emptied his whole clip into one of the exposed projectors. The exposed power cell detonated in its socket, sent the field scrambling like electric arcs. The world became a blur of light and pain. All he’d hear was his racing heart.

Highway 394, Chicago Heights offramp; 9:16 AM

“Holy fuckin’ shit!”

Vick felt his jaw hit the floor. The beat-up car, caught in the eddies of a grav field, went cartwheeling through the air next to the bridge. It rose high enough to see the driver’s visor, right before it slammed into the onramp across the street below. It came to rest back on the empty highway, mangled beyond all recogniton.

When he gave chase, the slight pain in his leg turned out to be a metal shard that’d impaled him by the shin. The very next moment brought a deafening crash, and screams from the rookies off by the median. Lithium batteries exploded on impact, scattered glass and steel like improvised shrapnel.

Vick ripped off his cracked visor, whipped his gaze down the road. The fireball came to rest beside a fan of broken metal and broken men, alongside one that that rose to his feet.

Vick Masters
Fright Check: 6 - Success.

[Hidden]
Fright Check: 18 - Critical Failure!

A squawk from Vick’s brainwave confirmed he wasn’t theirs. He drew his gun, shouted as the guy - more of a boy - staggered forward, tripped on his own laser rifle. A shot of morphine through his internal injector, and he was on him like white on rice.

“Don’t move! Don’t ya dare fuckin’ move!”

“Hold your fire!” the boy pleaded, giving a sharp cry when Vick stomped his hand.

“What are ya, my fuckin’ drill sarge?! You piss me off, I’ll beat yer ass to protein-paste!”

“Ain’t me! Ain’t us!”

“The hell?!”

Perhaps against better judgement, he followed the boy’s frantic gesture towards the old fastback. Sure enough, a humanoid figure of red neon dragged the victims from the crash, stabbed them with something sharp. He’d left the boy to his rookies, just taken off, when a low, rumbling noise shook all the teeth in his jaw. Stark blue light cut through the mist from an unmarked aerodyne, near-blinded him as it swept in low beside the crash site, birthed a pair of heavily-armed soldiers, followed by a silhouette he couldn’t quite pick out.

Not that it mattered. Vick knew what to expect. Chicago’s finest were feared in the world of crime. But to corpo enforcers, he might as well have been the bugs under their feet. They watched wordlessly as he finally collapsed, sprayed biofoam all over his bleeding leg.

He didn’t expect the femme in a plugsuit that emerged from between their rifles, nor the rescue pod that came skidding to a halt just inches behind him. A familiar woman leapt out, hugged the netrunner with both arms. Despite the morphine, her name still hurt like hell.

Don was out cold. Dutch barely hung on. He tried getting up, felt white-hot pain erupt through his arms and legs. All he could do was lay and watch, as Samira stood over him proud.

The approaching figure didn’t bode well. Gynoid, corpo-type. Its sensor and movement booms swung like twintails off its round head. Obviously the designer’s type.

Its green eyes regarded Samira without expression, canted its head at her words. When she’d finally stopped bragging, the Gynoid asked aloud,

“You are certain your men perished in the wreck?”

“Don’t know, don’t give a rat’s ass!” Sameera cackled. “Fuck ‘em. I caught these rats fair-and-square! Just give me their shares, and we’ll call it even.”

“Gladly.”

The gynoid’s arm sprouted a cannon, turned Samira’s head to hamburger.

It strode over to Dutch, knelt down till they saw eye-to-eye.

“Welcome to Artemis Heavy Industries. Terms and conditions will apply.”

Today’s gonna be a double-feature. Possibly triple. As ya read this, I’m polishing off S014, and kinda wanna release it today.

As usual, you can read this with better formatting on my Neocities site. Hope ya enjoy reading! <3

Expected Scene.

Chicago Hypernet, Layer 03; 6:20 AM

Velvet clutched her pistol tight as blaster turrets chipped away at the corner she hid behind. Supercompressed bytecode was hard stuff, but corpo uplinks came equipped with the best: Ramp architectures and Black ICE. Within the Hypernet, they’d manifest as tremendous stepped pyramids of neon and black, crowned by a beam of solid, shimmering light.

No backdoors. None Velvet could find, anyways. She’d have to fight her way up to the top.

VELVET.usr
Acrobatics: 8 - Success

Suddenly, she felt a tremble in the code beneath her feet. A scytheblade swung out from ‘round the corner, hit the spot right where her head just was. As she slid down the sloped datastream, sliding on her rear, she sent three blaster bolts into the silvery Mechanoid targeting her, watched it disintegrate to glowing bytecode.

Velvet caught her breath behind another block of compressed code. Only now, did she realize the shaking of her hands.

She told herself this wouldn’t be the end. Again and again, till she’d grown sick of it. As she peered off across the endless lattice, she heard herself pray upon a shooting star. Just as her father once did.

A spark packet racing across the lattice, zigzagging between security sniffers and sentry daemons. Velvet watched as the spark leapt off the grid, descibed a low arc right at her. She scrambled, aiming for a block down the ramp just before impact.

When the pain in her head cleared, she found herself in a mist of microcode, offered a hand aglow with geometric tattoos. Velvet staggered back, grabbing for her blaster, before the stranger grabbed her upright.

“You’ve found yourself the bind, haven’t you?” teased the stranger, sharing a suggestive leer under her witch’s hat. “I’ll save you, dear. But only because you’re my type.”

Chaos Factor: 6 ➤ 7

Character List 3:
- VELVET.usr
- <unknown>.usr

Threads:
- Escape Layer 03

Eastside, Level B2; 8:45 AM

Expected Scene.

The arms-dealer’s shop stood on the verge of the Undercity, in run-down strip mall nestled beneath the onramp. As usual, Amber inspected the present company, the sightlines, the microexpressions on passerby, before flicking on her motorcycle’s anti-theft. Concessions to chance never ended well.

The hyena bouncer stepped aside, admitted them to a sprawling shop bathed in red neon. Clusters of shelves offered shrinkwrapped ammo and dusty used guns, some dating back to over a century. Amber fancied the heft of one “Desert Eagle”, twirled it in her hand while Dutch talked business, till some hyena clapped her on the shoulder.

“Didn’t your momma tell ya not to play with guns?” he teased, hot breath against his ear.

Amber elbowed him and spat, “Mama wasn’t around. Nobody was.”

“No one to love ya? I could change that.”

Amber flipped the Deagle in her hand and smacked him across the jaw. Seemed to get the point across.

This was taking too long. She nudged Dutch on the shoulder, asked about the sitch. Turns out their “guest” wasn’t being entirely straight with them.

“C- Come on, Samira...” Don begged, waving his hands, “We both knew the narcos play dirty.”

Their contact studied him through curved compound optics. Antennae-like sensors twigged to his fear, brought a smile to her bony face. “Is that what you told your clients down in El Paso?”

Don Testarossa
Fast-Talk: 11 - Success.

“Ahh, well. That was there, now is now. You know there ain’t nobody who knows the cartels like me.”

“Yet they still want to kill you.”

Don Testarossa Quick contest vs 13
Fast-Talk: 7 - Success.

“Was how it always is. Everyone’s lookin’ to make a quick buck, even if it means icing your best friend.”

“And do you know how much you’ve made me? Precisely zero.“

Don Testarossa
Fast-Talk: 14 - Failure.

Don fell back a pace. Samira moved fast. Within moments she’d vaulted the glass display case, had a pistol pressed against Don’s head. She continued,

“How about we settle this thing for good? Much as I’d love to put a bullet through your brain, I know someone who’d pay damn good money for your rotten hide. Heard she’s an old friend.”

Amber rubbed her head, broke off to tour the shelves. Thankfully, Dutch stepped in,

“If the deal’s off, that’s fine. Just gimme a piece and we’re solid.”

“Not so fast, Commander Hopkins.”

Dutch froze solid. Riley dashed out from behind a rack, sighted his laser rifle on Samira.

“What do you know about the Commander?!”

“Pffheh! So it was real. I thought it was too good to be true,” Samira snickered, leaning back against the counter. “I don’t know a damn thing, shorty. All’s I know is you’re my golden ticket out of this hellhole.”

“Citizenship? Is that what this is about?”

“Maybe.”

Riley Dyson
Fast-Draw: 13 - Failure.

Riley knew where this was going. He drew a bead on Samira’s head, only for a hyena to send him flying into the shelves behind him. Amber barely dodged the heavy racks as they dominoed across the shop. Meanwhile Dutch drew his gun, and Don ran sweaty fingers over the toothpicks in his boot.

“Five against four, we’ve got the edge,” Samira snapped.

“Y’know what happens to cornered prey?” Dutch said.

“Did I say five? I meant seven.”

Two more hyenas staggered in from the back, drawing knives and surrounding the three men. Amber was already starting for the door, knocking ammo boxes off of shelves.

“This place is gettin’ hot. I’m outta here, Dutch.”

Dutch swore at her. She didn’t care. All that mattered were the hyenas blocking the door.

“Outta my fuckin’ way.”

The grabby one took her arm. His partner held her wrist, pinned her to the shelf beside the door.

Amber Lu
Sex Appeal: 10 - Success.

Amber seethed through a sharp grin, “Feelin’ fiesty, eh? Synth-vag and joyboys don’t do it for ya?”

“We like a challenge,” snickered grabby-hands, drawing callused fingers down her tank-top’s neckline. “You look like you got some fight in ya.”

“And you look like ya got some balls,” she’d retort, feeling the sweat bead on her forehead. “Mind if I get comfortable, then?”

Her arms released, Amber started shedding her heavy trenchcoat. She shimmied out of her sleeves, broadened her shoulders to slow its descent. Eyes turned, weapons rested, and grabby-hands got horny as fuck. He never saw it coming when she shot him in the balls.

The room watched stunned as he keeled over. As clouds of smoke burst between the aisles, two fifty-cal shots chased another damp thud onto the floorplate. She roared behind her, “Y’all wanna die? Come on!”

By time Samira leapt over the counter, all she found were muddy shoeprints, and gunshots in the fog.

Alrighty, this is the third-to-last sesh on the daily release schedule. As usual, you can read this with better formatting on my Neocities site. ^_^

Also, be sure to join the Solo TTRPG Discord!

