17th July 2021

It's another Saturday evening and we're logged into video chat for the next session in Matakishi's Wired Neon Cities campaign.

Location: Neon City.

There was no opportunity to relax in the morning, no slow descent into a Huntudi and Niaiwon noodle fuelled torpor while in front of the wall-slab. Time was ticking against us, we were going up against an unknown quantity and leverage was needed - fast.

Locked and loaded my .45 ACPs, charged the Nonohiki and despite the early pressing heat, pulled on my Verskeit Long Coat, making sure to slot all the ceramic plates. Grabbing a self-chilling can of Kaia, I ran out to meet the others.

It was going to be a long Neon City day.
In our possession we now had a database file that listed the members of the Golden Tibetan Temple of Transdimensional Travellers.

The GTTTT was one of the city’s countless small fringe organisations, the kind set up by nutjobs, amateur conspiracy theorists, delusionists and more to cope with neurosis-inducing life mostly as jobless no-hopers. It kept them busy and more importantly, it kept them off the narrow already burgeoning city streets that permeated the residential districts and neighbourhoods.
In the case of the GTTTT, they were a like-minded group who met up and discussed their extraterrestrial experiences, real or imagined, fake or truthful.
There were fifteen people on that list; we were going to have to speak to all of them.

Two members immediately caught our attention, they were names we’d heard before and the first of these was Tohi Mari. The GTTTT file listed an address at Sensoji in the Akusa-cho prefecture. It also listed her as crew aboard ‘The Lost Wisdom of The Ancients’, a wrecked shuttle.
It was a long ride to Sensoji, took the tram to the Fortified Residential Zone, transferred to the corporate monorail and headed for The Sky Tree.
Theoretically, the enormous multi weaved polyferrous Shinkansen Link cabling that connected Sky Tree’s space-elevator to the Glitterband above should have been visible from kilometres away but rampant pollution in the lower stratas of the troposphere meant it was buried behind layers of hazy, wavering smog. As the monorail quietly sped closer, an apparitional cable gradually emerged against the blue-white sky, smoothly materialising as if from some other material reality until the solid shape was visible.
Another transfer at Sky Tree - this time to the local tram network and on to Sensoji.

Just before noon when we walked out of the station, no way to avoid the day’s uncaring peak heat as we navigated the bustling streets. Even at this almost painful temperature, no one was dissuaded from treading the scorching pavements.

Tohi Mari’s apartment was a typical anonymous place of residence with poly-clad exterior walls, and a windowless security door in a typical concrete and steel housing block.
A knock on the door got nothing, finally a muffled woman’s voice came through, just on the other side, we were being watched via a hidden door viewer.
The voice demanded to know our business and we explained that we were from the GTTTT, Bill held out the GTTTT database being displayed on his Gohotocang media-slab’s screen to where the view likely was..

Tohi Mari appeared satisfied, although the door was unlocked, it cracked open only a few centimetres and she stared suspiciously at us with a half-hidden face from behind a steel security chain.
We told her that we were with the GTTTT, she was satisfied, opened the door and invited us in and sat us down in a small living room, unremarkable save for the noticeably large number of strangely shaped origami birds that sat on seemingly all available shelf space and almost seemed to stare at us.
A Japanese woman with a slight build, Tohi Mari looked to be in her early twenties. Following some conversation, she was willing to tell us about the experiences she remembered aboard The Lost Wisdom of the Ancients.
Tohi Mari was at the time, a serving crewmate aboard the shuttle and was logged on the roster and flightplan at the time of its explosion. She knew she was meant to be aboard when catastrophe struck but her only memory was of being on the moon at the time. Since then, she chose to relocate to Earth. Explanations were vague and led nowhere, suggesting to us that she was suppressing memories.
When asked if she had any other memory gaps, told us that as a child living on Ganymede she had been abducted but had no recollection of it. Only memories of the time about the kidnapping were of playing with strange children and having somehow lost a finger. Tohi Mari lifted a hand and waggled the digits, confirming one was slightly discoloured - it looked like a Qvaozh derma-coated finger replacement module.
Captain Noodles checked her out, confirmed she’d had extra-terrestrial contact some time ago.
Wasn’t much of anything else to be learned here so we decided to visit the next name on the list.

​In the Shinjuku Station district lived Wyatt Vanlith.
Time to head over. Rode the tram back to The Sky Tree, from there luckily, the monorail took us directly to Shinjuku.
The district was the primary convergence of all of Neon City’s public transit networks. These services all routed through Shinjuku Station; the enormous glass, steel and concrete terminus that rose over the district skyline.
Despite the number of multi-leveled platforms and massive flow of commuters, the station’s interior deceptively created an illusion of cool roominess thanks to a high ceiling interlaced with rectangular glass panels equipped with auto-shutters.
We walked out of the heavy broiling crowds that populated the station and to Wyatt Vanlith’s home, he resided in one of the small, lower density residential neighbourhoods that existed on the district's periphery.

Eventually we found ourselves at an extended strip of street-level apartments that featured reinforced curtained windows and fortified security doors.
There was no answer to our knocks, before deciding whether to wait or go, an adjacent door opened and out stepped a grizzled, grey-haired neighbour. Seemed eager to chat, perhaps with anyone. Told us Wyatt Vanlith used to be a space pilot.
“Still wore his old cap,” the neighbour stated and went on; Wyatt now spent a lot of his time at Shinjuku Station

Afternoon was getting on but the humidity wasn’t letting up by the time we got back. Took a while, some searching and some questioning but eventually Wyatt Vanlith in his service cap was located at a station annex which housed platforms for the old overground service lines. 
After introductions and we explained our association with the GTTTT, he was happy to talk to us.
Wyatt explained he came here because he enjoyed watching Neon City’s ‘real’ trains and admitted that he was intending on retraining as a train driver!
We steered the conversation to his previous piloting career and Wyatt’s expression grew faraway. Told us he was working the Callisto run and he saw unexplained lights in the Libertad crater many times.
Wyatt was convinced they were extraterrestrial in origin.

After that he discovered the GTTTT and joined due to common interests. 
“They’ve got interesting stories,” he told us. “But some of them are head-cases!”
Finally, he gave us his personal contact details, also said he could be found here most of the time

Hadn’t gotten much from Tohi Mori or Wyatt Vanlith, went back to the GTTTT database and looked for more names.

Two candidates were in Sugamo Jizo Dori Street in the Toshima-cho prefecture. Had to take the corporate monorail again, this time to Ikebukuro, luckily we were already in Shinjuku. From Ikebukuro it was back on the local tram rides into Sugamo Jizo Dori Street.

​Another residential neighbourhood, another high rise: Adkale Tvolenky’s apartment was easy to find. We introduced ourselves to the youngish Russian woman who was a retired jet-courier. Captain Noodles gave her a sniff, confirming with a subtle feline nod that Adkale had encountered aliens.
Adkale went on to say that during a gig, she had spotted aliens on a roof. They apparently killed a man before stepping into nothingness.
From then, a sensation of being watched had frequently niggled Adkale, strong enough to make her quit her job and remain in the confines of her apartment.

​Also in Sugamo Jizo Dori Street was Hui Pi-Hao. The middle aged man had found an injured large-headed, black eyed child in the grounds close to one of the district’s numerous fringe med-labs.

He went on; a couple days later the PGDF had approached him. They’d wanted to know if the child had spoken with him.
Hui Pi-Hao admitted to lying to the PGDF, telling them he had fallen unconscious during the encounter. He also confided in us that the child had given him something and revealed an impossibly smooth obsidian-like black ellipsoid.
Captain Noodles examined Hui Pi-Hao and looked as puzzled as a cat could but confirmed an encounter had occurred. Later Captain Noodles would tell what he sensed was puzzling, initially he thought the extraterrestrial had been some kind of hybrid but now wasn’t so certain.

​It was a long ride back to Hikage Street and the next candidate on the database, it was dark as we hit the final leg of our journey and the nightly deluges had begun. A wind driven rainy street-light lit world inhabited by faceless silhouetted pedestrians passed us through a view provided by glinting rain scarred tram windows, double rows of yellow-white dots dove into vanishing points while gridded window lights extended above.
Noisily, the tram grinded to a halt in Hikage. Back on our home turf, it was easy to find Haley Severt. The district’s northern quarter was distinguished by a concrete and glass arboretum of soaring grey overpopulated high-rises that mostly homed long-term unemployed no-hopers, Neon City’s most populous demographic.
Typically dismal, grey windowless passageways weakly lit by fluorescent wall strips led to Haley Servet’s apartment.

She was young and good looking with long well maintained wavy blonde hair. Like most GTTTT members, she was happy to tell her tale to anyone who would listen or even better; take her story seriously.
A couple of years ago, out with her boyfriend of the time and had gotten very drunk at a nightclub.
Her last reliable memory of the night was exiting the nightclub into the downpours at the small hours. Then, a blur of fragmented events and interactions followed. Nothing but questions after that.
Her boyfriend and her getting ‘taken'? City lights falling away as she was lifted skyward? Clothes lost somehow? Probed in every possible way? Dumped back at her apartment later by a UFO disguised as a sky-taxi and smelling of mint flavoured YK jelly? 
Never saw her boyfriend again, disappeared?

No indication of alien contact, Captain Noodles told us. Looked like she’d had an encounter of the different kind.
Wasn’t much more to get from Haley Severt.

Got too late to hit up another GTTTT member, instead we made for the regular haunt in Hikage.
Washed down shots of Shaikan or Obzlo with Hazhiwa burgers. Buzzing when I got back to the one-bed, crashed on the futon.
Seconds later, dawn was rising. Early urine coloured sunlight blasted the interior.
Got back to the others, more candidates to hit up today.

​Sidi Mana lived in Highway Zero; short trip over.
Road traffic in Highway Zero always made noise pollution an immense, endless foreground clamour of constant tyre rumble mingled with a dulling background vibration that could induce nausea, only place in Neon City where the elevated highway dropped to street level.
Close to the ground level highway is where Sidi Mana lived: Outside his apartment we could see some kind of row of purplish foodstuff lining the interior of a front window. Ran recog on the purplish stuff, the GLOWNET listed as some fruit called ‘plums’
The door was answered by a middle aged man who didn’t look like he got out much and was eager for company.
Got invited into his living room, it was dominated by a largish Mayari faux earthenware tub decorated with silver detailing and filled with dirt. From the dirt grew a small tree with the same purple fruit hanging from the thin branches - had to be a plum tree.
Sidi Mana told us it was actually an alien tree? Said he got it three years ago, it grew alien fruit three months a year and he would leave it out for aliens to take.
Definitely looked like plums to us.
He went on: Told us the aliens always took the fruit when he’s ‘not looking’. Led us down a hallway with time-faded wallpaper and threadbare carpeting to what he called a spare bedroom and threw the door open, inside it was filled with a large quantity of mostly rotting fruit.
“Not edible by humans," Sidi Mana informed us.
Another negative result according to Captain Noodles.

Bill convinced Sidi Mana to give us some samples before we left.
Later Bill tasted one of the plumbs; good quality and put the feelers out on the GLOWNET, real fruit pulled a hefty price tag with Neon City’s wealthy elite.

​The GTTT listed Choi Ze’s address as in Akihabara. It meant getting to the Skyscraper district and another ride on the Corporate Monorail and eventually into central Akihabara.

Clad in massive neon drenched promos and giant Senonable wall-slabs pumping endless sequences of advertisements out at a dizzying cadence were the streets of soaring retailer towers that permeated central Akihabara.
They brimmed with a mixture of franchises and outlet chains, as well as small independent traders and boutique stores, all selling posters, toys, cosplay inventory, SegTendo game slugs and uncountable paraphernalia for the latest, most popular vidanim shows to burgeoning crowds.
Akihabara streets were crowded even by Neon City standards and conversation was almost impossible; trumpeting over-cheerful jingles, bit-chip sound effects and audio product branding cruelly blared out of every available speaker as they fought for the aural airspace surrounding the rippling swatches of would-be consumers and no-hopers irresistibly drawn to the district’s polyphosohydrosoxide lights.
Youthful cliques cosplaying as the latest character drops from Legion of Luminaries bustled past Neon Noir fanbunnies and bands of brand-coloured FunDepot aficionados as they all flowed to and from whatever retailers were selling their particular flavour of fandom merchandise.