“’Round every corner, there’s a bullet comin’ at your head.”

Velvet recalled Amber’s voice. A moment’s gripe among bruised cheeks and bloodied clothes, that she’d carried with her since.

She remembered replying with silence. Perhaps she swore to prove her wrong. Perhaps she feared she was right.

Chicago Hypernet, Layer 03; 01:45 AM

Expected Scene.

The crimson lattice stretched endlessly beneath a sky of blue scanlines, across vast flats of black squares. Neon towers rimmed the basin, firing golden lasers to the endless sky.

It was a beautiful place, in Velvet’s eyes. Despite its danger, she regularly visited Layer 03 of the Hypernet, keeping tabs on everyone who was someone. Each descent took her closer to bare metal, brushing up against daemons, wardens, and sometimes even her fellow netdivers. There was small comfort in knowing others drifted among humanity’s inner universe.

Lined with traces of magenta neon, her homebrewed combat skin made her agile and fast. A blocky orange blaster rifle - also homebrewed - occupied her sweaty grip. She’d just drezzed a squad of sentinels at a checkpoint, and their warden would be hot on her tail.

She was flying. Felt like it, anyways. Surrounding objects and incoming packets turned into an ever-shifting blur. Her boots left fuschia sparks as she surfed across the circuit, like a rollerblader grinding a rail. Times like these, she never felt more alive.

VELVET.usr
exlink.sh: 11 - Success

The mountains and towers rimming the flats shifted to and fro. Amateur divers often got confused, thought they’d veered off course to the uplink to Layer 02. Most ended up in the Black Hole.

No way would she die on the Net. She told that to herself, again and again and again and again.

Finally, her scripts materialized a golden thread, like neon piano wire shooting off for the horizon. With scarcely seconds to spare, she took hold, and was off.

Chaos Factor: 6 ➤ 7

Character List 3:
- VELVET.usr

Threads:
- Escape Layer 03

Eastside, Level B; Morning

Altered Scene.

Last night’s dinner was a dumpster-dive special. So when Amber heard Dutch needed extra iron for a fifty, she made damn sure to show up.

They met in a sort of courtyard within the maze of underground corridors. Grimy light shone through rusted grates above, giving the space the slightest sense of warmth. Awaiting her were Dutch himself, and two handsome guys, one with a nanoblade at his throat. Their “VIP”, most-like.

Dutch welcomed her, cracked a smile. Amber found herself too hungry to return the favor.

“Gimme some cred, man. Need to nab a protein-pak,” Amber said, summoning a hexagonal plate in hyperreality.

Dutch didn’t budge. Tried to play it smooth, yank her along. Amber didn’t like that.

“I’m fuckin’ hungry, Dutch. Gimme the cred.”

“Ahh, I’ll pay ya back tomorrow,” said Dutch, acting impervious. Amber really didn’t like that.

Tapping into her ursine genes, she grabbed Dutch’s collar and wrenched him down eye-to-visor. Ragged rage seethed out between sharpened teeth.

“You said that last time I helped your sorry ass. You tellin’ me you go to titty-bars broke?”

“How the fuck do you know that?”, Dutch growled.

Amber let him go, swirled her finger and snickered. “I got eyes in the sky, muchacho. Toldja before how Velve keeps tabs.”

“Yeh. ‘Cuz of your trust issues”, he muttered.

“Trust ain’t got nothin’ to do with it. I’m just facin’ the reality ‘a the situation. When you’re hoppin’ off a sinkin’ ship, drowning in the lake, even your best friend goes nuts and climbs on yer back. All for that extra second of air.”

Amber Lu
Streetwise: 9 - Success

“Lemme break it down. You’re gonna gimme a hunnert,” she said, “Nah, two-hunnert, just to show up and poke iron at Casnova here. And if ya pay for lunch, I’ll tell you a secret. How’s about, Cyclops?”

Miniature fireworks - figments of hyperreality - cemented Amber’s victory in their spar. With a heavy groan, Dutch forked over a stack of cryptos. “Man... Fine. I’ll get you something nice.”

Inventory: Amber Lu
++ 200◈ Cryptos

Chaos Factor: 7 ➤ 6

Character List 1:
- Amber Lu
- Dutch Hopkins
- Riley Dyson
- Don Testarossa
  
Threads:
- Get enough cred to eat.
- Find out who’s trying to kill Dutch and Riley.
- Visit the Somali merchant.
- [Don-only] Get the hell outta dodge.

Things are slowly gettin’ good. Thanks to all y’all who’ve stuck around! - Sophie <3

Capsule Hotel, West Roseland, Chicago; 09:30 AM

Expected Scene.

Don started when the door to his hotel capsule flung open. Riley strode in, caught him sitting in bed with a moustache of powdered Red.

Turned out he wasn’t alone. The smile melted from Don’s face when Riley’s companion came in. The moment the door swung shut behind him, the bald, broad man lunged at Don’s throat.

Quick Contest
Don’s DX vs Dutch’s DX
Dutch wins.

Don caught the man’s arm. Its partner broke through, fastening a callused, tight grip around Don’s throat. He’d find himself pinned to the ferrocrete wall, wrinkling his nose at the guy’s booze-stained breath.

“It was you!” barked the man. “It’s gotta be! Fuckin’ rat!”

“Who the fuck are you?!”, Don spat.

The man drew his iron. “Who the fuck are you?”

Don Testarossa
Fast-Talk: 13 - Success.

Despite the sitch, Don grinned. He’d seen his share of unhappy customers, and a burly gutter-rat slingin’ iron was nothing new.

“Alright, alright! Ya got me! Lemme go and I’ll give ya the sitch.”

The man glanced at Riley, who’d reply with a tentative nod. He let Don go, but kept a finger on his gauss pistol. “Speak.“

“Name’s Don. Don Testarossa. Arms-dealer, heartbreaker. Y’know how it is, right?”

That drew a snicker. The man twirled his pistol, picked up a tiny beige chip near his feet, “Dutch. That’s how it is, in the biz... Had one of ‘em public sensies, eh?”

Don deliberately shrugged. “Came with the room! Private massage, Nipponese gal. Happy ending, if you know how to game ‘em.”

Dutch flicked it aside, swept his crimson visor across Dan’s bruises and bandages.

“I see how it is. Bad night, banged up. Had t’ get your rocks off somehow.” Dutch cocked his gun. “Gimme one good reason I don’t ice ya.”

Don Testarossa
Fast-Talk: 9 - Success.

“Better yet, I got two. First up? Riley’s makin’ moolah under me. Got himself a shiny new toy, too.” Dutch’s gaze followed Don’s, finding Riley cleaning the lens on his laser rifle. “I get the gist y’all go way back. Lemme walk, and I’ll take good care of him.”

“Yeh, that’s all good. What about me?”

Don Testarossa
Streetwise: 9 - Success.

Don arched a brow. “You lookin’ for a gig, big shot?”

“Ain’t we all. What you got on tap?”

“Full house,” Don lied. “Contacts from Calgary to the Congo. You need guns, there’s a Somali gal in Eastside sellin’ primo iron. Don’t ask where she got it.”

Dutch turned to Riley. Had a short, silent talk on the brainwave. The pistol returned to its holster, and was replaced with a handshake.

“You’re lucky ya talk smooth, hick-boy,” Dutch said, before yanking him forward. “I ain’t got all day.”

Apartment tower, West Englewood; 04:00 PM

Altered Scene.

The humid stench of sweat and rot haunted every corner of the crumbling residential tower. Lights flickered, footsteps shuffled, and gunshots echoed through concrete. Where the power was out, long, darkened hallways glowed with neon graffiti.

Velvet remembered her fear. Nowadays, she’d grown used to such derelict spaces, and found comfort in their barren embrace. A pack of gangers, a slimy pusher, the kids he’d just sold a gram of Red; there was nothing to do but keep walking. And if anyone made a move, a quick glimpse of her iron was all the clearance she’d need.

At last, she was here. She’d step off the rusting steel elevator, and quickly find the apartment where her client lived.

Velvet Grader
Computer Hacking: 9 - Success

Her homebrewed scripts sliced right through the lock panel’s outdated ICE. As she entered the apartment, she heard the elevator clatter to pieces.

Apartment 2506

The place was a damn crime scene. All it needed was some crossed holo-tape, and a few Badges poking the stiff.

Velvet Grader
Forensics: 6 - Success

She’d died recently. Maybe hours after she’d called. As Velvet crouched down beside the puddle of dried blood, she noticed defensive wounds on her arms, and a knee so broken, it bent backwards. The killing blow was a slice down the right torso, like a mantis blade ran her through. It’d have to be a big one, though. Cleaner and meaner than anything she’d seen in her college days.

Then she heard the door panel. She staggered back, fully expecting a grizzled old Badge to stick her up. Instead, the textured steel slid open to reveal some sort of black android. Scratch that, gynoid. It strode in without a word, faced her with a pair of vivid green eyelights. The moment it snapped its fingers, a warning appeared in hyperreality.

Velvet Grader
Computer Hacking: 8 - Success

Velvet knew the rules. With a thought, she’d manifest triple-layers of ISA-9 ICE, shatter the warnings to burning pieces. It’d drain her battery, give her one hell of a fever, but it made her brainwave virtually uncrackable.

That is, unless it beat her in realspace.

Velvet saw the gynoid leap across the room, black metal twintails streaking behind its head. Her frail legs barely let her dodge a kick that would’ve snapped her spine. She drew her laser pistol, fired shot after shot as she circled the plastic dinner table, till she tripped hard onto the ferrocrete.

As Velvet scrambled for her pistol, the gynoid’s foot stomped her hand. Blood-red warnings told of broken bones.

The gynoid stepped off, ignoring Velvet’s agonized groans. Instead, it’d wait until Velvet had drained her brainwave’s batteries, and apply a knockout derm on her arm.

Velvet Grader
Perception: 11 - Success

When the gynoid bent down, Velvet noticed a familiar pattern on its shoulder. Triple arrows in delta formation, just like the ones on her cyberdeck.

As the world began to blur, a quiet, wavering voice escaped her. “Artemis...?”

The gynoid replied with silence.

Chaos Factor: 5 ➤ 6

Character List 3:
- The Gynoid
- Velvet

Threads:
< To be decided. >

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This here is some of the best writing I’ve ever created. I’m real proud of it, especially the dialogue. Hope y’all enjoy. <3 - Sofs

Police Precinct, Chicago Heights; 08:25 AM

“Well, well, well. Look at what the cat dragged in.”

The pillar of white light stung Amber’s eyes, like front-row streets to a nuclear bomb. When the officer enabled the dim neon inlaid on the walls, she found it a small blessing.

As Amber writhed against concrete of her windowless cell, the door sealed shut, leaving just him and her. His silhouette was familiar, shit-eating grin and all.

“Just my luck,” Amber spat, sitting upright, “Fifty cops in the quiet part ‘a town, and they gimme your sorry ass. What the hell d’ya want, Vick?”

Vick drew close, visibly enjoying himself. “Ahh, just checkin’ up on an old flame. Makin’ sure her cuffs are niiice and tight...”

“You wanna fuckin’ go, man?”

“Right here, right now? Try me, freakazoid.”

Amber Lu
Strength: 6 - Success

Anger flashed in Amber’s eyes. Giving it all, she drove her heel into Vick’s shin, drawing a sharp cry. Within moments he’d backhanded her across the face, planted his foot on her abdomen. He grinned hungrily as her face twisted with pain. Just like old times.

“You need to learn your fuckin’ place, runt,” Vick growled. Amber did the same, made the whole room resonate with her roar. He grabbed her hair, dodging a bite at his arm. “You know why I’m here? It’s to keep your worthless hide from gettin’ burnt.”

“You got some serious balls, Vick. I can take care ‘a myself.”

“That why we found you with a stick ‘a Red?”

“Fuck you. You know I ain’t touched that shit.”

“Yeah, I know. Don’t change the fact you’re playin’ with fire.” He grabbed her by the collar and threw her across the floor. His boot on her back kept her nice and still.

“What’s the matter, big shot? Y’already got me alone.”

“There’s cameras around.”

“Like you ever gave a damn.”

Amber heard a relenting sigh. Within moments she was on her feet, and out of her smartcuffs.

“Look, I can’t say much. Point is, big guy says you’re cool, I don’t know nothin’, ya figure?”

Amber caught his drift. When it came to people in high places, asking too much was hazardous to your health. People still talked, though. And Amber still had that photograph in her files.

Vick led her through the precinct, to the pressurized lockers near the back entrance. Inside hers, an encrypted silver datagram floated in hyperreality, alongside a translucent sheet of glowing hypertext. With a thought, she’d cast them in her inbox and throw on her coat.

“Oh, and Amb?” Vick watched Amber’s expression soften as he placed something in her hand. “Call me sometime, would ya?”

Inventory: Amber Lu
++ 1,500◈ Cryptos
++ 10mm Autopistol
++ Leather Jacket
++ Small bottle of imported scotch

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I’ve went ahead and scheduled these posts. You should see a new one every day, up till Session 013.

Session 014 is already written. But I really wanna catch y’all up here first. ^~^

South Chatham, Chicago; 01:30 AM

Amber wandered through the neon night. The scent of ramen and cheap booze stuck to her coat, save the occasional wisp of wind through the leaves. It’d been getting colder, the days shorter. And Amber’s eyes, viewed in the mirror of shop windows, seeming emptier than ever before.

‘How did it turn out like this?’ she wondered, sheltering outside a konbini. Having rid herself of the Mafiya’s tacit blessing, she’d suddenly found her very existence an affront to society. Old contacts refused to see her, and when tonight she’d tried seeing them in person, all she got was a tasty bruise, and her face against the asphalt.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fucking fair. In a world where corpo bigwigs fab’d whole-ass faces on the reg, who cared if she had a drop of ursidae? Turns out, everyone and their grandma. Worse, especially their grandma. The next time some old crone called her a ‘xeno’, she’d ventilate their brainpan.

If only jail wasn’t worse.

As she began to light a hard-earned cig, her ursine ears perked at something above the thunder of foundries.

Amber Lu
Hearing: 13 - Failure

The sickening impact of flesh against stone, followed by a massive blade slicing through air. She glanced in konbini to find the cashier asleep, then scurried sideways as if she’d seen a rat. No bueno either way. The noise only grew nearer, now mixed with a hoarse sorta mewling one felt rather than heard.

Then she glanced up, and saw cyan neon plummeting for the street.

Amber Lu
Fright Check: 13 - Failure

Amber hid her eyes. Good call, as shards of windowpane and bottles swirled about her. When she looked up anew, she felt her every muscle in her body tense at once.

Sat within a shallow crater was a shifting, pulsing mound of flesh. Eight spindly legs radiated from an amorphous center, squeezing black eyes and wheezing mouths. It had the color of rotten meat, and a scent to match. Tan in some spots, pink in others, iridescent where wet. A few large swathes had been gashed open, leaking a pool of blood as it picked itself up.

Time to get the fuck outta here. She lunged for her motorbike, but caught her foot on a bumpy sidewalk.

Amber Lu
Fast-Draw: 15 - Failure

Landing hard against cracked asphalt, she fumbled in her trenchcoat for her ten-mill. Her sweaty hands struggled in the dark, all whilst the creature stared at her and roared. An icy shock ran through her veins when it near.

“No! God, fuck! Not here!” she screamed, just before an explosion of blood took out one bank of eyes.

Black greaves landed on the asphalt before her, inlaid neon shining through a drizzle. Its wearer was short, shaped like a femme, and covered head-to-toe in some kind of graphene composite. Deep cuts and corrosion told the tale of a protracted battle.

Amber Lu
Perception: 8 - Success

The moment the figure glanced back at her, Amber snapped a photo through her optic nerve. She watched it deploy a thick fog of nanites, assembling a sharp and fearsome scythe.

The ensuing minutes arrived as a blur. When figure dashed, Amber let off three rounds from the ten-mill. Her impromptu ally made good on the creature’s pain, streaking neon as its blade ripped through flesh. By time it’d circled for its next pass, Amber was loading another mag, and the creature wailed at her feet.

Amber approached the twitching mass once it’d finally fallen silent. The smell alone made her retch, but at least it had the veneer of familiarity. On the contrary, she’d never seen such a hodgepodge of flesh, viscera, and splintered bone. Its dark growths and rocky nodules reminded her of monsters from her parents’ stories.

She resolved to get answers. Taking it by the elbow, she tore the figure off its radio, shouting, “You got five seconds to explain what the hell that was, or I swear to god, I...”

Fuck. What was she gonna do? Snap a photo, share it planetwide? Like they’d trust some gutter-rat from the streets ‘a Chicago. Even Amber couldn’t always tell fact from fiction.

As if sensing indecision, the figure flicked a tiny datagram into Amber’s head. In moments, her world faded to darkness, indescribably comfortable. When she came to, she found herself handcuffed in the back of a police wagon, riding at gunpoint beside a phial of Red Sand.

Unopened.

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Apologies for the lack of posts. I was writing Session 013 for like two months, told myself I wouldn’t post till I got my writing process in order.

Well, now that’s done and done. I’ll be writing every day. And to celebrate, I’ll release the remaining Eps of this AP daily. If you wanna skip ahead, check out my personal site. As usual, you can always read this session there. ^~^

- Sophie

High above Chicago, near Skyway 317; Late Night

High above Chicago, near Skyway 317; Late Night

“No matter where you go, everyone’s connected.”

Velvet often wondered where she’d heard that age-old aphorism. The vaguest snippets of memory placed it in the voice of her father, but she figured that was creative inference or wishful thinking. For all she knew, it might as well have been a dream, as with everything else from her last life.

These days, Velvet had to know things. People depended on her. From wannabe rockerboys down in Gary to infobrokers linked to Corpos, almost everyone had an incentive to keep tabs on the competition. Sure it was risky, but all involved knew shooting one rat would cause the rest to scatter. The powers that be really didn’t like losing a good eye.

And Velvet’s eyes were damn good. Genuine Zeiss telescopic optics, mounted in a ball turret under her drone. Autostabilized, sensitive from IR to X-rays. From five-thousand feet she could spot a fly on a pinhead, assuming it held still. Her neural coprocessor always needed a few seconds to adjust the zoom.

Tonight’s weather sure didn’t help. The rain poured in sheets, while gusting winds battered her thin, light camera drone. While viewing its optics on the monitors arrayed around her desk, she kept its telemetry overlaid in hyperreality, just in case she lost control.

Her client was an unusual one. A last-minute job, at that. Just as Velvet had hoped to end the night with some unremarkable stills for the local gangs, she’d get a call through the Hypernet. Some dame in half-drunk panic, begging to follow her boyfriend home. Naturally, Velvet agreed. A few dozen cryptos to keep a tail was enough for three days’ food. A week, if she felt like dropping weight. One could do a whole lot worse.

As she pulled into place to intercept, the glittering blue ribbon of Skyway 317 stretched in a wide arc across her vision. Naturally, an AV could travel anywhere and everywhere, but outside emergencies and local traffic, every cut-rate pilot stuck to the airborne superhighways streaking ‘cross the sky. That included her latest mark: A hotshot racer with a souped-up ride.

Velvet watched him trace the Skyway’s wide, descending arc off the 17, out towards the crowded highrises of Delton. Its wind-cheating shape resembled a door wedge crossed with a hypersonic missle - easily verging on 400 miles per hour down the long, straight stretch of skyway. Velvet reckoned him a madman. Or perhaps, a man on the run.

Velvet Grader
Observation: 10 - Failure.

Her first indication was a burst of microwave emission behind the car. Telltale sign of an image-curtain. The drone’s cross-spectrum cameras were left dazzled, forcing her onto the direct optical. As the picture slowly came into focus, Velvet spotted a second pair of headlights racing after the car, followed by the flickering burst of autocannon fire. Her eyes went wide as the racer’s ride blew apart midair, sending its smoldering bulk careening into some packed apartments.

Velvet Grader
Observation: 10 - Success

Another burst of microwaves. She smoothly swung the camera a few degrees topside, catching a glimpse of the car. Its blocky, broad shape pulled up off she skyway, where it faded into the rain.