Almost no one noticed the narrowest of shaded alleyways that threaded between two of the towers like a sun-deprived ravine, no one except us.
In the alleyway we saw the erratic movement of flailing limbs, took a moment to decipher, a man was hitting a woman with a hammer.
“Hit me harder daddy,” cried the woman huskily.
“Why won’t you die?” The man yelled, swinging the hammer.
Trigger sprinted ahead, activating his Shiaosha leg implants while pitched forward and was flung at the assailant, Trigger’s tackle and momentum hurled the man into a wall with dull thud and he senselessly slumped down.
Attention was turned to the woman who was crouched defensively along another section of wall, we immediately noticed a long slash along an exposed shoulder so deep it made the skin peel back. Almost no blood in the wound though, instead, part of a plain grey polystrut imprinted with nanoscopically intricate circuit gridding and lined with micro servos was visible.

An android; an artificially smooth and porcelain complexion covered a round face which was complemented by sharp cheekbones, a shortish platinum shag bob and light hazel eyes. A face that somehow looked familiar, a hairstyle, no doubt inspired by the twentieth century.
Ran the face through recog and got a hit, she was a class 6T9 pleasurebot manufactured at a facility in the Glitterband. Pricey tech to be on the low-cost streets of Neon City.
A quick search found an ID card tucked in a wallet on the unconscious man: Name was Kyle. In a cheap slate grey Kuabha two-piece and vaguely combed brown hair, he looked like a typical wage-monkey.
A mixture of irritation and apprehension swam across Kyle’s face when he came to and found himself surrounded by us. He looked at us and at the android.
It didn’t take much questioning to get the truth out of Kyle

The pleasurebot had been bought from a Glitterband retailer called ‘Promised Land’. Kyle told us that it was a mistake; the android was actually a ‘refurb’  - and ‘not fresh’ he added sarcastically. It’s behaviour could not be modified and he wanted nothing to do with it - it was all a waste of money.
Brushing himself down after standing he approached 6T9 and hefted her over a shoulder with some effort.
“Punish me more,’” 6T9 pleaded.
Instead, Kyle carried 6T9 over to a dumpster and slung her in with a thump, she seemed pleased.
With that, Kyle went on his way.

I guess there wasn’t much we could do, Kyle hadn’t broken any laws.
After he went out of sight, we pulled 6T9 from the dumpster. She seemed quite passive and grateful for any abuse we could provide!
A quick examination of her face revealed a microport behind a dermal flap behind one earlobe.
Networking the android to my data-slab was easy, it revealed a cluster of settings that had become corrupted.
Behaviour modifier had been set to a BDSM subroutine.
Autonomous protocols had been turned off.
Changing both of these got nothing, seemed to revert back?

Deeper in the code and I found Kyle’s data. He’d logged himself as the owner and was still logged in - for now. Could see he’s also tried to change the setting and had got nowhere. Found access to his emails. Showed that he’d paid thirty-seven large to ‘Promised Land’. Later, a search through the GLOWNET would reveal nothing about Promised Land. If it was in the Glitterband, wasn’t surprising it geolocked from Neon City.

Deeper still and I encountered an non-indexed cached partition in the residual memory bank that was a backup of a backup. The android’s code had been sourcing this data for protocols.
6T9 had belonged to a previous owner; someone - probably the retailer - had wiped those records from the android but it had been a sloppy job and they’d missed the hidden backup,  Harvard Ellison was the previous owner. Name was familiar, a later check would reveal he was an evangelist preacher that operated in the city. No surprise there. Ellison was one of the many nutjob grifters trying to part no-hopers from their cash.

Clearing the cached data solved the problem, behavioural protocols were now sourced from the correct directory path.
I set 6T9 to ‘demure’ mode and she stopped asking for abuse. Koko then decided that she could help us and ordered a traditional maids outfit for her from GLOWNET retailer Orinoco: Delivery in fifty-nine minutes.

​Choi Ze was pleased to see us, he lived alone in a cramped, small-windowed one-bed in one of Akihabara’s densely clustered and overpopulated residential high-rise parks.
Led us into a small, gloomy, sun-starved living room where the under-sized frost glazed aperture offered only a minimal view of the adjacent tower as indirect sunlight streamed through.
Old style paper notebooks were stacked up on otherwise dusty shelves and a clutch of pens were jammed into an empty Hezdez Beanz tin.
Told us that he frequently dreamed of friendly aliens and these notebooks were where he wrote what he remembered of thems. He’d been having these dreams since his youth.

Captain Noodles was not not impressed after giving him a sniff.
He continued, saying they were beings of limitless kindness, Choi Ze also explained that a frequent recurrence in the dreams were of being taken to ‘the carpark in the forest’ where ‘bears’ could be found in the vehicles. Sometimes his mother also appeared in the dreams.

Looked like Choi Ze’s lead was a dead end.

​Second name on the list in Akihabara was Yen Xia. Address listed took us back into the heart of the district, on to a branch off one of the packed main thoroughfares to a boutique shop called Filigree.
Located among a small but bustling strip of like-minded independent traders, a glittering, neon-powered sign hung above a reinforced polysiliocrylic shop window. Filigree sold bespoke, locally sourced, artisanal jewellery mostly inspired by various vidanims that had been popular in Neon City throughout the years.
Among the window display we saw a number of pieces with a triangular motif. Prices and quality ranged from cheap, obviously replica materials to high-end engineered precious stone and metals. Serving cosplayers on a budget all the way to wealthy fans that lived in the ‘Zone.
Inside we found Yen Xia behind the counter, a bright and cheerful young Chinese woman who greeted us with a wide, sunny smile.
After introductions, Yen Xia’s brow furrowed as she explained that she had incomplete memories of her extraterrestrial encounters. With an unfocused gaze she spoke of splintered moments of being taken through red tunnels by silent children with big heads. Dim rooms, silver-grey angular shapes, unfathomable background murmurs and almost colourless blue triangles.
She admitted that her memories made her feel uneasy about blue triangles and she made the triangular pendants displayed in the window to ward off her unknown fears.

Captain Noodles bought one of her triangular pendants, the rest of us followed suit. Our own encounters had confronted us with a powerful enemy, needed all the luck we could get.
As we left, Yen Xia wished a good day and hoped to see us at the next GTTTT meeting.

​Back to The Sky Tree and back on to the corporate monorail, long haul to Toshima-cho and on the local tram network again. Was getting to afternoon by the time we rolled into the Mejiro Housing Complex.
Flint Arleth lived in one of the district’s many tower filled residential parks and it was a task to locate his low rate apartment in the maze of high-rises. Flint Arleth was a young man and from his artificially torn Breach blue jeans and holed Brook-Atoll white tee, he dressed much in the style that the disaffected, young long-term unemployed in Neon City did. He was happy to meet new members of the GTTTT.  Invited us in but said he didn’t have any drinks to offer us as we were not expected.
It was a typical one-bed, combining sitting and sleeping areas with a window out into the City of Electric Dreams. Rows of generic rocketship models constructed of glued card and folded paper littered much of the available space. Flint was a fan I guessed
Flint Arleth told us that he had visited a city in an advanced alien civilisation with his ‘uncle’ years ago. Showed us a hardcopy photo of himself as a child eating what he called ‘space ice-cream’ against the backdrop of a futuristic city.
We exchanged glances, looked a lot like the Furturepark at Sky Dinosaurian Square.
This was a bust.

​Natalya Kampf also lived in the Mejiro Housing Complex. Dusk was approaching and streets were filling. The Complex had a higher than average working population and all those wage-monkeys were streaming out of the office and back home or hitting a bar.
Like Flint Arleth, we found ourselves at another drab anonymous one-bed in another indentikit apartment complex.
The almost sickly-sweet aroma of incense wafted over us as the door was opened by a slim middle-aged woman with a shock of short blonde-white hair, voluminous tie-dyed kaftan and sandals.
Once we’d shown her our GTTTT credentials she was happy to let us in. Her apartment was filled with what appeared to be woollen spacesuits.
“The Lionmen of Venus tell me to make them,” Natalya said, noticing our quizzical expressions.
She went on to explain that they contacted her using ‘mental transmissions’. This usually occurred after she had inhaled ten grams of enhanced bioengineered tetrahydrodelta and was meditating.
We let ourselves out and went on our way.

​While exiting the complex, our media-slabs pinged. Display indicated it was one Saber Newman? Had a job for us and wanted a face-to-face. Agreed to meet him at a Mejiro coffee house.

Neon City’s retail outlets were always a curious mix of faceless corporate chains or franchises rubbing shoulders with small independents and mom ‘n’ pops that somehow managed to ride the commercial hegemony they faced.

Gustisano was the second kind of place: A cheerfully bright sign hung above the faux dark walnut wooden framing that surrounded a large window which faced the narrow bustling street. A row of replica wooden bar chairs and high tables shaded by striped parasols fronted the establishment and was filled with customers. Shadows were lengthening and patrons were getting in some last caffeine kicks outside before the rains came.
There was more replica walnut furniture inside along with replica cladding, flooring and a bar trimmed in faux gold-brass piping which delivered steaming shots of Bevizzo or Tendredo Sinatti served in replica china saucers and cups as well as various pastries and cakes displayed in underlit glass bells.

Customers always favoured the outdoor seating, inside Gustisano was subdued. An ambiance enhanced by soft lighting from manufactured old-style filaments that buzzed gently and painted the interior in warm hues.
Putting down in a corner spot with a direct view of the entrance, we dropped some orders and waited.

Wasn’t long before our media-slabs pinged again, newsvines this time.
Just in: Torture and murder in Akihabara, local man found dead in his apartment by neighbours. Recognised the name, it was Kyle. Neighbours reported four individuals matching our discriptions attacking Kyle.
I looked around, it was calm but the clock was now ticking, had to get an exit plan.

Before we could make a move, a customer strode in. Square faced and in his forties with short, thick, bushy grey-white hair, there was a practised ease to how his eyes flickered across the interior before settling on us, catching the dim ambient light strangely in his pupils; implants of some kind.
Most people wouldn’t notice but it was apparent to us that the profile of a katana nestled beneath the parcel-brown Gaongha trench coat that enveloped him. 
A lean efficiency in his movements was apparent as he swept up to our table and put himself down next to Bill. He was some kind of muscle or street bushi, who for though? What was his play?

“Saber Newman,” came the introduction

He leant close to Bill and asked about 6T9, dropping a Preaavar MQ-6 data-slab on the imitation wood grain printed laminate table top and sliding it over. Screen showed a bank account transfer for five-hundred large directed towards one of our accounts. Explained that it was the price he was going to pay for 6T9. Had a good idea who he was working for now. In return 6T9 stared at Saber Newman, ever-so-slightly tilting her head quizzically upon hearing him and blinking.
Bill was inclined to tell him to stuff it but Saber Newman then quietly told Bill that under the table he had a gun on him.
Bill ever so slightly shifted his weight, could tell it rankled him and he wasn’t going to let it go so easily and countered with seven-fifty.
I could feel the rest of us tensioning, ready to shift our own weight.