Drawn by equal parts curiosity and contract, she swung her drone down towards the crash site. It was easy to hide among the growing swarm of media drones, alongside other hobbyists like her.

The car had come down in a densely-populated area. Velvet grit her teeth at the burning building, and bodies crushed under the rear repulsors. Despite it all, she took a photo of the racer’s remains, including his novelty license plate.

Not long after, she heard the thud of her apartment’s door. Amber walked in, disheveled and soaked.

She’d pick the last bits of glass out of Amber’s hair, and hold her tight to her chest.

Afterglow, Mandell Towers Level 3; Evening

The rusting doors of the rickety elevator slid aside to reveal a narrow hallway lit by dimmed neon. The silhouette of a ratlike man started beside an apartment’s keypad, scurrying away as Dutch approached.

Dutch Hopkins
Perception: 10 - Failure.

Dutch kicked aside the disassembled circuit board the thief had left behind. Nothin’ to see here. Live and let live. Whatever the hell that even meant anymore.

His zippo flickered in the darkness. Soon enough, his menthol cigs left a wispy trail of smoke as he sailed down the corridor. As always, they calmed him. Made every shouting couple, distant gunfight, and patter of rain sound a little bit less like footsteps behind his back. Even the kinetic thump of EDM was a welcome treat, as he approached Riley’s rendezvous.

Strip clubs weren’t Dutch’s thing. Why pay to look, when a good sensie let you grab, shove, and even taste? But some were still the old fashioned type. Corpos and other mercs ate that shit up. On the bright side, that made Afterglow a fine place for a face-to-face. Turns out when the guy next door can fold their colon like a pretzel, people tend to behave.

A heady mix of smokes wafted around Dutch as he walked in, smelling like hickory and gasoline. The place was popular, but the crowd was subdued tonight, mostly interested in their drug of choice. Beside him, few Mafia passed a giggling Azteca gal between their laps. Meanwhile a coarse lake sailor groaned as one of the floozies worked between his legs. As usual, the Corpos were here for the main event. Clad in suits besides pairs of bodyguards, grinning junior execs flicked holographic Cryptos at strippers’ feet like shimmering playing cards.

Riley flagged him from near the far wall, away from the stage. Fewer folks to listen in. Even fewer who could break an encrypted neuroline.

“It’s been a while”, Riley transmitted, passing Dutch a drink. The latter inspected it for a moment, before downing half of it in one gulp. “How long’s it been?”

“Since what?” Dutch replied, his lips remaining still.

“Since we last saw each other.”

“Couple years, eez. But you ain’t here to shoot the breeze.”

Riley snickered in realspace. He peered up at Dutch in a familiar way, someplace between respect and contempt. “You know me all too well, Commander Hopkins.”

Dutch reluctantly smiled.

Late Night

As the two caught up, the crowd finally began to thin. Most Corpos left early, or sat in the alcoves tripping on Red. Meanwhile, the showgals were gradually replaced by designer Bioroids. A cheaper solution for a good time, but a cop-out to a rich man. Their perfect bodies - real flesh and blood - were maintained by legions of microscopic nanomachines, marshalled by cutting-edge cybercortex. The glowing ring around their irises indicated autonomous control, running subroutines from chips in their neuroports.

By then, Dutch was starting to enjoy himself. Turns out Riley was looking for work, and who else to give it besides his old “handler”. But that could wait till later. Right now, he was high on life, laced with just a pinch of Red Sand.

Dutch Hopkins
Perception: 15 - Failure.

Turns out some of the servergals were bioroids as well. He watched an attendant swing by with a steel pitcher, and felt a little better about hollering her way. His only hint was the unsteadiness in her gait, before a grenade plunked into his glass.

Dutch Hopkins
Dexterity: 10 - Success

Riley was quick. Dutch quicker. While the boy leapt to his feet and ran like hell, Dutch blindly hurled his glass into the fog. He watched it land besides some poor bastards on the infrared, before fire and shrapnel rended flesh.

“Fuckin’ bitch!” Dutch cried, grabbing the servergal by the throat, “The fuck you tryin’ to pull?!”

A harrowing, unnatural shriek was all the bioroid replied with. He tightened his grip, before noticing something strange. Her arms and legs were limp.

On a hunch, he let the bioroid go. When Riley arrived back on the scene, he found his comrade standing over the broken doll, watching it twitch mewl like a dying animal. Then Dutch flipped it over, took out his knife, and pried open its neuroport. The very moment he touched a chip, a surge of electricity tore through his hand, sent him flying back against tables and chairs.

As the doll cooked itself inside-out, Dutch rubbed his singed digits, and shot a thought to Riley.

“Y’know what this mean, right?”

“Yeah... Somebody talked.”

Heya. Name's Sophie. I'm one of those gals who's always had a big imagination, but never even dreamt of goin’ anywhere with it. My environment and circumstances conspired to content me with video games, Discord, and the occasional anime. There were flashes of brilliance, 'a course. A detailed passage describing my RimWorld game, or a small sketch of someone with a sword. But these were all one-offs. Fleeting assurance of some latent brilliance, as I sank deeper into apathy.

Then COVID happened. Then my house burnt down. And then my best friend fucking killed herself. The grief must've shattered me, as I spent three years in a psychotic break.

I can only imagine where I'd be, for want of a nail. Perhaps I'd still be stewing in sadness. But those miserable years taught me a hard lesson: Only you can realize your true potential.

What's this gotta do with solo RPGs? Oh, not much~. They're simply the axis around which I've rebuilt my entire life, and sense of self.

Let me explain.

Call to adventure

I rather loved playing RimWorld. If you haven't heard, it's a 2D top-down colony sim with realistic mechanics and customizable characters. I liked to make little versions of myself and my internet-friends, and build the happy lives we'd all been deprived of. "My own little dollhouse", as I lovingly termed it.

When my house went up in smoke, my gaming PC went with it. Months later, deep in psychosis, I got an idea. I'd use TTRPGs to simulate the game, on pen and paper!

Little did I know, I’d put myself on the path I travel today.

The Hero's Journey

The first thing I felt upon recovering my reality was unbridled happiness. The second thing was regret.

I'd lost half of my twenties. Spent thousands on stuff that I'd just throw out. I'd grieve for weeks, feel the fury seep into my soul. But I knew I'd have to push it all aside, do my best with what I had.

The clearest path forward was writing again. And solo RPGs had everything I'd need.

Discovering your Inner Universe

Turns out that tabletop games are great inspo for writers. Grab a splatbook or setting guide, and you've got a ready-made context for any story imaginable. All's you gotta do is pick one that speaks to you.

There were plenty of mistakes 'round this time. My friend Tayruh, much as I adore his writing, had an addiction to books about writing, and till recently spent a great deal of time discussing theory instead of writing a damn session. Attempts to emulate that were futile. As were the writing-advice books themselves, which leaned heavily on tropes and formulae dressed up as profound revelation. I did rekindle my hyperphantasia after a month or so, but this was useless if I couldn't make an appealing character.

So I paused, took a breath for six months. Sought to understand why I was doing this.

I've seen a lot, in my time. Growing up in the Rust Belt, amongst decrepit buildings and empty factories, I'd see beggars with missing limbs, adrift in apathy much like mine. It wasn't all bad, though. My schoolmates and colleagues exposed me to all manner of ever-evolving slang, and impressed upon me a lifelong love for language. In college, I'd adopt a southern accent just for fun, despite livin' in the ghettos of greater NYC. Developed this deep appreciation for other people, in spite of their flaws. And the gunshots in the distance. When I hurt myself right after graduating, the loneliness was cushioned by my gregarious presence on the internet. The only place I'd ever felt like myself.

Taken into account, alongside the terror of COVID and the world goin' to hell, my inner universe coalesced around the media I'd consumed. Books like Neuromancer, movies like Blade Runner, and Gun Metal Games' Interface Zero. I realized my experience was worth sharing. I had something to say.

The Skinny

If you're struggling with self-confidence, self-esteem, self-sabotage or the like; I'd highly-highly recommend tryin' solo RPGs. For me, it's not just a hobby, it's a challenge to explore the world, understand others, reconcile with your past, and embody your true self.

That's all for now. There’s plenty more I wanna cover, perhaps another time. If you've played solo games, or had similar experiences through other forms of art, I'd love if you commented below. Take care, y’all.

- Sophie

Yet another archive post~. Been writing Session 13, though. Stay tuned for updates. <3
- Sophie

El Camino Dorado trade center, out front; Night

As night fell upon Chicago, another swell of thunderclouds smothered the city. The torrential rain was warm, even and made a pleasing sound against the pavement. A welcome distraction from the afternoon's carnage.

Amber watched from under an awning across the street. Her Bratva comrades would point and laugh as firefighters covered the burning building with minty-green foam. Medics with stretchers scampered about, carting off anyone who might've been alive. The rest would be lazily swept into the cleaner's robotic bin, ground to chunks and recycled for biomass.

She witnessed the cleaner approach a twitching, crawling torso with one arm and a bloodied head. He prodded it with his rake, drawing a loud groan. With a shake of his head, into to the grinder it went.

"Ain't a pretty sight, eh?" Dutch sighed, standing beside her, "You get used to it."

"That coulda been us..."

Dutch peered down at her, tried to find something to say. When nothing came, he let the drunken Bratva taint their silence, and excuse himself with a long drag of his cig.

The first responders had done all they could. Paying the gangers a tacit nod, an armored police officer called off the medics and dismissed the firefighters. The cleaner was corpo - couldn't care less. But even he cast longing glances at his work van, and trudged through the typical documents in hyperreality.

Amber was winding down, too. She flicked through articles on the Hypernet, especially intrigued by an unusual meteorite fallen west of Boston. Just as she began to read however, a splash of something hit her on the side of the face. Her right eye sizzled, teeth grit. She whipped around to see the Bratva sizing her up, smiling as they poured themselves more vodka.

"You, ah, mind explainin' what that's about?" Amber seethed, clutching her temper.

"You no drink!" said a Bratva through a thick Russian accent, "We make you loose!"