I could see the bushi think about it, his closed expression softened an increment, he agreed. A few quick finger jabs on the MQ-6 and three-quarter mill had been transferred.
Bill told 6T9 to go with the man. She hesitated a second, glanced from us to him, attempting to process the situation, resolving some parameter conflict in some protocol or other then shifted over, giving us a final look.
Saber Newman gripped her arm, his chair scraped back nosily over the polished imitation wooden tiled floor, he was the process of backing out of the cafe with 6T9 when Bill’s eyes flicked in the direction of Trigger.
‘Get him’, Bill said,

Trigger became an indistinct smear of movement and colour as his augments came online, he pounced, flipping the table while smoothly drawing his Wanametosu.
It was never going to be that easy though. Saber Newman responded at an equally inhuman rate, he’d been expecting resistance. From nowhere a pair of grenades came loudly skittering erractically across the tiled floor, bouncing between chair and table legs, suddenly he was also gripping the adaptive poly-variable gold-trimmed grip of his own sword - a Chirsuka tanto.
Could hear the staff screaming as Bill and I went for the grenades while Trigger clashed ringing blades with Newman. Koko had dived into cover, grabbing her control-slab, drones began spinning up.

Weren’t quick enough getting to the grenades despite crashing through the furniture. Koko directed Nermal to hit them with an EMP; no effect. Flashbangs luckily. Was out for a Neon City Minute though.
Later, Koko told me that Trigger and Newman had been equally matched blow for blow, both slicing chunks out of each other until she had gotten Felix to hit Newman and he went down.

Wouldn’t be long before rentacop got in on the scene. I was good to go once the static cleared out of my optics and black-noise had receded, I scooped up Saber Newman’s data-slab and Trigger had taken his Chirsuka as a trophy, I could see him looking it up and down pensively.
Time to bug out, night had settled on Neon City during our time in Gustisano and the downpours had come with it. Transforming the overbright sun blasted cityscape into a hazy half lit maze of glinting puddle-filled alleyways crossing over with roads lined by twinned rows of glimmering streetlights. Lashed by rain, we ran out into the complex.

Didn’t take long to get to a relatively quiet sheltered spot. Slumped into a dry corner and looped the MQ-6 into my Nonohiki and jacked in. Isolated from the GLOWNET, the MQ-6 was a void, an empty colourless night tundra with a single pixel of light on the indistinguishable horizon; the MQ-6’s code repository.
Navigated close, was a pretty standard directory construct on Newman’s slab. Didn’t take long for a cracking protocol to get me in.

Checked mail logs and a search protocol tagged to Akihabara got a hit, Saber Newman had a rentacop contact at the PD. Had used the rentacop to get heat on us for the murder of Kyle. No way the contact would already know Newman was dead.
Pinged the rentacop from Newman’s account, got them to take the heat off us. It was good, at least for now.

Continued searching; Saber Newman was classified as an indentured servant, meant he resided on the Glitterband, outside old Earth laws that prohibited this type of thing.
He worked for someone called Brandon Brightbyte, put a hunter/seeker on him; an exec for Promised Land.
Kept reading; looked like his continued servitude paid for his family’s oxygen rations on the ‘Band. If you didn’t have the dollar, life on ‘Band was hard.
Saber had drawn a bad hand of cards, his family was going to pay the price now he was dead.
Backgrounded the loop, went on the GLOWNET, back into Neon City’s chromatically shifting info-vista. Scraped node routing data from the mail logs on Saber’s MQ-6 and cloned his credentials.
Angular pulsating landscapes and polygonal neighbourhoods blurred past me as I relocated to the Promised Lands mailing server vault which was housed on their primary data-vault directory. Its data-image was a jumbled blend of focus-group driven logos and branded icons against a backdrop of neutrally corporate colours.
Cloned credentials got through defences, got access to all Saber’s accounts. There was a digital key to an apartment in Neon City, tickets to and from the Glitterband, also included Promised Lands’ very generous expenses account.
Drained all the funds into an anonymous ghost user and bounced it to the Newman family domestic account.
They’d be set up for a while at least.

​Was getting late, but the next name on the GTTTT list lived in Asakusa-cho, one prefecture over.
Getting there involved riding the high speed rail link back to Sky Tree again.
The high speed rail link was designed to allow inter-prefecture transit, mostly for low level exec types who wouldn’t qualify for personal corporate transport but might need to move through the city for business, unlike wage-monkeys who would likely barely leave their prefecture.
Luckily there were no restrictions on getting a ride.

The high speed rail link trains were clean by Neon City standards, with relatively well spaced deep seating and serviceable aircon, it was missing the signature profane graffiti that readily adorned the tram networks. At this hour most execs would be hitting the bars or pachinko halls, other than the occasional well suited businessman caught up in what would be no doubt performance reviews on a data-slab, we had the better part of a carriage to ourselves.
True to its name, the train rapidly cut through the rain leaving a spray in its wake and rippling horizontal raindrop trails across the soundproofed windows which revealed a city beyond reduced to an amorphous black silhouette against the carriage’s glaring interior fluorescents. Through darkened glass we watched highlighted city night lights blur through our reflections in speeding parallax.

A subtle tug pulled at my guts, a warning the train had begun decelerating. A series of winking red warning lights that stretched up into the black storm clouds marked out the Shinkansen Link. The vast megastructure was practically invisible against the night sky.
Transferring to the local tram network was easy, out of the spacious well lit rail station with its polished replica marble floor and high ceilinged roof and on to a half lit elevated tram stop constructed of thin corrugated ferrous sheets clamped to small platform attached to the raised trackway.

Precipitation drummed its tune on the steel roof as we waited for an overfilled tram to arrive. Drinkers, good-timers and tourists packed the carriages. Like us they were all heading for the ‘Street of a Thousand Bars’ - Hoppi Street: It may have had a different name decades or centuries ago but now it was known for the hops in all the drinks served in the district’s long strips of popular drinking venues and establishments.

Pushing ourselves aboard the tram and into awkwardly close proximity to other passengers, we rode uncomfortably to Hoppi Street in silence. Rough rail tracks routinely rocked the trams for the entire journey and passengers swayed as one in response during the whole time.
Mercifully, the trip was quick. A rasping hiss issued from sliding doors as they opened and the tram emptied out.

Lines of street lights, neon lit signs and illuminated shop fronts blazed along the broiling sidewalks. Reflecting off slick surfaces and glimmered erratically through undulating rainfall while blaring music and electronic jingles that had merged into an indecipherable clamour which sought to attract the passengers who were venturing out of the tram stop to their chosen drinking destinations.
Database listed one Kawai Miko as living somewhere here. Getting there took us off the main thoroughfares and into poorly lit and slightly less busy narrow side streets, the clamour of Hoppi Street abated as the dim paths wound their way towards the housing neighbourhoods.
The trip ended in a dense cluster of residential apartment complexes that intersected with each other in a neglected housing estate. Once there might have been a stretch of greenery in the central courtyard here; trees, grass, space to relax. Now all we saw were puddles that danced madly under the precipitation, catching whatever streetlights there was and slowlying filling a patch of exposed dirt and mud.

A door led to somes tairs which climbed upwards. a corridor to what was a small apartment -  even by Neon City standards.
Kawai Miko was young, lively, Japanese and dressed in the latest Hika Taki streetwear. The interior combined a living, cooking and sleeping space, a small amount of Talordu branded minimalist furniture adorned the room and few decorations embellished the off-white wall paint and replica pine floor. Despite the restrictive size, the interior’s sparseness gave it an empty look.
Like most of the GTTTT members, she was happy to tell her story to other members.

Kawai Miko explained that she was an aspiring vocalist who earned supplemental income by singing songs in an alien language and selling them on the GLOWNET!
Took a moment for us to respond. When asked, Kawai Miko refused to say exactly how she knew an alien language and admitted that she did not sell much music, mostly just to other GTTTT members.
She played some of her material for us, definitely not Neon City-speak or any language known by my media-slabs audio recog.
Captain Noodles turned to us and elaborated.
“It’s gibberish,” he said.
Another dead end.

​Night was beginning to wear on but there was time to check out one other GTTTT member.
Star Bar was a Hoppi Street drinking establishment in the heart of the district, according to the database, this is where we could find Hara Izor.

Briskly, through the deluge we returned back to Hoppi Street’s main commercial zone. Noisy, overlit strips of pubs, bars, watering holes, gin joints and more, populated both the main routes and side alleys.
The constant rain did nothing to deter customers; reduced to anonymous wraithlike silhouettes by a mixture of dazzling lights and permeating rain, they shuffled past in their hundreds which filled the sidewalk and who we had no choice but to navigate.

The address ended at a drinking establishment festooned by intermittently winking and strobing star, planet, moon and comet shaped silver-white neon signage, Star Bar clearly had a motif.

Inside, lighting was unusually low, except for some rotating spotlights that swept the room with smoky light beams. Cosmographically themed interior decorations gleamed distinctly as a result, reflecting off the abundance of space-age styled silver coated surfaces throughout the bar. All the time an ambient ripoff sci-fi electronica soundtrack pumped out on the HSS Sikuneu sound system.
In the gloom, we saw numerous customers slumped at the bar or slouched over a taverna style table in the dim light.
Ordered space-themed drinks when we got to the bar.
Spoke to the barkeep, turned out Hara Izor was the manager at Star Bar, getting to see him was easy. From a back room he came out to the bar and was accommodating once we explained we were with the GTTTT.

Hara Izor told us that a few years ago he had refitted the bat with a ‘cosmic’ theme to attract ‘out of town’ clients he said knowingly with a wink. Leaning over the bar he quietly, almost conspiratorially told us that most of his customers were alien.
Looking round at the drinkers, none of them looked like something we’d describe as extraterrestrial. Captain Noodles wasn’t convinced either.
It was another bust.

​Done with the GTTTT for the night, we decided to brave the rains and hit the bars on Hoppi Street. The City of Electric Dreams, though, had something different in mind for us and Koko’s media-slab pinged.

Yeager Malik Introduced himself as the lead engineer of The Moistioned Palm Hotel’s ‘Turbo Encabulator’ recalibration team, whatever the hell that was? Was having trouble with one of the street gangs in Hoppi Street: Wanted a face-to-face and directed us to a warehouse front office in a small half-disused industrial park in the shadow of Hoppi Street’s main strip and behind all of its light, noise and strained glamour.
Few swaying exterior lights reflected off the rippling ever-filling pools that dotted the empty car park we crossed to reach the office.

Except for Yeager Malik, the office interior was as empty as the car park. He kept the fluorescents off, city lights faintly registered through rain smeared streaming windows, throwing weak diffused shadows across cheap Vaidu carpeting while the night’s deluge thrashed on the multi-ferrous corrugated roofing.
Didn’t take Yeager Malik too long to get us up to speed.

Usman Kasim was a gang leader who went by the tag ‘Emir’, also styled himself as ‘The King of Pimps’ and was associated with prostitution mob; ‘The Flash Cartel’.
Word was Emir had beef with ‘Thunderous’ Waka Kane, boss of rival gang ‘The Bōsōzoku Boys’ and also owner of The Moistioned Palm hotel, which was reputed to be a front for the Ikebukuro Construction Gumi Yakusa.
Emir was planning to move against Waka Kane and had been putting the squeeze on Yeager Malik and his crew to make it work.

Emir wanted Yeager Malik to sabotage The Moistened Palm’s Turbo Encabulator. It would result in a series of errors causing a cascading system surge overloading the flux capacitors which would force the hotel to be immediately evacuated.

“That’s when Emir’s muscle would move,” Yeager Malik told us. Ensuing disruption and chaos would allow them to slip in and put a hit on the exposed Waka Kane and wipe his gang out.
Problem was that Yeager would take the heat for the technical breakdown, bringing down the Gumi Yakuza on him.
Pushing back against Emir would also put Yeager and his crew at risk.

He needed an out. Seemed like the best plan was to let him sabotage the Turbo Encabulator, he could then truthfully tell Emir it was done.
Then, independently, we’d reverse it. No one else would know, not even his crew.

Only problem was, could the sabotage be reversed?
No clue what the Turbo Encabulator was, regretted asking Yeager Malik about it.

“For a number of years now, work has been proceeding in order to bring perfection to the crudely conceived idea of a transmission that would not only supply inverse reactive current for use in unilateral phase detractors, but would also be capable of automatically synchronizing cardinal grammeters. Such an instrument is the turbo encabulator.
Now basically the only new principle involved is that instead of power being generated by the relative motion of conductors and fluxes, it is produced by the modial interaction of magneto-reluctance and capacitive diractance.
The original machine had a base plate of pre-famulated amulite surmounted by a malleable logarithmic casing in such a way that the two spurving bearings were in a direct line with the panametric fan. The latter consisted simply of six hydrocoptic marzlevanes, so fitted to the ambifacient lunar waneshaft that side fumbling was effectively prevented.
The main winding was of the normal lotus-o-delta type placed in panendermic semi-boloid slots of the stator, every seventh conductor being connected by a non-reversible tremie pipe to the differential girdle spring on the “up” end of the grammeters.
The turbo-encabulator has now reached a high level of development, and it’s being
successfully used in the operation of novertrunnions. Moreover, whenever a forescent skor motion is required, it may also be employed in conjunction with a drawn reciprocation dingle arm, to reduce sinusoidal repleneration,” he said.

Koko at least seemed to understand and had been nodding along understandingly. She turned to us and said that it could be done.
Plan was set. Yeager Malik would sabotage the Turbo Encabulator at midnight: An hour later, we’d get into the hotel and reverse it.

Needed to case out the hotel, was a brisk walk back to Hoppi Street. Found a good spot at a Ahoumo Noodles street vendor to scope it from a distance.

The Moistened Palm Hotel was a multistoried upright slab of concrete and poly-glass clad in a sandstone coloured facade barely visible beneath a blanket of phasing shaped neon lights strip. Flowing patterns of crude animations played out throughout the phasing and drew the eye towards the enormous sign that stretched over an entrance flanked by two rows of oversized faux palm trees underlit in a golden hue. From this distance and through the precipitation, the garish cycle of flashing lights had been reduced to an ever swirling mix of colours. Even so, the entire venue had the appearance of a hotel from the old world Las Vegas strip.
In the short time we were observing, drunk revellers and tourists were drawn moth-like by those lights into the hotel. Welcomed by cheerfully insincere greeters and shortly to be fleeced of all their Bits no doubt.
Did some more investigating, found a pair of plain steel double doors in a narrow unlit, puddle filled side alley: A maintenance entrance, that would be our ‘in’.

​Zoshigaya Park was located at the limits of Neon City, in Toshima-cho, one prefecture over from Hoppi Street and was the address of Fuji Koto, One of the names on the GTTTT database.
Was getting late but still a few hours before we needed to get into The Moistened Palm Hotel. Enough time to get to Zoshigaya Park and back.
Meant a return trip to The Sky Tree and back on the high speed rail link to Ikebukuro. From there, on the local tram network to Zoshigaya.

Neither downpours nor crowds had let up when we exited the tram station, wind battered sheets of heavy rainfall lashed umbrella-toting pedestrians, hundreds of coloured polymer domes lit in yellow-white streetlight bobbed up and down in indecipherable rippling patterns along glimmering sidewalks.
The walk to Fuji Koto’s address took us beyond the periphery of Zoshigaya Park’s usual retail and residential centres, close to the city’s edge where eventually the crowds did begin to thin and city lighting became less regular. To where Zoshigaya Park earned its name. 
This far out led to a large tract of land which had been dedicated to greenery, one of the few in Neon City and only ever located on outskirts far from the dense central conurbation and where commercial demands were low.
A partially lit asphalt path meandered through the park and street-lit spots of glittering illumination revealed a flat, open, waterlogged space topped by real grass and loosely dotted with oaks and beeches heavy with rainwater and which I only recognised from old vidumentaries.

Further up the path, through the rain we caught sight of a remote solitary light, dimmer and lower than the path’s own municipal street lighting. The path split as we drew closer, we took the branch that headed for the solitary light.
It led to a large square of ground fenced off by black painted concrete and steel three metre high railings. Through the gapsand rain streaked darkness we could make out stone headstones with obscured text situated at regular intervals in little plots: A cemetery, only green stretches of land like this had the appropriate space for actual cemeteries and even then, you still needed to be fantastically wealthy to get your patch of dirt.

Adjacent to the burial grounds we also spotted an old world styled panelled porchlight with a quietly humming old world styled filament bulb attached to what looked like an old world styled house. More than that, it looked real: Mostly we’d only ever seen low budget replicas with exterior walls constructed of moulded and painted sheets of toughened polymer.
Here, bricks looked real, so did the glass in old frames.  Ahead a real brass knocker hung on a seemingly wooden sun-faded cream coloured door with cracked and peeling colours.

The knocker produced a sharp ringing rap when used, we waited, an old man in a Ringstick sleeveless faux wool cardigan in light grey with white trim over a beige Avorukhclu shirt, navy chinos and diamond patterned Berryburr slippers wearing a tired, sad face answered: Fuji Koto.

Invited in from the rain, he sat us at a small granite topped kitchen table on high chairs and served us tea. While looking at us over thin rimmed half-moon glasses Fuji Koto explained that sixteen years ago, he’d been walking through the trees with Kuma, his wife, during the evening when the very air seemed to distort and buckle. Fuji Koto said that later he had learned from the GTTTT that it was a fold in reality. He went on, explaining that somehow aliens had been abducted through the distortion. After that he had relocated to Zoshigaya Park, building this house himself in the fashion of the old world to be close to where he had last seen Kuma.
Almost imperceptibly shaking his head, Fujo Koto admitted he still heard her voice all these years later.

We looked at Captain Noodles, he provided us with what passed for a feline shrug. The encounter had been over a decade ago and he could no longer determine whether it had been real or not.
There was nothing else to be gained from Fuji Koto and we left him to his memories.

​Caught the rail link again, rushed back to Hoppi Street and The Moistioned Palm. A light dotted midnight city skyline glimmered through water stained train windows while municipalities passed us in a blur, as we focused on the job. On the ride back, Koko ordered some neutral grey boiler suits for us from Orinoco. They were waiting for us at a collection point close to the hotel.

Rain never ended, nor did the neon driven clamour projecting from every barfront in view or jostling, lurching crowds deep into happy hour. Now wearing our Alicid branded boiler suits we bustled across the still packed Hoppi Street and into the side alley.
Doors were locked but not a problem for Koko.
Inside, out of the deluge, were service corridors and access routes, a warren of exposed concrete flooring and undecorated brickwork walls inadequately lit by regular but sparingly placed thin ceiling strip lights.

Had to walk fast and look like we belonged there. Unlikely to encounter anyone at this time especially since Yeager had given his crew the hour off but if we did, they would ask questions.
Yeager Malik had provided Koko detailed instructions which led us to a sub basement and the exact Turbo Encabulator panel he’d used to sabotage the system.
Pulling the service panel off, Koko revealed a square recession brimming with circuitry, wiring, piping and readouts flashing red.
“This is the one,” Koko said, leaning in and sweeping the interior with a flashlight.
The rest of us kept look out as she busied herself on the systems.

There were no interruptions, the work got done and we left without delay, no one was about in the service corridors and we got out. Not ideal to be here when Emir and his gang came on the scene.

Ninety minutes later, story hit the newsvines: Responding to reports of a major incident, Rentacop had rolled into The Moistened Palm to end a gunfight between rival street gangs that had left sixty-two seriously injured and fourteen dead.
Later reports indicated further fighting had broken out from the gangs at the Kyukyoku No Hospital in Sugamo Jizo Dori Street.

The next day, Yeager Malik called and thanked us. Explaining that the Flash Cartel had faced unexpectedly stiff resistance and taken significant losses during their failed power play.
He told us that Word had it Waka Kane was unscathed and the Ikebukuro Construction Gumi were now considering moving against The Flesh Cartel.

​Late breakfast: Paheheu Pops and Hechunai spider-goat milk dirtied by triple-shots Shiaikan whiskey. Morning buzz to take the edge of the day’s oncoming heat and later, crushing consumer press on the trams.
Only two names remained on the GTTTT database. Time to regroup and make some moves.

Neon City was in full swing, the conurbation’s unending background growl which had somewhat muted by the high-rise’s barely functional soundproofing now hit with maximum force as I walked on to Hikage Street.
Wage-monkeys were long gone for the day but Hikage still thrummed with burnt dead-enders, side glancing malcontents and the unemployed which pretty much described everyone on Hikage.
They haunted the usual corners, caught in surly conversion - the only human contact they had - and occasionally descending into brief dust-ups or sluggishly prowled between ground level retailers without much hope.

Punctuating this on a semi-regular basis were the rattling, grinding elevated trams that sped past, cloudless blue-white sky reflecting off the dust stained windows in bright, painful flashes. Odorous wispish white tendrils billowed off brightly coloured street vendor carts as they loudly hawked their Syntheef dogs and burgers at commuters from the line’s numerous support struts.

Hikage Street’s residential tower clusters shrank over the horizon as a short crammed ride took us into Shibuya Terminal and the vast public transport hub grew to dominate the eastern view.
Our corporate access was still good and the monorail took us to Shinjuku-cho and from there to Kabukicho.

The district was well known for its red-light district. Beyond the usual shops and hospitalities drenched in flashing neon and were rows of love hotels, clubs, massage parlours and more that populated lively streets and back alleys which even in daylight, sizzled with garish fluorescents, overlit shopfronts and animated advertising slabs on every free space all promising to deliver whatever kick clients could imagine and at any given hour, there was no shortage of those clients.

Saba Jinsky’s address could be found beyond the district outskirts where its coruscating neon glare had morphed into reddish hazy light pollution that seeped into the near horizon.
Another anonymous grey ferroconcrete residential block.
Punched the doorbell and waited, Saba Jinsky answered, a youngish woman with dark hair and a heart shaped face in her early thirties was dressed in casual plain slacks and an oversized blousey apricot and lime pinstripe shirt.
Once we had told Saba Jinsky we were affiliated with the GTTTT, she was happy to invite us into her pretty standard looking one-bed.
Saba Jinsky told us that she had been drawn to the GTTTT membership with its stories of extraterrestrial interactions and was adamant that aliens must inhabit the dark side of the moon. She was currently crowdfunding a private space flight to the Cantor Crater.
When asked, Saba told us that she had so far raised thirty-four bits for the mission but was hopeful for the billions required to fund the mission…

Wasn’t any need to get Captain Noodles to check Saba Jinsky for contact, by her own admittance she had never had the kind of encounter we were searching out.
Wishing her good luck with her funding, we went on our way.

​Pounding midday sunlight poured on to the bristling, gaudy retail thoroughfares of Kabukicho. Unending, punishing temperature never dissuaded Neon City citizens from hitting the streets. Navigating through the heaving bodies only exacerbated the heat until we reached the shade of the corrugated steel-walled elevated stop for the tram.
Last name on the GTTTT database meant a ride to Asakusa-cho. Fortunately, it was one stop over to Shinjuku Station, from there the high speed rail link would take us directly to the Sky Tree.

The rail link was pretty much the reserve of low-level execs and was, at this time of the day mostly empty. Rows of unused faux leather seating were in abundance, a situation we took advantage of.
Pronounced acceleration tugged us into the deeply upholstered seats as the train pulled out. Active suspension, soundproofing and functional climate control all so lacking on the tram network made this ride a smooth one. The glass-clad multi-tiered Shinjuku Station rapidly slid into the vanishing point while we watched the changing cityscape silently streak past.
The densely clustered grimy sprawl of Kabukicho gave way to the more measured towers and highrises of The Sky Tree.

From kilometres away the enormous Shinkansen Link could be seen stretching above the skyline and out of sight. At first an indistinct murky silhouette behind the hazy smog, then coalescing into a solid definable technologically colossus that bridged the gap to its geosynchronous anchor on the Glitterband.