Their captain intervened. He was a younger man, mid-twenties, obviously the son of a very rich man. His fine suit was fitted around flawless skin, unnaturally pale. His quad blue optics regarded Amber with disdain.

"What Dimitri means is you're a stick in the mud," he spoke cooly, coldly. "Can't say I blame ya. Chinks never hold their booze well."

Amber staggered at his remark. Her fists clenched, eyes flitted between faces.

"It'd be real nice if ya didn't call me that," she practically stammered.

"Yeah? What if? You gonna bite me like some fuckin' animal?"

"I got somethin' she can bite, alright..." slurred a Bratva behind him.

"Get outta my face. Ge-, Get the fuck outta my face!" Amber shouted as the Bratva captain grabbed hold of her ursine ears.

"Who the hell gets this stuff, anyway? You fucking Zoo!"

Amber pushed against the man's shoulders, crying out in pain. Just as Dutch socked him right in the jaw.

Things happened quick. The captain fell like a sack of hammers, and the other two goons shot up from their chairs. Amber barely had time to cover her eyes as a glass shattered against her head. Meanwhile the pervy Bratva launched a punch at Dutch, only to be met with a steel baton to the braincase. The final goon met a similar fate, leaving him crumpled and groaning on the floor.

Dutch stowed his baton, spat on the captain's fancy suit. Then he dragged Amber to his car and locked the doors.

"Fuckin' hell... You got great taste in company, little bear."

"Yeah? Ya see what I deal with day-to-day?" Amber growled.

"You actually take it?"

"How else is a gal s'posd'da move up in the world?"

Dutch scoffed. "Easy, just shake your ass on every pole that offers you a job. That'll getcha far."

"Fuck you."

That characteristic bitterness again inflected Amber's voice. As Dutch offered peace over two cigars, he'd wonder if she revealed it around anyone else.

Raindrops fell, thunder roared. All while Amber peered quietly into the neon night. The three Bratva hobbled to their van and drove off. Once they were gone, Amber sat up and rubbed her temples. Dutch flicked the last of his cigar into the overflowing ashtray.

"Maybe you're right, man... Maybe this shit ain't workin' out..." she confessed.

"You said it yourself, 'What's a gal supposed to do?'. Sounds like ya don't got much hope." Dutch replied.

"I've been tryin' for a year..."

"Yeh, I saw. You could bullseye a brainpan from fitty yards. That don't mean jack to the Russians."

"Who else is gonna hire me, though?" Amber sighed, checking her features in sunshade's mirror. "Big, fuzzy ears. Strong bite and sharp teeth. This is who I am. This is who I wanna be. But ain't no one who wants me for it."

"You ever think about goin' solo?"

Amber looked at Dutch like he'd suggested they frolic in the rain.

"Are you serious? You know what the turnover rate is for independents?"

Dutch knit his hairless brows. "Sure do. Know what the pay's like, too."

"Where'd we even get a fixer?"

"I know a guy. Northside. Keeps his ear to the ground for me. Ya game for a quick smash-'n-grab?"

Fate Question
Is Amber open to working with Dutch? > Yes.

Amber laid back, kept awake only by nicotine and nice company. "Suppose that's better than Mafiya work... Punch my place in the nav, I wanna go home."

As the car passed a nearby convenience store, Amber checked the Cryptos in her bank account.

"... Aw yeah. The fuckers never paid me."

Anyhow, this is the story of Nozomi Iwakura. She’s had a hell of a time in life; sixteen years old and hooked on the most addictive drug in history. Yet somehow, she still holds hope for a brighter day.

As usual, the Neocities version is available too. <3

Eastside, Chicago; 08:45 PM

"And stay out, ya filthy animal!"

Nozomi covered her face as her landlord flung her onto the concrete. Her leather coat soaked some of the impact, but her knees stung like hell. She swept her gaze over her shoulder, just barely dodged her steel briefcase aimed right for her head.

"You fuckin' psychopath, what the hell're ya doing?!" Nozomi roared, scrambling to her feet.

"Pest-control! That's the third month yer late on rent, and I don't run a goddamn pet shop!"

"You really know how to piss me off. You wanna go, tinskin?"

"Bring it, pussycat."

Face Danger
Weak Hit.

Nozomi had little to lose. And arguably, even less to gain. Her feline ears went flush against her hair as she leapt at the cyborg. Titanium claws left a nasty gash in his optic visor, before a hundred pounds of artificial muscle socked her in the gut. Her vision blurred, she was tumbling, right up till she landed on the case.

Her body refused to move. Hell, it didn't even want to stay conscious. The Chicago sky seemed to fade at the corners, melting to a slurry of smoke and neon. She barely registered the half-ton cyborg crouch beside her, and look her right in the eyes.

"I'll be keeping your deposit. And the Red Sand."

She grabbed his arm, spoke through gritted teeth, "Hold it. Let's trade."

"What, you got money?"

"Got a mouth. You got equipment. Gimme the Red and it's a done deal."

Nozomi watched him turn it over, before he stood up and spat on her.

"I got a buyer. Get out of my sight."

Figures. Times like these, love and lust were just another commodity, and Nozomi wasn't exactly top-shelf material.

The faux-wood door slid shut, sealed, leaving her bathed in the cyan light of the tenement' entrance. The usual vagrant had seen the whole thing, quietly crouched in a corner pretending to check the news on his brainwave. Nozomi doubted he could even read.

Moments passed. Pain faded. Distant gunshots split the humid air. The man kept glancing at her, only to be met with a flash of her iron. After some time, she got up, took the, and hobbled off for the nearest konbini.

Lawson convenience store

Nozomi needed a hit, bad. Wasn't like she had cash to blow, but a couple ciggies oughta hold her over between huffs of Red.

The AR-projectors flipped on the moment she strode into the corner store. Behind the handy labels and glitzy adverts she had to swipe away, a dark, ratty space stocked all kinds of cheap goods. Protein-paks with fifty different ingredients, roses in that one jar that made a good crack pipe; all beneath flickering bars of fuschia neon.

The android behind the counter didn't even greet her, natch. He was a newer model, male body, but the only features presented on his faceplate was a crimson oscillogram of his own voice.

"Gimme the Marlboros, minty."

"I'm afraid we don't have those."

"Alright. How 'bout the... zhong-hua?" Nozomi asked while squinting. It'd been ages since she'd read Chinese.

"Of course. Your ID?"

Secure an Advantage
Miss.

Nozomi rolled her eyes. "Come on man, gimme a break. Y'know I could get 'em over the border-wall, right?"

The guy didn't budge. Stood there silent, likely streaming gunfights off the Hypernet. She hung her head, finally asked,

"Fine. At least lemme get a magazine."

"Nine-mill?"

"Sure is."

Coffin Motel

Sojourn
Strong Hit.

It'd been a long, long time since Nozomi found herself on the rocks. Couch-surfing was one thing, but her old neighborhood had been bulldozed to build a pristine strip of steel and neon-trimmed skyscrapers. One mid-level suit made more money in a year than she'd earn in a decade. Maybe a lifetime, if this kept up.

Despite the comforts of her little coffin, she found herself sweating the moment it sealed. She dug through her pockets - first the jacket, then the pants, then the case in her locker outside, then back in the coffin all over again. Till she'd end up aching and exhausted, sniffing at the mattress for specks of magic dust.

Withdrawal was starting to seep in. Sleepiness, too. She cracked a bottle of water, shoved her things into a recess in the wall, and pulled the sheets over her bare skin.

Tomorrow would be a better day.

Here’s a link to Session 001, if ya missed it. As usual, the Neocities site has better aesthetics and formatting. Also, this takes place in the same future Chicago as Hyper-Reality.

Night Market, Eastside; 11:20 PM

Four days. Four fucking days since her last hit. By now she was desperate, asking strangers and following symbols drawn on the walls. The cramps and confusion had given way to cold sweats and raw fear. She visibly twitched as she walked, drawing eyes from the night market. Sometimes a ganger peeled off from his boss, just to shove her aside.

The last one would hit like a ton of bricks. Nozomi's eyes saw a suit, but her feline ears caught the subsonic whine of a high-grade cyberarm. The kind draped in synthskin melanized for its owner. It swung into her gut in the blink of an eye, sent her straight to the stained concrete.

Her vision was a blur of tears and agony. With every turn of her head, neon signs lazed across her narrow gaze, like streaks of paint across fuschia-brown. Familiar ideograms stuck out to her. 'Hope', 'Heaven', 'Love'. Nozomi got up, limped for the nearest alleyway, till all of it was behind her.

Just as her senses began to return, a familiar scent stirred her. Like most transgenic people, her nose was sharp. Sharp enough to smell her neighbor through an apartment HVAC.

It was faint. Perhaps far. But she knew the smell of Sand like the back of her hand.

Undertake an Expedition
Miss.

Nozomi took off running down the dark alley, gun drawn just in case. She'd scramble over garbage, bound over holes, turn the next corner - and the scent was gone. Caught in frenzy, she flitted eyes all around, only to find some drunks by a taco stall.

Battle
Weak Hit.

Waste of time. Waste of fuckin’ time. Her hand clenched around the rusty nine-mill, but a flash of their iron knocked some sense back into her. Without a word, she leapt back in the alley, and found the scent yet again.

She concentrated. Spent a moment testing the wind across her feline ears, and set out down a dark, dead-end court. Suddenly she was real happy to have a cat's eyes.

There he was. Between a dumpster a dumpster and a pallet of cinderblocks. She steadied her gun, made herself known.

"All right, ya fuckin' baghead. Now, I've had a bad fuckin' time this past week, and I ain't in the mood to play games. Gimme the Red and maybe I don't ice your ass."

No response. But the man's legs moved, so she stomped his knee and swung her pistol 'round the corner. Damn near dropped it a second later.

He didn't look good. Rusted chrome, sagging skin, shaggy silver beard. A decrepit uniform marked him as an old soldier, though Nozomi couldn't pick out the service. But his eyes alarmed her more than anything. Glazed, half-open. He hadn't even reacted to her breaking his knee, instead let his gaze droop into his lap. A quiet, raspy voice beckoned in some strange tongue. She'd swear she caught a woman's name.

"Fuuck me, man..." she sighed, crouching down.