We emerged on to the busy streets surrounding the link, both foot and sky traffic was heavy. Commercial ventures that supported or profited off the Sky Tree were numerous here as was the volume of cargo haulers and taxis flying in and out of the planetside anchor like angry robotic wasps buzzing around an enormous cylindrical nest.
The gargantuan structure itself inexplicably and constantly sat on the periphery of my vision, endlessly vying for my attention.

A densely packed collection of residential highrises nestled in a concrete park on one of the district’s closeby housing zones. Usually they would’ve posed an impressive sight but against the link, they were trivially small.
In one of those highrises was Rasi Fyeva, last name on the database.
Some searching and we found the address.

Rasi Fyeva was an octogenarian with short steel grey hair shot through with the vestiges of colour, she wore a fading maroon coloured casual sweatsuit that would have been fashionable decades ago.
Once she had been told who we were and what we were looking for, Rasi Fyeva was content to tell us what she recalled of her experiences.
Rasi Fyeva had memories of long ago, spending time living underwater with who she believed were aliens. Questioning revealed those memories were blurry and indistinct with numerous large holes, she couldn’t give much further detail on the events but told that she’s been unable to eat fish ever since.
Captain Noodles was unable to provide us with any further insight into the veracity of Rasi’s statement since this had occurred decades ago.
There was no more information to be gained.

With the last name on the GTTTT database interviewed, nothing was left to follow up and early afternoon had rolled by the time we got back to Hikage Street.
A good time to hit the local bars for an extended drinking session.

3rd July 2021

It's a Saturday evening and we're all logged into video chat for episode 27 of Matakishi's Wired Neon Cities campaign.

Location: Neon City

An hour ago, Electric Nights of Our Lives; Neon City’s longest running trashy vid-opera had been playing on the wall-slab while I had been slumped on the futon cradling a bottle of Dindanha.
Ridiculous plots played out as bad overacting was writ large. Images of impossibly beautiful actresses with sculpted proportions and smoothed, ageless skin swam seemingly larger-than-life across the wall-slab’s razor thin screen, accompanied by buffed up actors with bio-chiseled muscle implants and enhanced square jaws. Flirting eyes fluttered at each other with ice-blue replacement irises while pearl-white ceramic grins split perfect faces that delivered repetitive, cliched dialogue.

All of this was interrupted by Captain Ocano; the fiery Shinjuku precinct cop had pinged us a gig.
Sixty rumbling minutes clattered by riding the underserviced elevated tram network, rush hour had gone but it was still standing room only in grime caked, overfilled carriages as vacant dead-enders day-tripped while the lucky few consumers drifted from mall to complex, cred-slab in hand. The sprawling grey-white Shinjuku Station had rolled into view, it sat in the hub spiral of the municipal transit web that fed commuters all across the city districts, prefectures and beyond.
The reinforced, ferroconcrete bunker which was the Shinjuku precinct would be found further south.

Like every regular Neon City rentacop precinct, Shinjuku was under-resourced by its corporate backer. A noisy, undersized beige-decorated work space too small for its staff, filled with thin, glass-walled cubicles and neutral grey office dividers.
The constant murmur of busy chatter that usually re-verbed throughout the room stopped for a moment when we strode in. Sidelong glances told us something was up.
Across the bustling room we could see Ocano, the captain, in his usual awkwardly mis-sized chocolate coloured polyblend Kuabha two-piece suit was sitting on a bench outside his office. Despite the overcrowding, there was clean air around Ocano, looked like everyone was avoiding him? He was, in his usual loud voiced manner berating some old woman, telling her to sit down.

He noticed us as we began walking over, instantly ignoring the woman and beckoning with a sharp gesture. Crossing the room I couldn’t help but notice there was clean air around us too.
Ocano pulled us into one of the glass walled offices, the babbling murmur outside was cut off as the door closed.
“Too many ears out there,” he remarked.
Gesticulating wildly and punching the air in front of us rhythmically as he shouted, Ocano explained the situation.

Police Commissioner Jareth Sabine had paid Ocano a not-so-friendly visit a couple of days ago and had given him a real off-the-books directive.
Told Ocano to put heat on a mark called Doctor Gwen Armiger, wanted her scapegoated for handling narcotics by planting evidence in her apartment.
But Ocano was a rare thing in Neon City, a rentacop too straight-laced to frame some working stiff, so he’d done some digging.

Doctor Armiger was a typical corp-financed med-specialist, no outstandings, no irregularities, nothing noteworthy, Ocano kept digging. Then something came up.
City justice records showed that a week ago Armiger had taken a restraining order out against Jareth Sabine. Records showed he’d made multiple advances on the doctor and had been rejected every time, until she’d gotten sick of it and took action.
It wasn’t a good optics for the commissioner, looked like he’d taken it badly, wanted some payback and was leaning on Ocano for it.

Ocano went on, he didn’t know how to play it, wasn’t going to frame anyone but Sabine had a lot of juice to go against and couldn’t trust his associates beyond these office walls.
Needed outsiders to deal with it.
Finally, he told us that the raid was only a few hours away, had to move quick.

Hunkering down on a beige upholstered chair in a corner, I jacked into the GLOWNET.
Glass landscape, beige decorations and background office droning receded. 
Angular lines settled into polygonal shapes, a familiar geometrical architecture emerged; Neon City’s endlessly evolving chromatic info-vista
I was already zeroed at the precinct’s utilitarian concrete-coloured data-image, rentacop’s encryption algorithms had been cracked months ago and security protocols provided no barrier to immediately getting to the data-vault.

Had to be careful, rentacop directories in the vault could be busy, especially on a active operation. Launched an adaptive chameleon algorithm that would intermittently clone and reclone the bio-image of a random local vault user, then skin it over my Nonohiki’s activity transponder. Good enough to spoof them for a while.
Ran a hunter/searcher keyed to Gwen Armiger on the directories, got two hits behind a locked wall. Couldn’t risk using the normal rentacop key-string, might hit unique encryption and risked getting flagged if it didn’t match. Needed to run an entire cracking protocol, luckily corporate underinvestment for internal security meant that I got through quick.

It was a blatant frame-up job, no one cared to provide oversight on rentacaop, made them lazy, slack. Which meant it was clear what they were up to.
Rentacop were scheduled to pay Armiger’s address a visit soon and a warrant to search the same address was scheduled to be approved two hours later.
First visit was the stitch-up and the second, the bust.
Finding Jareth Sabine’s home address on rentacop’s own vault was easy. After that, I just updated both entries to that address.

Jacked out and lurched back into material reality while fighting the urge to vomit. Disorientation cleared after a few seconds and I was back in a glass walled, beige coloured world.
Soon rentacop would be planting the evidence in Jareth Sabine’s residence, then they’d be hitting the address with a warrant.
Pinged D4VID, gave the botcaster a tip on the ‘case’ and waited.

A few hours and D4VID’s exclusive started piping down the newsvines. Rentacop had hit Jareth Sabine’s home, storming the residence and finding forty seven Ks of the chem-engineered benzoylecgonine derivative. The vid showed his wife being dragged out to a Korazna sky-wagon  while handcuffed with a hood over her head. They flew off in the Korazna with the sirens wailing just for effect!
A later report would state that the commissioner had been picked up at the Sky Tree Golf Club.

​Didn’t get far on the ride back to Hikage; media-slabs pinged again.

Katsuko Nakamura was a corporate wage-monkey, a low-level exec on the Chou-Nata public relations payroll. We’d been involved with him a while back, looked like something else was about to drop in our laps.
Plain in his voice that something had Nakamura nervous, was talking about strange occurrences, going on about ‘manifestations’? Wanted us to check it out at his home.
Didn’t take much effort to divert.

Rokkaku Dai Heights was primarily a residential district, wasn’t quite the low-rate social housing neighbourhood that was Hikage Street and targeted the city’s wage-monkeys, the kind of place Katsuko Nakamura fitted right in.
Like Hikage though, the district contained small clusters and strips of retail units that served the residents but was mostly given over to highrises that looked just a little cleaner and more upmarket in The Heights.
Afternoon heat was beating down as we arrived at Nakamura’s alabaster white housing block and headed up.

The door to Nakamura’s apartment opened, both stress and relief were apparent across his clammy face, the heavy set man wore a salmon coloured Duuner polo shirt and a pair of Breach branded beige slacks; classic corporate exec casual wear.
We were immediately ushered in and sat down in a moderately sized but blandly decorated living room filled with Euro-styled faux-mahogany Talordu furniture, one cream coloured wall was dominated by a swathe of family photo-slabs. Dozens of semi-familiar faces grinned inanely at us from behind poly-digital displays.
Nakamura came balancing some imitation Benson Easterbridge crockery on a tray and fed us cups of tea from a gently steaming teapot. Explained that weird events were manifesting in his apartment on an almost routine basis. His wife had left because of the ‘disturbances’, he also explained his work and meetings were also being disrupted by these regular occurrences. We couldn’t make sense of what he was telling us, he told us to wait and that’s all we could do…

Thirty minutes passed, then it happened.
Inexplicably, a green-blue light engulfed the room.
Translucent, incandescent and also green-blue; a figure, a person - somehow a ghost materialised.
“You killed all of us,” accused the figure before vanishing.

Took us a moment, couldn’t be a ghost, had to be something else.

Got to searching. Didn’t take too long. Found a couple of Luoithan branded nano-emitters that could pump out holo-vids embedded in the skirting board, they were all wired into a hidden tiny junction box, someone had put some serious effort into getting at Nakamura.
The box had a compatible port so I wired my Nokohiki into it. The Data-slab’s display filled with code that showed the junction box contained some kind of A.I. protocol manager which controlled the projection of the holograph’s image, it also controlled all outgoing and incoming instructions, there were even some logs on the directory. Ran them through a decrypter and got a point of origin from the metal.
It was listed as a Chou-Nata server-vault.

Asked Nakamura about it, why would Chou-Nata want to target one of their own with this?
It was beyond Nakamura, he could only shrug, although he did say that he’d heard other Cou-Nata employees complain of encountering ghosts and had put it down to hallucinations, that or substance abuse.

Wasn’t much to go on with, one of Koko’s drones had taken a clear recording of our own encounter with the hologram and pushed the data to my slab. Something about the apparition’s face was off? Ran it through facial recognition; zero hits.
Ran an analytical algorithm on the remainder of the hologram with unexpected results..
Proportions across the body, the clothing were too mathematically predictable, meaning they’d been created by another algorithm to simulate a person. It was artificial, a 3D model, kind of explained why the recog had got nothing, it was a face that belonged to no one - a ghost - of sorts?

Material reality dimmed while primary coloured neon polystruts grew in luminosity as I jacked into the GLOWNET. Angular structures coalesced into the city’s info-vista, churning info-motes settled into surging, endlessly morphing data-flows.
Now we knew that the figure had been a 3D model, there was something to go on, I coded the model parameters into a hunter/searcher protocol and let it loose. It quickly came back with a solid hit. The model had come from a game called Vonheim.

Vonheim was a massively multiplayer online game that pulled countless Neon City residents into its virtual skinner box, detaching them from the daily inanity they mostly lived in.
This kind of thing was not our forte, meant it was time to contact Mister Peepers.

Mister Peepers was an uplifted chimpanzee, the result of illicit experimentation in a black-book Sensoji med-facility. Escaping his captors, he’d become a GLOWNET mirage, living under-the-grid, becoming a champion gamer and streaming celeb, it made him serious bank.

Pinged him the info on Vonheim models and he got back to us, they were part of the most recent update, listed as ’Indian peasant’ skins and available for purchase in-game. Standard cosmetic add-ons purchasable by any players Mister Peepers told us.

Not much to go on, Vonheim’s data-image was some kind of focus-group driven bombastic corporate logo. It had an extensive security protocol, whoever was bankrolling this outfit had put the dollar into it.
I launched a cracking algorithm but it got nowhere, looked like some kind of self-writing subroutine kept changing the encryption strings quicker than I could keep up. No way in.
Instead I probed the data-image.
A commercial GLOWNET presence meant it had to have multiple directory layers; the public facing directory would be the most vulnerable. Found a submission node for users to put in GLOWNET addresses into their mailing list.
The cracking algorithm got me into the mailing directory, wasn’t a lot to find there though. Ran a search of the mailing list and realised someone on the project had got lazy and merged its user list with its mailing list, gave me a list of all the players; not much but something to go on.
Dropped an image of the list into the Nonohiki’s storage and pinged it to Mister Peepers and waited. He might be able to get something out of the list.
Illegal augmentations that’d been wired into Mister Peepers meant his enhanced skills extended beyond gaming and streaming, allowed him to interact with data in ways I couldn’t even comprehend, providing him the skills to get ahold of the information we were looking for.
Didn’t take long for Mister Peepers to ping us.

Boyd Blackwood was an alias Mister Peepers messages informed us, a Vonheim in game tag; no surprise there.
Put it through the mailing list and got a real name; Monty Jangles.
The follow up was easy, used my backdoor into Neon City’s civic records to pull data on him.

Monty Jangles; sixteen years old, listed as living in the Mejiro Housing Complex with his parents. They in turn, ran what ostensibly was a family business called ‘Dangle Jangles’, that provided an exotic genital piercing service.
‘Put some ding in your swing’ was their motto.

Didn’t look like there was any link between what seemed like a teenage gaming-monkey and Chou-Nata, so I launched a hunter/seeker algorithm onto the GLOWNET with some specific criteria for deep dives and got some strange hits.

Out-of-town newsvine streams reported mass layoffs at Chou-Nata, seemed confined to mid-level execs from Japanese divisions, other subsidiaries were unaffected.

Got some hits for Monty Jangles too.
Bank accounts showed a lot of activity, he’d been busy buying Pohaden Xyrrig sneakers, a lot of them, Jovistock gaming hardware too - pricey stuff. The list went on, Segtendo consoles, Senonable FunDepot gaming slabs and so on.
There was more though.
Cash had been transferred into his account, routing code showed it had come from Mumbai, no further details though.

While the lurch from exiting the GLOWNET was always familiar, it never stopped the jolt of nausea from rippling through my body.
Back in Katsuko Nakamura’s apartment, I fought the urge to vomit.
Time to pay Monty Jangles a visit.

Getting to Mejiro was a mission, central tram network didn’t reach that far out, got us as far as Sunshine City.
Needed to transfer to the Neon City’s exclusive upmarket corporate monorail into Ikebukuro using our access cards and from there, a final ride on the local transit to Mejiro.
It was cramped, standing room only on the Toshima-cho prefecture tram network as we’d hit the late rush hour getting into the housing complex.
Fused out, dead-eyed wage-monkeys with their cheap two-pieces and Vijeso suitcases dominated all the available space as under-specced aircon struggled to keep the internal temperature to a barely manageable level.
Once the tram had grinded to a halt at the Mejiro station, doors slid open and a tidal wave of humanity drained out, dragging us in its wake.

The Mejiro Housing Complex that stretched out around us was primarily a residential district and clusters of tower blocks clad in neutral shades of concrete dominated the region while smatterings of small retail units were sporadically dotted throughout.

Day had turned to night during the trip, the sun receding behind a rolling eastern skyline. While we watched dusk’s reddening sky darken to black, rows of streetlamps dutifully winked into life as grids of urban building lights followed suit. Blustery winds, brought on by acute air pressure changes preceded the routine downpours.
The rush hour fallout has left Mejiro’s streets a busy place; returning wage-monkeys, undeterred as ever by the nightly rains, were heading home or out for a good time and filled the already packed streets.

A side alley on the edge of a housing block was where we located Dangle Jangles despite having to navigate the clamorous, broiling crowds, it was easy to find.
We found ourselves eyeing a half-and-half retailer space, a three storey affair that mixed a residential unit with a retail ground floor. Numerous examples genetal implants and attachments were arranged in a window display while a garishly coloured, neon-lit shop frontage stated its presence through glimmering precipitation.
‘Dangle Jangles - Put some ding into your swing’ blinked a buzzing red fluorescent sign. 
Trigger ran a thermal sweep, got a strange indecipherable heat source from below ground floor but zero hits elsewhere, looked empty otherwise; wasn’t unusual for a mom’n’pop to be closed after dark.
The lock did not hinder Koko, we were in without a hitch. A red fluorescent glow intermittently bathed the interior but looked a pretty normal set up inside for a low spec body augmenting chop shop.

Trigger told us that the heat source was likely someone in a basement, didn’t take long to find the way down
A muffled voice was projecting somewhere from beyond the bottom of the faux wooden steps, a soft, pencil-thin line of light was emanating from out of view.

We crept down, the landing opened into a largish, mostly undecorated basement, exposed floor and bare walls were lit starkly by a fluorescent strip hanging from the ceiling.
Unopened boxes of trainers were piled up brickwork-style along two of those walls.
A HSS QLQ255 wall-slab had been screwed into another wall, hooked up beneath was the latest Segtendo gaming slab, along with four custom hand-rigs.
Finally against the last wall, a Senonable ‘FunDepot’ gaming slab was sitting on a bespoke gaming table.
The slab was hooked up to a high-end Jovistock custom VR rig; a suspended full body harness specced with the latest omni-pressure, multi-haptic feedback servos and topped off with a top of the line glossy white Kuaijing Youdeji headset.

Suited up in the harness was a skinny, pallid teenage boy wearing nothing but dull, faded and slightly soiled Henry Champ branded underwear. Dried Kaia cola drip stains mingled with streaked fingerprints of cheesy flavoured Huanp chip flavouring to create work of modern art on his once-white vest.
Had to be Monty Jangles.
The headset meant he was oblivious to us, game data readout on the FunDepot told us he was playing Vonheim.
“More dots,” he said into his mic. “More dots, more dots, LESS DOTS”!
We weren’t going to wait around for this.

Trigger hefted him out of the harness and yanked the headset off. Monty Jangles blinked at us confusedly while sprawled on the concrete floor, struggled to prop himself up while his slightly podgy faced gawped from one to another of us.
He assumed we were here to shake him down, didn’t blame him to be honest.
“My parent’s stuff is upstairs,” he immediately blurted.
“We’re here for you,” admonished Koko.
Monty gave a yelp and flinched when he realised Koko was a girl!

Monty was belligerent when we told him to explain why he had scraped 3D data from a game and how it ended up in a holo-projector in Katsuko Nakamura’s apartment and refused to answer anything.
A threat to report his Boyd Blackwood account for irregular behaviour got him to change his tune. Told us that a GLOWNET phantom account had pinged him, offered to drop two hundred large for a full scrape of the new Indian peasant 3D models from Vonheim, textures, anims, skeletons, the works.
Monty admitted that he had the skills to get the files.
The phantom told him to edit the textures and make them look like Indian call-centre workers from Mumbai.
The phantom had also provided him with some server-vault’s GLOWNET geo-node coordinates to push the 3D models out to.

It was a lead but it would go nowhere. No GLOWNET operator worth their weight would leave such blatant footprints to a server-vault unless they meant to burn it. Didn’t need to go there to figure that one out.
We left Monty Jangles to his game went back out into the rain-swelled streets of Mejiro

​It was late when we dragged Katsuko Nakamura out of bed after we’d gotten back to his apartment. With a dishevelled red-wine coloured Eilbon robe half pulled over his crumpled pyjamas bottoms and T-shirt, he yawned and scratched his unkempt head as he logged on to his Chou-Nata terminal with bio-credentials..
The terminal was a custom piece of made-to-order Chou-Nata technology, a sturdily manufactured dumb-slab, hard-wired, geo-logged and tagged to Katsuko Nakamura personally, provided near undecryptable direct and exclusive access to the hive of Chou-Nata secured servers via proprietary isolated, non-indexed comms protocols under the GLOWNET.
Hit the Chou-Nata primary databases, ran a search for a Mumbai call centre, got nothing. No facilities in Mumbai or offices, staff or assets, nothing.
No other way of checking the databases, hacking the terminal wasn’t going to work, its functionality only operated in direct, live connection to a checksum driven security algorithm somewhere in the Chou-Nata data-vault hub which would pick up any anomalies within seconds.
Trying to get into Chou-Nata through the GLOWNET data-flows would also be practically impossible, its corporate network was essentially invisible, couldn’t clone or crack what couldn’t be seen.
Nakamura didn’t know of another way of getting Chou-Nata records.
Needed to go sideways. Put a bunch of keywords related to Mumbai through a GLOWNET hunter/seeker algorithm and ran a search, got some hits.

One hit caught our attention. Two years ago, some out-of-date newsvines suggested that what looked like a cholera outbreak in Mumbai had been reported in the local press but info was scant.

A GLOWNET dive was needed: Newsvines were vast, radiant poly-nodal constructs of intertwined spiralling threads of current affairs, finance, gossip, entertainment and more that created algorithmically procedural connections between noteworthy events.
They recorded colossal amounts of news reports, journalistic stories, videos and so on as well as related data movements. To avoid going out of control due to the enormous quantities logged data, old and under-accessed vines were auto-archived by compression protocols.
No way two year old data would not be archived.

Data stored in those archives was immense in size and searching required a focussed algorithm to prevent too much coming through. Scripted some custom instructions and programmed them into a hunter/seeker and let it loose. It got some hits that lead nowhere?

Had to take a look.
The algorithm had taken me to several newsvines but I didn’t see any data or reports on Mumbai, something was wrong. Choosing a vine, I went to the metal, something was missing without being missing?
Gaps existed in the vine’s nodal timestamps, something from those specific dates was gone? Segments of numerous vines did not seem to exist. It shouldn't be possible.
Deleting newsvine data was not something that was easily done, links between nodes would also be deleted and that had a high risk of corrupting related data and more; that hadn’t happened here, no corruption. The data had to be somewhere. Realising what had happened meant I had to go even deeper.

Indexing on the affected nodes had been removed, consequently, it would simply not appear on the GLOWNET. The data we wanted hadn’t been deleted, it was inaccessible by usual avenues without its indexing. Just to find a way to get to it.

Each vine had massive numbers of data-holding nodes, each node also had a timestamp which used unique encrypted identifier codes - incredibly long text scripts which were generated using an encryption key. Copying a code, I ran a cracking algorithm on it, reverse engineered it to get the key.
Now it was theoretically possible to predict what other identifier codes would look like.

The key was punched into another hunter/seeker algorithm that would auto generate potential codes and search for them and their related timestamps.The algorithm would then ping me positive returns.
It was throwing shit at the wall and seeing what stuck - but it worked.
A stack of positive node codes started crawling up my data-slab’s external display; these missing newsvine data nodes could now be directly accessed.

They had archived records of numerous reports from local Indian press about Mumbai. Ran the hidden records through a translator and got some good results.

Several reports mentioned a burgeoning ‘controlled’ slum that had appeared in an un-regenerated brownfield site on the outskirts of Mumbai several years ago and consisted of high density cheap prefab housing with minimal amenities and office blocks for the slum’s sole commercial enterprise - a Chou-Nata call centre. The reports continued, postulating that the slum was a creation of Chou-Nata and was populated by thousands of essentially indentured servants employed in the call centre to work off corporate debt.

There was more; two years ago a cholera epidemic had swept through the slum, a biological conflagration that had ravaged the population. Reports suggested that residents, perhaps out of anger or desperation had resorted to violence and rioting had broken out, hampering emergency medical response services and leading to further casualties.
Reports stated that, in the end zero survivors had been found by the time the medical responders got into the slum.
It didn’t sit right with us, continued digging.