A triple-tap of his wrist brought up a translucent medi-diagnostics panel in hyperreality. His name was encrypted, but the vitals were visible. His temp was was sky-high, and his heart was tearing itself apart. Nozomi reckoned he was seein' his life flash before his eyes.

Feeling the wind blown from her sails, she sat down across from him in the narrow alley, wondered what he'd see in his dying moments. She'd always imagined she'd go out the same way, OD in a cheap coffin once she'd grown sick of it all. She'd imagined such a sight would bring her peace. Instead, she felt herself sweat as the man bobbed about, groaning and writhing as he lurched over, till the last signs of life left his eyes, and his breath ceased.

Nozomi stared at him for a long minute, huddled her face against her knees. Distant gunshots and drunken laughter muffled her crying.

El Camino Dorado trade center, sublevel II; Unknown Time

Don traced the path he'd followed to the "negotiation room". The narrow corridor soon gave way to a large storehouse of weapons, ammunition, and precious drugs. The tall shelves, sodium lamps, and muffled gunfire brought him back to the streets of Juarez. Like a rat in a maze, all over again.

Don Testarossa
Perception: 7 - Success

When him and Riley rounded the corner, they found the freight elevator ablaze. Sharp, mangled metal loosely encased three to five mangled bodies, some still twitching or crackling. Ever the pragmatist, Don grabbed a laser rifle out of a disembodied cyberarm, and tossed it to Riley.

"Looks like the deal's off." Don remarked, his eyes watering when he peered up the hot, smoky shaft. "No way we're climbin' this thing alive. Sounds like a warzone up there, anyways."

Riley checked the rifle's charge. Then he gazed back at the elevator. Fueled by spilled hydraulic fluid, flames encroached upon the occupants, drawing frantic, fugly screaming from a narco he'd thought dead.

An idea struck him. With Don's help, he threw the man out the elevator, onto the warehouse floor. A quick slice of Riley's nanoblade let them forget the flame consuming the man's remaining foot.

"Been a long time since I mindripped anyone," Riley said, jamming a link cable into his neuroport, "Would've been nice if we brought tranqs."

"Woulda been nice if they'd fuckin' paid," Don growled in return, slamming his fist into their victim's back.

"You're not helping!" Riley snapped, holding the man down.

"I paid damn good money for this to happen".

"You can fuck him up after I read his mind. Put your knee on his back..."

As Don rested most of his weight upon the sobbing man's back, Riley pried open his neuroport and shoved in the cable.

Riley Dyson
Observation: 8 - Success

The man's mind was like sitting in the pews of a burning cathedral. A rapidly-deteriorating mess of sorrow and loss, mixed with an animal-sort of panic. Luckily Riley's filter scripts worked fine. He took snapshots of the man's relevant memories as his life flashed before his eyes, till he'd gotten a sense of the sublevel's layout. Without delay, he yanked his cable out the back of the man's head, and replaced it with a thrust of his nanoblade.

"See anything?" Don asked, helping Riley up.

"Yeah... Old access shaft, pre-Unification War. Empties somewhere in the backlot. That's all I can tell."

"It's better than nothin'. If we get outta this alive, I owe ya a cask of Chicago Bourbon."

"I told you, I don't drink."

Fate Question
Is there anyone else on the sublevel with them? > Yes.

Riley flicked a map to Don's brainwave. Moments later, a narrow red line raced from their feet - a figment of their individual hyperrealities. It streaked between haphazard shelves, down an unfamiliar corridor, presumably to the building's secret exit. The two shared a tacit nod, and took off running.

The assault upstairs had reached a crescendo. Lighting fixtures fell and shattered as the concrete cracked. Shelves of contraband threatened to collapse as the two men weaved past. They'd scarcely notice two silhouettes gathered at the exit from the warehouse, till the blue flash of a narco's shotgun.

Riley got in cover, popped off a shot. The crimson laser struck like a lighting bolt, revealing its target as a female. Don raised his shotgun to finish the job, when excruciating pain ripped through his entire body. His right leg buckled, dropping him to the ground. Luckily Riley was quick to react, and both narcos laid dead within minutes of the first shot.

Don turned his focus to the frantic hologram windows plastered across his vision. He'd taken some buckshot to the thigh - nothing broken, nothing vital severed. He called for biofoam, only to realize Riley was out.

Riley Dyson
First Aid: 8 - Success

He'd be fine. That's what they'd agree to, as the boy slapped gauze over Don's bleed entry wounds.

"What the hell were you doing?!" Riley barked, prepping the last bandage.

"Just an occupational hazard, y'know? Sometimes ya win, sometimes... Nngh-!"

Don's grimace was fouled by extra pressure on his wound. Riley rather liked that.

Moving hurt, but Don was walking yet again. The corridor to the access shaft was dusty and unguarded, hidden behind palettes of off-smelling survival food. A rusting ladder led to the surface, capped by a plate of solid steel.

El Camino Dorado trade center, backlot; Early Evening

A thunderous sonata rang in Don's ears the moment Riley cracked the fake manhole. As they climbed out, he picked out an eclectic mix of assault rifles backed an autocannon firing in bursts - likely a pre-war Bushmaster. Beneath it all was the low hum of an anti-drone laser. Whoever did this wasn't fucking around.

Best to make himself scarce. They'd exited in the backlot, a narrow alley littered with trash and spent cigs. Their car was two blocks away, across the street and around a corner. Shotgun in hand, Don peered around the corner, finding the firefight in full swing. Closest to them were two no-name thugs hiding behind an up-armored car. One wore a neon-trimmed trench coat, peppered the building with her heavy pistol. The other sat against the tire, clad in fatigues, scanning the skylanes above with a handheld drone jammer.

Don gauged the distance between them and escape. The last thing he needed was a tail right now. Weighing options, he told Riley his plan, tossed his shotgun in a dumpster, and ran across the road like a panicked junkie.

It worked. He was safely across. Where was Riley?

To his horror, Don watched Riley cross the street armed, before tossing something small and dark at the thug with the jammer. He ducked around the corner, expecting an explosion, but instead the two shared a mutual gaze, and Riley crossed without a fuss.

The biofoam had just begun to dissolve by time they piled into Don's corroded old sports car. He floored it for the nicer ghettos near Pilsen, due north on I-90.

As the sun began to set, Riley witnessed Don's face in stark relief. Gone was the man who'd smooth over deals and banter while brawling. Faced with the prospect of bleeding out, he sat straight as a rail, clenching the wheel tight. His pulsing veins betrayed a racing heart, aggravating his blood loss. Yet all he stammered about was money. How much he'd lost, how much the street doc would cost. He almost took the wrong exit, swerving across five lanes to squeeze onto the offramp.

Street doc's clinic, Pilsen, Central Chicago; Nighttime

The street doc worked his magic, and Don's grin gradually returned. Meanwhile Riley sat in the corner flicking through emails. Dick-enlargement here, mail-order brides there. Then came a name he hadn't seen in years. For the first time that day, Riley smiled.

El Camino Dorado trade center, sublevel II, Unknown Time

"Gentlemen. Surely we can come to an agreement..."

Don cracked a practiced smirk as he studied his negotiators' faces in the diffuse neon light. His eyes scanned for the slightest twitch of their heavy brows, all while trying to ignore the body pooling blood on the concrete floor.

Luckily, Riley was still intact. A covert glance at his vulpine ears confirmed he was ready as ever.

Don continued, running his hand through his spiked blue pompadour, "You really didn't have to shoot my fixer, you know. Guy had his vices, stole a few cryptos. I'll get you those launchers next week, and you'll be good to go."

The three men said something in Spanish. His damn wave's translator app didn't work underground. With a thought, he silently ordered Riley to track the guy holding a machete. Meanwhile, shotgun-queen in the left corner wouldn't risk cooking off the box of gyroc rounds Don sat on. Or maybe she would. That was the sort of gamble you'd take, as an arms-dealer.

The projections got worse by the millisecond. Shotgun-queen didn't like Don's next try at smoothing things over, though tin man kept her on a leash. A slight distraction was all he'd need to get the fuck outta here.

A burst of gunfire arrived as a series of thuds through the ceiling. No surprise. Probably some snitch gettin' sodomized with lead. The leader lit a cig with a blue flame from his fingertip, just to show off his cojones.

Then came the second one.

The whole room shook like a bomb went off. Maybe it did, because concrete dust showered everyone inside. The lights went dark moments later.

Don Testarossa
Notice: 10 - Success

The outline of the fumbled shotgun against the blue flame was all Don needed. He dove for the floor, guessed his aim, and fired at bossman's position. The awkward grip damn near broke his arm, but he was rewarded with a shower of sparks as the cyborg rapidly disassembled. The light had its downsides though. He'd be quick enough to roll aside as shotgun-queen stomped at his head, but instead her boot caught his hair.

Fate Question
Does "shotgun-queen" keep her foot down? > Exceptional No!

Don was quick to react. A swipe of his hand across his calf, and he'd already grabbed his trusty blamite "toothpick". Her jabbed the faintly-glowing crystal in her calf, where it exploded as ten thousand tiny shards. No bueno. Despite the blamite rending her muscle, she'd only stagger, call him a maricón, and grab her own shiv for payback. She hurled her body at the floor, aiming right at Don's exposed abs. White-hot pain spiked through Don as the steel ripped through him, dulled only by adrenaline and primal rage. He struggled to get her off, grappling with her in the dark like goddamn animals.

This bitch had him by the balls. Quite literally, a moment later. Taking the hint, he summoned every ounce of his strength to shove her aside, and grab the shotgun nearby. A pump of the grip - rubberized for sweaty moments like these - and he blew the bitch to kingdom-come.

Meanwhile, Riley had just finished working his magic. As he helped him up, Don spared a ragged glance at his Riley's victim. The corpse sat against the wall, missing arms and half a brain. The torso was almost untouched, just lines of blood on his tee-shirt where Riley's nanite blade had ran him through.

"You hurt?" asked Riley, his resonant voice only slightly perturbed by their actions.

"Nothing I can't handle... Ahh, easy now."

Don clenched his fists and shuddered as Riley applied a liberal layer of biofoam to his stomach wounds. The stuff hurt, but it was a miracle in your pocket. Riley always kept a spare canister on his holster, just in case.