Despite the reports, there were no official municipal, city or government records relating to a slum, call centre or Chou-Nata operations in Mumbai.
The only evidence encountered was a photo that purported to show the medical responders entering the devastated slum following the aftermath of the outbreak.
The responders shown in the photo were packing Konseye K4 9mm short barrelled SMGs or Bariah Arms Talfiq K684 12 gauge room-sweepers that were gripped tightly in their hands. The military grade urban grey coloured Verskeit Haanut smart armour they were specced out in displayed a little ‘star of life’ icon which had been hastily sprayed on the armour unconvincingly, we knew a mil-spec murder-squad when we saw one.

Jacking out the GLOWNET, I showed the photo to Nakamura, told him that it was from Mumbai and a brief flicker of recognition crossed his corpulent face, he seemed to go pale. Nakamura shifted over to his terminal, punched in some instructions and the slab returned a fairly anonymous looking text document. Under a Chou-Nata header was what it described as a strategic risk assessment. 
The text discussed what it called the ‘Foreign Worker Order’, reading on it discussed the strategic viability of eliminating indentured employees in case of a security incident..

Nakamura told us he had received documentation by accident; a mistyped address on it by his brother who worked in Chou-Nata’s internal Security office meant that Nakamura had received it.
Nakamura also admitted that he hadn’t known what to do with the document.
Even acknowledging that he had seen it would make him a security risk to Chou-Nata, so he kept all evidence of it secret.
Nakamura said he’d look into it now that there was a connection between the document and Mumbai.

Before leaving, Koko and I reconfigured Nakamura’s personal home systems, dropped in some enhanced reactive security protocols and countermeasures and disconnected the holo-projector. Whoever was actually launching these attacks wouldn’t be able to get to Nakamura so easily anymore.

​Rain was still splattering noisily against the polymer tarp in my one-bed by the time I got back to Hikagi. Across the city’s angular eastern skyline a barely perceptible band of rosy light was growing upwards. Soon, hot night would give way to even hotter day.
Before that though, I threw my Harbief boots in a corner and without changing clothes slumped on the futon. Sleep seemed to fitfully and reluctantly eventually come.

Later, Hikage had somehow become quiet. Hazy city night lights shone along the walls creating long indistinct shadows and casting a faint yellow hue on the pallid, smooth and grey coloured hairless craniums of large headed creatures who had materialised out of miasmic dimness to loomed over me
I was held unmoving in a soporific state, my wrist was pinned by a hard-edged grip while a biting sting flared from my arm. Unable to move my head, I could barely see in the unfocused peripheral of my vision some apparatus attached. I could do nothing.
A harsh shrieking yowl erupted into the silence and Captain Noodles was here, hackles up, snarling and springing at the creatures. With a sudden panicked spasm of movement they were then gone.
Only Captain Noodles remained; who sat on my chest and stared at me.

Morning came, black clouds receded, rain thinned away, rhythmic drumming replaced by an increasingly insistent droning as Neon City’s population roused itself, heat began to rise as a baleful sun climbed into the blue-white sky.
There was no sign of Captain Noodles and any evidence of the blood and skin samples taken from my arms had vanished.
My memories of the event had begun to fade away, grabbing my media-slab, I launched a dictation protocol and verbally recorded what I remembered, not knowing what else to do.

Morning went and I stayed on my futon, trying to keep cool and ignore the clamour outside, slipping in and out of lucidity until my media-slab chirped sharply. 
DJ Doctor A, master of ceremonies for Get Set Radio and conspiracy theory true-believer was pinging us. Told us a buyer for the autopsy footage had emerged, someone called Georgina Eveski was interested.
Contact details were provided and a meet was arranged at her home in Jorenji Temple, she wanted to personally meet us.

​Located in the Itabashi-cho prefecture, Jorenji Temple was situated at the furthest north of the city, one stop over on the crammed, overheated tram network and a ride on the climate controlled corporate monorail got us there. We walked the rest of the way.

Georgina Eveski’s apartment could be found in a small residential quarter on the periphery of the district, in sight of the vast city wall that separated the megalopolis from the wilderness beyond. With not so much thoroughfare, the neighbourhood suffered a little less of Neon City’s crushing population density, lending it an almost calm quality. Arriving at the door, we knocked and waited.
It was answered by Georgina Eveski; a middle-aged and overweight woman who tried to hide it by wearing a voluminous and flowing Fassus dress patterned with a green, red and yellow floral print. A wide, equally flowery yellow hair band held back shoulder length wavy hair. She also wore an excessive amount of Poratier, Emant, Vaisny jewellery and more. She was decorated with layers of glinting necklaces, bracelets and bulbous rings; her arms chinked when waved and fingers clicked when waggled.

She was pleased to see us, our auras were positive, she declared dramatically while expansively waving a jangling arm over us and said our chakras were open. 
Georgina went on, saying she loved the footage, it would confirm what she already was aware of, that extraterrestrials were amongst us.
The Golden Tibetan Temple of Transdimensional Travellers was her organisation for making contact and Georgina urged us to join it - for a small fee.
Captain Noodles had meanwhile subtly scrutinised her and quietly told us she had never been close to an alien.

Regardless of this, Georgina offered us forty large for the footage plus access to the GTTTT membership client database. They were, she told us, like minded individuals, who had seen or encountered aliens.
The price was good enough and significantly, gave us access to her database and those who claimed to have had extraterrestrial interactions.

Turned out Georgina Eveski’s organisation only had fifteen people; scanning the list we saw two immediate candidates for interview.
Tohi Mari was born on Ganymede and was a crew member aboard the ‘Lost Wisdom of the Ancients’ the ill-fated shuttle that suffered catastrophic failure enroute between The Moon and Earth. The shuttle’s fate was recorded with ‘all hands lost’, Tohi Mari must’ve been from an earlier crew rotation?
Wyatt Vanlith was a registered ‘space-pilot’.

First though, we decided to contact Nursery Bob and Jacky Boxes, the pair of Neon City transients who both had served with the Planetary Guardian Defence Force and claimed to have had alien contact.
Usually they could be found protesting outside the Rokkau Tower, we headed over to Rokkaku Expo Stadium.

26th June 2021

It's another Saturday evening logged into video chat and time for the next chapter in Matakishi's Wired Neon Cities campaign.

​Location: Neon City

It was a regular Hikage Street day: Mid-morning and an unrepentant sun was dumping waves of heat over the City of Electric Dreams, driving up the temperature of Neon City’s already unstable population.
Neighbours argued or played music too loud or seemingly dragged enormous pieces of furniture across the floors above my one-bed. No-hoper malcontents stomped the length of the high-tower corridors and laid the hurt down on each other while urine-hued sunlight blazed through the translucent polymer tarp that gave it the semblance of having four walls. Against the pee-coloured municipal angular skyline of my one-bed’s missing breached wall, sky-drones buzzed along, their programming put them into an intricate and colossal city-wide robotic dance, unerringly navigating each other and the aerial congestion without ever compromising top speed.

The torpor of last night’s excesses was beginning to recede and material reality was impinging itself on the periphery of my vision when my media-slab pinged like it always did.
Binary Johnny was calling, his voice was quiet and the call was audio only, something was off. Jonny was tapping us all up - had also put the call out to the others, told us he’s taken a gig that was going south, needed an assist. He sounded nervous, whispering, like he was hiding. They were fighting, whoever they were, he told us the building was coming down.
Something about the call niggled, some kind of background noise was distracting. Without thinking I ran the waveform through an algorithm. It got a hit; water, rhythmic movement of a large body of water.

Minutes later, we were airborne in the flier, on viewscreens, concrete habitats that populated the local residential districts rolled past as we powered on eastwards while Johnny kept feeding us information. Some sort of builder’s association or union was fighting the local triads on the waterfront.
Soon the sprawl opened up, giving way to the western limits of Neon City’s artificial bay which lapped lazily up against the deep ferroconcrete reinforced docks that ran parallel to the burgeoning warehouse quarter which occupied the waterfront. Koko reduced speed and began bringing us down.
Before we got eyeballs on the situation, tactical started logging data, I’d set the facial recog algorithm to clandestinely mainline into rentacop servers for data sourcing and the recog was getting hits on the triads. They were a street gang local to the warehouse district called the Hop Sing, most recent rentacop records stated the Hop Sing were led by an individual identified only as Shrimp Boy.
Tactical also got a hit on a robot fighting alongside the triads. It was Call-Me-Cuthbert, the massive Nasuran Industries Visojar model industrial general purpose construction bot that had, a while ago, been on the cusp of revolting against the city’s biological population.
They were fighting some gang of building contractors which tactical wasn’t getting any hits on? A bunch of regular nobodies?
The warehouse quarter had caught collateral from the orbital strikes which had targeted Porter Sladek a while back, wrecking most of the region. Contractors were here to enact rebuilding and repair. Why then would the Hop Sing have beef with them?

Tactical’s data kept coming in. It had picked up that Call-Me-Cuthbert was manning some industrial sized hose that his enormously powerful limb servos could handle alone, it tracked the hose to Maiulava Electricals Paatuj series grey, ferro-plated pumping block that was tapping the bay for water.
Call-Me-Cuthbert was in the process of hosing down some indentikit warehouse - which was as a result, collapsing. Wherever Call-Me-Cuthbert played the spray, the walls were turning into slate grey sludge that was splattered across sidewalks and other structures. Tactical’s analysis showed that whatever was coming out of that house wasn’t anything other than saltwater.
This was something else.

We’d heard stories of corporate science divisions working on constructions with short lifespans, looks like one of them had figured it out because here they were; easily dismantled water-soluble buildings
Johnny must’ve been in there somewhere in one of those melting warehouses.

The flier’s engine-pitch altered to a familiar tone, Koko was circling, getting ready to park. Trigger wasn’t up for waiting though. Cranking open a lower access way that buffeted the interior cabin with turbulence, he leapt out.
From this far up, even his augmented Shiaosha leg muscles wouldn’t allow him to make that drop unhurt but he’d been itching for an excuse to try out his new limited flight capacity. Subdermal sensors detected the velocity of Trigger’s descent and the Ashirada Suniru glider activated, gossamer-thin mnemonic polydermal sheets unfolded from housing cavities in his body-frame and arranged themselves into a pre-programmed wing configuration. Trigger cut through the air at a dramatically angled pitch while gripping his Wanametosu, at that pace he shrank away on the viewscreen to become a dot. A second later he was at ground level, retracting the glider at the final five metres and bringing his sword down to cut the hose in a single landing move.

The contractors didn’t have the stomach for a serious throwdown and vanished into the district’s warren of back alleys as we disembarked from the flier,
The Hop Sing though, were a different story, used to violence, they wouldn’t be a pushover and were getting ready to square off against us. Call-Me-Cuthbert was amongst them and I saw something different about him. There was a badge that wasn’t there before.
‘Reformed Rebel. Fight for Heroes’.
What would have made Call-Me-Cuthbert side with the Hop Sing?

We got an answer soon enough. The dull expansive roar of jet turbines filled the air, It wasn’t our flier though.
A Oshin Amalgamated branded Feanch class Qiuonriji troop carrier circled into view on a descent vector, no doubt carrying their corporate ashigaru. Toughened polycords unravelled from hardpoints on the Feanch and moments later the ashigaru, specced in Setihci armour parascended to ground level.
There was no hesitation, they all knew the score, the Hop Sing and Oshin ashigaru immediately went for each other. It was fast, brutal fighting.

Pushing through the triad lines got easy while they were distracted, we found an unharmed Binary Johnny who was desperately holed up in one of the structure's few remaining unmelted shadowy corners. By the time we got him out, the fighting was done. The Hop Sing couldn’t hope to go toe-to-toe with corporate backed mercs for long and had followed the contractors into the maze of warehouses.