The gunfire above them sure didn't help.

"We've got to get out of here." Riley said.

"Whaat, and scrap the deal? We're owed good money for this stuff."

Riley's cute features soured at the jest. "Are you insane? We could've died here!"

Don took it in stride. "No mas! No mas. Check the bodies for datagrams and valuables. We'll make the plan as we go along."

Riley affirmed, and quickly scoured the other goons. Meanwhile Don checked the pockets and datacache of his second victim.

"What a waste of good ass," he seethed, finding nothing but ramen money and a dime-bag of Red in her pockets.

Inventory: Don Testarossa
++ 22◈ Cryptos
++ 57₳ Aztecas
+~ 5g of Red Sand
+~ 220x family photos

As usual, Don flicked through a handful of his fallen opponent's cherished memories. A young son here, a family reunion there. No blood and guts though. He wondered how much shotgun-queen was into cartel life.

No time to lament, though. Hearing Riley'd nabbed a datagram from the cyborg, Don grabbed his shotgun and chambered another round. Time to blow this popsicle-stand.

As usual, you can catch this on Neocities too. ~ (˵•̀ᴗ - ˵ )

Brighton Park, Atop a low-rise office complex

"Ey, Dutchko. Ya sure this the place? Looks like any ol' corpo block to me."

"Oh, yeah. Don't be fooled, Little Bear." said Dutchko, tapping the ashes off his cigar as Amber squinted through the viewfinder. "These Cartel fuckers are smart. Soon as the walls went up, they changed tack. Decided to act all squeaky-clean for the corpo suits."

Amber already knew the implications. The Cartel dug tunnels that'd make the Viet Cong blush. Peel back that shimmering veil of Chicago glass, and the place would have all manner of subterranean storerooms, sweatshops, and Simulacra slaving away their pitiful lives.

Poor bastards were lucky if they got a smoke break. At least as a gutter-rat, Amber could light up whenever she wanted.

Catching Dutchko's Ace-of-Clubs Zippo, she lit up a Newport and asked, "So what's the plan, eh? Sweet-talk the gate guards, sneak in on a shipment? You yourself said these guys don't fuck around."

Dutchko remained silent, catching a glimmer against the sky in his mechanical eye. Amber understood by instinct: A surveillance drone that'd noticed the strange distortion of the pair's image-curtain.

Amber Lu
Stealth: 3 - Failure.

Acting quick, Amber stamped out her cig. Too late. The drone hurtled for the humanoid figures it detected in the image-curtain, emanating a shimmering red as it readied its microbomb. Amber staggered back, eyes widening with terror, just as Dutchko grabbed her with his cybernetic arm, and threw her headlong down the stairs they'd taken to the roof.

The moments after were a swirling cacophony of pain. Best she could tell, she tumbled down the stairs like a toboggan down the Matterhorn. Dutchko yelled some bullshit, she damn near broke her back, before skidding to a halt on the landing. The noise of a dozen cluster bomblets roared through the roof door, causing the whole building to perceptibly rumble.

By time Amber got her bearings, she found herself lightly sprinkled in concrete powder. Dutchko pulled her upright, and handed back her pistol.

Dutchko grinned, despite the painful bruise on his scuffed cheek. "Smokin' Kills, as they say. I oughta report you to the boss for that."

"Try it, and your ass is grass. B'sides, you've got enough cabañas to make Castro jealous", Amber snarled, cocking her ten-mil. "So what now? The job's off?"

Dutchko clapped his hand on her shoulder. "Amber, honey! We're professionals here! There's always a backup, and backup to the backup."

Having mixed in with the crowd of panicked office workers, Dutchko met Amber at his sports car. Gal was already on her third cig by time they sped off. In her reflection off the window, as both of them pondered the new plan, he caught a sinister smirk spreading across her face.

CW:

The Road Home

Gary was a hell of a place to find parking. At her approach, Amber’s motorcycle growled to life in the verdant glow of the Shillelagh's neon sign. She peered around it for bodies - victims of its high-voltage anti-theft system - and found an open toolbox overturned in the mud beside the curb. Someone had gotten off lucky.

After pillaging the toolbox for its power drill, she mounted the cycle and pulled up a local map in a hyperreality window. With a squeeze of the handle, the alcohol-burning motor roared, whipping her around the corner. As she neared the interchange with Interstate 94, she'd chicane around piles of rubble from turf wars gone ballistic, and pass locals huddled next to barrel fires. Chicago's cheapest coffin motels rose up by the onramp, as did the Yarders’ night market. She'd always meant to visit, but not tonight.

Weaving past traffic, she took the exit for Danville, before hopping off on the Lincoln Highway. The end of the road tonight was Chicago Heights, a charming little plot of condo towers ringed with electrofences and security towers. Her approach drew suspicious eyes, and one of Makie's armed security drones watched her till she entered her condo.

Amber and Velvet's Studio

The mock-wood door to the apartment slid shut behind Amber. She flung her coat on a hook alongside her pack and helmet.

The studio was a dismal affair. Slightly smaller than a shipping container, it came ‘generously’ equipped with concrete floors and a kitchenette. Orange light poured from over half a dozen physical computer screens of various kinds. A hundred whirring fans shuffled the hot, humid air. As Amber stepped forward, she plunged into a thick carpet of black cables.

Fate Question
Is Velvet awake? > No.

As usual, Velvet had fallen asleep somewhere on the Hypernet. Sprawled on their single bed and clad in pajamas, the girl's long violet hair was cupped by a top-of-the line VR headset. A glance at the largest of the computer screens replicated her POV, resting peacefully on a tatami mat.

Amber waded through the wires to the kitchenette. Prepack and foodpaste yet again. The Bratva paid alright, but between rent and bribes for Makie's "Peacekeepers", the two of them couldn't afford much else. Amber just sighed, and mulled over the texture.

Slipping in bed, she cracked open their single window, and pulled the covers over her and Velvet. As with most nights, she let a long, weary stare rest on her roommate, before wrapping an arm around her waist, and gently holding her from behind. Savoring the scent of her shampoo, Amber let herself drift into dreams.

Coffin City, D Block

Altered Scene.

Amber's footsteps carried her swiftly, down opposed rows of coffins stacked double atop one another. The steel-tiled corridor was stained with rust and grime. A bald, bleary-eyed skinjob cleaned the shared bathroom. Amber paid him a small nod, and continued on.

Such was a typical scene in Coffin City. Hard to believe, but decades ago this place was hailed as the "New Eden". Faced with crowded slums and skyrocketing crime, the architects called massive tunneling machines to action, boring an underground metropolis in the hard rock below Chi-town's soil. Housing complexes, roadways, restaruants, schools, and even hydroponic farms were furnished lavishly; and the whole facility was heavily marketed to the rich as a subterranean enclave.

Those folks never came. Turns out, the rich still preferred staying above ground, as high above ground as money allowed. Gradually, the housing complexes were replaced by coffin hotels, the schools turned into gang hives, the restaurants into mafia fronts or crack dens, and the roads choked with garbage. In a city with highrises that pierced the clouds, this was where the poorest of the poor actually ended up. And often their kids.

Amber had business here today. "Business" being collecting money for the Bratva Vory. She might've tried to stick to bounty hunting, but fact remained that money was tight, and life was cheap. If paying rent meant being a mafia goon, then so be it.

She'd completed three stops. A couple thousand cryptos of protection money and gambling debts sat in her temporary wallet. Then came stop number four. As she approached the corner, she heard a male voice pleading for mercy.

"Okay, okay! I'll give all I can."

"You better, if ya know what's good for you."

This was not supposed to happen. This never happened. Had she been too slow, forcing another collector to step in? Nonetheless, something seemed off. She drew her gun, and swung around the corner to find four men. One of them was her target, the guy she'd seen on her TAP. The rest were clad in dark red jackets, caps, and rags, with olive green pants. The unmistake uniforms of the Southside Stormtroopers.

Mythic Elements
Gen. Char. Actions: combative... hostile...

Perhaps provoked by the gun in her hand, one of them started raising his SMG for Amber. She acted fast - aiming and squeezing the trigger. A spray of blood burst from his chest, and he fell in a heap.

In reply, both remaining Stormtroopers opened fire. Pistol bullets and laser beams whizzed by Amber as she crouched behind the corner, chipping at the concrete. She fired again, this time nailing the guy in his stomach. He fell with a horrible cry, and curled up around the gaping wound.

Seeing the odds against him, the third Stormtrooper decided to fight another day. Amber shot, but missed him by a hair, and he disappeared down a bend in the corridor.

The surviving Stormtrooper writhed and groaned. As Amber drew near, he wriggled in vain for his gun, which had fallen out of reach. Amber ground her foot in his stomach wound, and shot him twice in the chest.

"Shut UP! Shut up!" she screamed, baring her ursine teeth.

Amber waited a moment, ensuring the Stormtrooper was inert. Now splashed in blood, she set sights on her original target. The poor sap was sobbing, and his voice quavered as she approached.

"Don't- Don't hurt me! Who sent you?!"

"Li Xiao. Who the fuck were these guys?"

"I... uh, might've taken out a loan..."

Amber picked him up by the throat, and slammed him against the coffins.

"Well now, ain't that somethin'? Double-dipping to feed your addiction? Couldn't resist the thrill? ... You'd better give me all you have right now, or else The Banker ain't gonna be pleased."

Fate Question
Does he fork over the cash? > No.

"I'm sorry! I gave it all to them!"

"Which one?!"* she growled.

"The one who ran, okay?!"

Amber's eyes widened. Dropping her target to the floor, she glanced at the bend in the corridor, then her gun.

With a sigh, she knelt down next to the scared, shaking man. The beads of sweat on his forehead ran in stark relief against golden neon light. She took his chin in hand, and put on a slight smile.

"Listeeen. I don't wanna hurt ya. I'll just tell Master Xiao something came up, that you couldn't come up with our agreed-upon payment." Her smile subtly shrank. "... but you'd better make that cash soon. Otherwise, my orders might be less kind. Ya hear?"

The man simply nodded, eyes flitting between Amber's face and her gun.

"Good man. I'll see you next week."

Also, since this was while I was still discovering game systems, the first few sesshes of this AP use Savage Worlds. I’d tell ya why I chose GURPS later, but that’s a story for another time.

One last note: Combat is depicted, but the rolls aren’t shown here. I found recording that stuff really bogged down reading other APs.

Session 001

Wisps of smoke hung in the neon-tinged air. The bar was jam-packed with all kinds of people - cyborgs relaxing after their construction jobs, junkies buying Red Sand, and unaugmented humans just looking to drown their sorrows. Small brick alcoves held busy tables for those who played games on their Brainwaves.

Amber weaved her way through the crowd, taking a stool at the bar. She took care to keep her hood over her ursine ears.

Hybrids like her were rarely welcome in Gary. On her way in, she'd seen several of them working as prostitutes, or sleeping in the husks of burnt-out buildings. Some might've been informants for Skin Deep, but word was even they rarely set foot in the sprawl. Nonetheless, she had to be here. She'd been tracking her target via drone for hours, and he was almost certainly somewhere inside.

"Welcome to The Broken Shillelagh", spoke the pale-skinned android bartender, "What can I get you?"

"Rum, ice. Hey, is Richie here? Big guy, cyborg?"

"I'm afraid I don't know who you're talking about."

"Say a friend wants to meet him." Amber said, passing her a few physical cryptos.

Amber Lu
Persuasion: 2 - Failure

The bartender's cameras zoomed on her. "My programming prevents me from taking bribes. At least from new customers."

"I'm sure..."

It looked as if she'd have to rely on her senses for this one.

Amber Lu
Notice: 4 - Success

Amber summoned a private window on her Wave, and scanned the room as she sipped her rum. She had a photo of Richie on file, and compared it to every cyborg present.

There he was. A hulking bundle of metal parts and black artificial muscle, sat at a table looking around anxiously. A visor-like display stood in for his eyes, and the contours of his steel skin reflected the neon table-lamp in front of him. Amber took her rum, and had a seat on the adjacent corner.

"Richie Burns?"

"You ain't my dealer. What do you want?" growled the cyborg.

"I, ah, heard things about you. Word is you got the Enhancement Package."

"Yeah, what about it?"

Amber slowly drew back her hood, revealing her ursine ears to the cyborg. His glowing golden eyes widened.

"I was wonderin'... whether you had a chance to test it out..."

Mythic Elements
Char. Conversations: crazy… intolerance…

Contrary to expectations, the lights representing his brow furrowed. Artificial muscle rocketed his fist towards Amber's face, forcing her to dive to the floor.

"You damn freak. Get outta my sight!"

"Bastard!"

In one swift motion, she drew her magnum and aimed up at the cyborg. He prepped to stomp her head into a pulp, when she shot a bullet through his braincase.

A burst of sparks erupted from the resultant hole, and he froze in place. Amber rolled over and got to her feet. The cyborg's ancillary systems struggled to keep their host alive, till she pushed him over, and left the chassis convulsing on the floor.

"Mother fucker", she scoffed, sitting down to finish her drink.

She kept her gun in her spare hand, browsing the eyes that'd turned to her. With her "secret" revealed, some were curious, but most were hiding hostility.

Once the chassis went inert, she jacked a cable in the back of her neck, and ran it to the cyborg's physical neuroports. She helped herself to his cryptos, and grabbed his last memory file. The Bratva liked seeing how their enemies died.

Before she left, Amber returned her glass to the bartender, and slapped a few extra notes on the bar.

"For the rum. And the mess."

"I don't appreciate my patrons killing each other."

This turn of phrase led her to cast a sharp eye at the android.

"You ain't a slave... You run this joint?"

"When my master passed, he left me this place. Call me QAI, or 'Kai' for short."

"Amber. Lee Xiao sends his regards."

Aaanyways. Enjoy, all. - Sophie, 2025-07-30

Session 012

Expected Scene.

Chicago Hypernet, Layer 03; 6:20 AM

Velvet clutched her pistol tight as blaster turrets chipped away at the corner she hid behind. Supercompressed bytecode was hard stuff, but corpo uplinks came equipped with the best: Ramp architectures and Black ICE. Within the Hypernet, they'd manifest as tremendous stepped pyramids of neon and black, crowned by a beam of solid, shimmering light.

No backdoors. None Velvet could find, anyways. She'd have to fight her way up to the top.

Velvet Grader
Acrobatics: 8 - Success

Suddenly, she felt a tremble in the code beneath her feet. A scytheblade swung out from 'round the corner, hit the spot right where her head just was. As she slid down the sloped datastream, sliding on her rear, she sent three blaster bolts into the silvery Mechanoid targeting her, watched it disintegrate to glowing bytecode.

Velvet caught her breath behind another block of compressed code. Only now, did she realize the shaking of her hands.

She told herself this wouldn't be the end. Again and again, till she'd grown sick of it. As she peered off across the endless lattice, she heard herself pray upon a shooting star. Just as her father once did.

A spark packet racing across the lattice, zigzagging between security sniffers and sentry daemons. Velvet watched as the spark leapt off the grid, descibed a low arc right at her. She scrambled, aiming for a block down the ramp just before impact.

When the pain in her head cleared, she found herself in a mist of microcode, offered a hand aglow with geometric tattoos. Velvet staggered back, grabbing for her blaster, before the stranger grabbed her upright.

"You've found yourself the bind, haven't you?" teased the stranger, sharing a suggestive leer under her witch's hat. "I'll save you, dear. But only because you're my type."

Chaos Factor: 6 ➤ 7

Character List 3:

- VELVET.usr

- <unknown>.usr

Threads:

- Escape.

Expected Scene.

Eastside, Level B2; 8:45 AM

The arms-dealer's shop stood on the verge of the Undercity, in run-down strip mall nestled beneath the onramp. As usual, Amber inspected the present company, the sightlines, the microexpressions on passerby, before flicking on her motorcycle's anti-theft. Concessions to chance never ended well.

The hyena bouncer stepped aside, admitted them to a sprawling shop bathed in red neon. Clusters of shelves offered shrinkwrapped ammo and dusty used guns, some dating back to over a century. Amber fancied the heft of one "Desert Eagle", twirled it in her hand while Dutch talked business, till some hyena clapped her on the shoulder.

"Didn't your momma tell ya not to play with guns?" he teased, hot breath against his ear.

Amber elbowed him and spat, "Mama wasn't around. Nobody was."

"No one to love ya? I could change that."

Amber flipped the Deagle in her hand and smacked him across the jaw. Seemed to get the point across.

This was taking too long. She nudged Dutch on the shoulder, asked about the sitch. Turns out their "guest" wasn't being entirely straight with them.

"C- Come on, Samira..." Don begged, waving his hands, "We both knew the narcos play dirty."

Their contact studied him through curved compound optics. Antennae-like sensors twigged to his fear, brought a smile to her bony face. "Is that what you told your clients down in El Paso?"

Don Testarossa
Fast-Talk: 11 - Success.

"Ahh, well. That was there, now is now. You know there ain't nobody who knows the cartels like me."

"Yet they still want to kill you."

Don Testarossa
Fast-Talk: 7 - Success.

"Was how it always is. Everyone's lookin' to make a quick buck, even if it means icing your best friend."

"And do you know how much you've made me? *Precisely zero.*"

Don Testarossa
Fast-Talk: 14 - Failure.

Don fell back a pace. Samira moved fast. Within moments she'd vaulted the glass display case, had a pistol pressed against Don's head. She continued,

"How about we settle this thing for good? Much as I'd love to put a bullet through your brain, I know someone who'd pay *damn* good money for your rotten hide. Heard she's an old friend."

Amber rubbed her head, broke off to tour the shelves. Thankfully, Dutch stepped in,

"If the deal's off, that's fine. Just gimme a piece and we're solid."

"Not so fast, *Commander Hopkins*."

Dutch froze solid. Riley dashed out from behind a rack, sighted his laser rifle on Samira.

"What do you know about the Commander?!"

"Pffheh! So it was real. I thought it was too good to be true," Samira snickered, leaning back against the counter. "I don't know a damn thing, shorty. All's I know is you're my golden ticket out of this hellhole."

"Citizenship? Is that what this is about?"

"Maybe."

Riley Dyson
Fast-Draw: 13 - Failure.

Riley knew where this was going. He drew a bead on Samira's head, only for a hyena to send him flying into the shelves behind him. Amber barely dodged the heavy racks as they dominoed across the shop. Meanwhile Dutch drew his gun, and Don ran sweaty fingers over the toothpicks in his boot.

"Five against four, we've got the edge," Samira snapped.

"Y'know what happens to cornered prey?" Dutch said.

"Did I say five? I meant seven."

Two more hyenas staggered in from the back, drawing knives and surrounding the three men. Amber was already starting for the door, knocking ammo boxes off of shelves.

"This place is gettin' hot. I'm outta here, Dutch."

Dutch swore at her. She didn't care. All that mattered were the hyenas blocking the door.

"Outta my fuckin' way."

The grabby one took her arm. His partner held her wrist, pinned her to the shelf beside the door.

Amber Lu
Sex Appeal: 10 - Success.

Amber seethed through a sharp grin, "Feelin' fiesty, eh? Synth-vag and joyboys don't do it for ya?"

"We like a challenge," snickered grabby-hands, drawing callused fingers down her tank-top's neckline. "You look like you got some fight in ya."

"And you look like ya got some balls," she'd retort, feeling the sweat bead on her forehead. "Mind if I get comfortable, then?"

Her arms released, Amber started shedding her heavy trenchcoat. She shimmied out of her sleeves, broadened her shoulders to slow its descent. Eyes turned, weapons rested, and grabby-hands got horny as fuck. He never saw it coming when she shot him in the balls.

The room watched stunned as he keeled over. As clouds of smoke burst between the aisles, two fifty-cal shots chased another damp thud onto the floorplate. She roared behind her, "Y'all wanna die? Come on!"

By time Samira leapt over the counter, all she found were muddy shoeprints, and gunshots in the fog.

Chaos Factor: 6 ➤ 7

Character List 1:
- Amber Lu
- Dutch Hopkins
- Riley Dyson
- Don Testarossa
- Samira and the hyenas

Threads:
- Escape.