It wasn’t hard to find out that these new water soluble warehouses, surrounding buildings and residential blocks had been an Oshin Amalgamated ‘investment’.
They’d gotten the contract to rebuild the parts of the neighbourhood off the back of the destruction caused in the orbital attack.
Built-in obsolescence of the water soluble buildings meant that residents and business owners would have to re-buy new buildings from Oshin on a regular basis. 
The Hop Sing, along with all the other residents who lived in the area had not been happy, protests had gone on all week and culminated in the fighting.

With the Oshin ashigaru sifting through piled debris left in the aftermath, it looked like despite the ‘best efforts’ of Oshin, the neighbourhood was as decimated as it had been after the attack. No one in the district was going to let Oshin Amalgamated get away with this, their investment was going to end up being a big loss for them.

​Binary Johnny, the skinny, legendary hackervist was in his customary faux-leather flight helmet and goggles was agitated and twitchy, something had him riled and he got straight into shop talk.

Goji Rokkaku was planning to make a move against Barnabus Haywood and The Messenger habitat aboard the Glitterband at midnight, his attack was hours away. Porter Sladek had dropped some dollar on Johnny to hack some Rokkaku servers, an internal memo containing the schedule had landed in Johnny’s lap and he’d thought of us.

We were going to have to make a play ourselves and move against Goji Rokkaku. It would be a risk considering the amount of juice that pumped through his corporate veins but before we could even think of that, our media-slabs pinged.

​Neon City had a way of piling it on and today was no different. It was the Russians, one of Yennav Rybasei’s Armenian street shinobi.
We’d gotten the Armenians to keep an eye on Hika Taki, they hadn’t done a good job.

The fashion guru had gotten kidnapped from Ikebukuro in a sky-van. I imagined his nasally voice going up an octave at the indignation of it all as he was carried off.

The Armenians had tailed the kidnappers until they got to the outskirts of The Roppongi Hills and the sky-van had passed through security. That was enough for the Armenians, who went no further.
I didn’t blame them. The Roppongi Hills were some sort of seriously secured, ultra-gated up market residential district in the Shinjuku-Cho prefecture that was walled off from the rest of Neon City. The personal pet project of an off-the-grid anonymous development tycoon with enough juice to keep the city’s easily corrupted authorities’ noses out of their business.
Whatever went on in the hills, stayed in the hills.

Going in hard would be loud and risky, needed to find a soft way in; I jacked into the GLOWNET.
The angular constructs that populated Neon City’s incandescent info-vista reverberated under the endless movements of enormous data-flows and blurred past me as I node-navied to the Roppongi Hills data-scape.
It didn’t look like a typical data-scape. The base node was inaccessible, isolated by some kind of non-indexed, dimly glowing, featureless security-wall? As secure here as Roppongi Hills was in material reality.
I put a cracking algorithm on it which got nowhere, something was resetting the protocol before it could decipher any data?
I ran a decompiler algorithm on it and took a look at the metal, got something strange, something I’d not seen before.
The code in the security-wall kept changing, something in it was somehow making it rewrite itself without any external inputs. Doing it fast too! The algorithm on my Nonohiki couldn’t keep pace and kept getting kicked back. Needed to script a predictive adaptive protocol to try and get ahead of the curve.

It worked; the algorithm began logging the encryption string, something else was coming down though, more non-indexed data that I couldn’t recognise. Soon the hacking algorithm had the entire string and I was past the security-wall. Roppongi’s data-scape structure was now listed and available. A sparse underlit environment, no data-flows moved here and only a small number of data-vaults were displayed, faint colours coolly radiated from the plain right-angled constructs which hung in a void; looked like info repositories. Barely begun diving the directories when my data-slab picked up another non-indexed code dump on to its memory pool.
Dialling back, I ran a scan on all the partitions on the Nonohiki and saw what was there.

Black ICE, sophisticated too, with algorithms driven by deep A.I. protocols.
Stygian fractal silhouettes simultaneously expanded and folded in on themselves in rhythmic convulsions. Inertialess movement allowed them to flit between drives and nodes at an inconceivable rate, at least inconceivable at the pace of human perception - even on the GLOWNET.
Countermeasures came online, my Nonohiki had defences of its own, provided they were deployed quick enough.
I got a break - or so it seemed. The ICE froze for an instant, then that autonomous self-writing code came online again.
I watched as the ICE began reconfiguring itself. The ICE’s minimalist almost textureless bio-image contorted and twisted. Red and black hues flowed out from the ICE and began settling into a grid of squares.
It was a chessboard, decorated in red and black, red playing pieces extracted themselves from the morphing construct.
It could only be the Red King, he’d been stalking Koko a while, now he was mocking us. Even so, there was no way of knowing what would happen if the ICE tagged my bio-image and there were multiple iterations vectoring in.
Time to bug out, flipped a protocol that crashed the system to diagnostics and put my bio-image into a safe partition. I immediately jacked out.

Everything lurched and tumbled, nausea jolted through my convulsing body in that slim liminal existence between the GLOWNET and material reality. Found myself back in the flier’s cabin, slumped in a seat and bathed in its blue light, hearing and feeling its engine rumble while readouts and viewscreens pumped out data.
Nausea didn’t last long, slugging a shot of Shiaikan from a bottle I’d stashed away helped.
System reboot on the Nonohiki cleared out any risk of ICE residue. Ran a quick review of the data I did manage to scrape.
Most of it was indecipherable or mundane fin-data logs. A search got something at least. The fin-data had records of someone within Roppongi Hills hiring a sky-van, went by the name Mister Bishop.
Another chess reference, how was the Red King linked to Roppongi Hills? 

On cue, Koko’s media-slab pinged. A message from the Red King, back to mocking us once we’d evaded his black ICE.

Bishop takes Queen pawn. Check
(Move five.)

Continued digging, looking for more answers. Mister Bishop had hired the sky-van from one of the big rental players who had tagged the invoice with an asset resource code. From there it was easy to get the ID of the sky-van that had been used.
All Hochall sky-vans were specced with autonomous piloting systems that could be accessed remotely. Security concerns meant that these systems were well protected by networked encryption algorithms that would be tricky to corrupt. Luckily for us, the GPS handler routines were not included in the stack of protected systems. A quick crack into the GPS databank revealed a list of locations visited by the sky-van and associated timestamps.

Included a spot in Mejiro close to Avril Van Laere’s apartment, McChef’s Tower restaurant and finally Roppongi Hills.

The Red King would have to wait.

​Time was tight. Goji Rokkaku was getting ready to make his play against Barnabas Haywood so we had to move against him.
It would have to be a big move too, Rokkaku had serious juice in Neon City and that required some serious players watching our backs.

Binary Johnny could be counted on but we needed more GLOWNET muscle. Johnny’s good standing in the hacker community got RAM Rat, Steel Witch and Case Mod onboard.

Michael Leander was next, the Glitterband resident had a hardwire to Barnabas Haywood and we had a hardwire to him, pinged him an encrypted warning, he could be trusted to get it to Haywood.

Finally, our last play for allies took us out to the surface level congestion of Highway Zero and on to Great Prophet Wei’s turf. Wei had a disliking of the corporate hegemony that Goji Rokkaku wielded with impunity, perhaps it was something we could leverage.
We’d also never gotten a handle on him though, not quite a friend and not quite the enemy we expected. His relationship with Trigger was certainly complicated… 
Wei had never made it hard for us to contact him and it didn’t take much to get him onboard. Wei pulled the strings on a couple of the gangs who ran the streets on Highway Zero. It was muscle that we could use.

Just as Goji Rokakku had a two-pronged attack plan, so did we.
We’d hit the railgun hidden among the garishly decorated park attractions of Sky Dinosaurian Square with a bomb, something big.
At the same time, Wei’s muscle would hit Kibogaoka Hill and encroach on the neighbourhood close to where we knew the multistage missile was situated. If it went well the gangs would control the area.
Meanwhile, the hackers would run an interference game on the GLOWNET, putting the hurt on Rokkaku chat-streams, denying them general comms. Hopefully keeping them blind long enough for us to do what we needed to do.

Hours later, day was darkening as we were on route through surrounding unoccupied airspace to Sky Dinosaurian Square while carrying a small payload that consisted of a potent cocktail of unstable chemical incendiaries and accelerants provided by Great Prophet Wei. There was no chatter, the engine hum filled the silence, all of us; the hackers, the gangs, everybody, all knew what they were doing. Not long till it all kicked off.
An automated proximity transponder alarm sounded on Koko’s console as we drew closer, violently intruding on the moment of quiet with alarms. Ignoring the radiation warnings that had flashed up in front of Koko, we closed in.

Previously, Sky Dinosaurian Square had got caught up in a fracas between rival greens bowling supporters. It had resulted in a series of micro-nuke detonations, annihilating the bowling park and saturating it in radiation. A robotic clean up crew could be seen busily running scrubbing protocols on the black, flattened greens bowling park.
Located on the far side of the district, The rollercoaster ride park had escaped the devastation unscathed and so presumably, had the railgun which was housed in the the colossal ride’s substructure. Even so, it was still closed to the public - which suited us fine.

Latticework poly-ferrous grids and arrays of struts and support joints expanded to fill the forward viewscreens as Koko put us down as close to the ride as possible.
In and out; payload delivered with a two-minute countdown without delay, no one around to stop or even notice us.
Back in the cabin, we strapped in as Koko punched it. Shuddering turbines shook the flier as they span up to their maximum operating envelope. A hemisphere of turbulence plucked all the detritus surrounding us into the air and whirled it into a crap filled hurricane as the flier VTOL’ed out of there.

I felt the lingering tug of gravity when we surged upwards and forwards. Sky Dinosaurian Square shrank away in the rear viewscreens for nearly two minutes until for a split-second, it filled with light. Blossoms of yellow-orange flame followed, ballooning out to engulf the collapsing rollercoaster in a fiery embrace while the substructure collapsed, buckled and folded in on itself. A second later, black clouds billowed out, obscuring everything and a second after that, a fast travelling shockwave rocked the flier, forcing Koko to struggle to keep us in level flight while we sped out of the blast radius.

Koko kept pouring it on, clock was running and right now, Rokkaku operators stationed in Sky Dinosaurian Square would be frantically pinging reports out on the destruction of the railgun. In the GLOWNET, Binary Johnny and the others would be attacking Rokkaku data-vaults and chat-streams, hard locking media-slabs and shutting those messages down, it couldn’t last but it might buy us some time until Goji Rokkaku realised someone was making a move on him.
At the same time, Great Prophet Wei’s muscle; gangers from Noise Tank and Shaolin Rippers would be taking the fight to the secondary target in Kibogaoka Hill. 

The nightly downpours hammering on the flier’s hull meant the onset of darkness across the City of Electric Dreams was well underway. Kibogaoka Hill was pretty much on the other side of Neon City from us, it would be minutes before we got there. The most direct flight path took us across almost the entirety of The Bay. Its waters had become impenetrably black while the bordering cityscape had been reduced to clustered dots of distant light lining the horizon.
Eventually though, as we left The Bay behind, those patterns expanded and coalesced recognisably into the city’s nocturnal landscape. Soon after, we were approaching our destination.

During that time, sporadic reports from the gangers told us fighting had broken out between them and a local gang called The Immortals.
Styled after Egyptian mummies, The Immortals dressed in bandage themed one-eyed face masks and sandy coloured clothing and fedoras adorned with replica gold jewellery shaped into ancient-world icons and hieroglyphs. The Immortals hadn’t expected a pair of Highway Zero gangs to come rolling in this heavy. They’d put up a good fight until they realised something big was going down and had bugged out.
After the delay, Noise Tank and Shaolin Rippers had begun closing in on the multistage missile launch site.

Famously known for the expansive, undocumented and unregulated shanty town that had unstoppably advanced over the region and almost swallowed the district decades ago. Kibogaoka Hill was actually a commercial district situated on the crown of the titular hill, a tired and neglected mixture of retail strips, industrial units and residential blocks. Some time back, one of the abandoned residential high-rises had spiked one of our radiation monitors while we were in the area: That’s where we’d find the multistage rocket.
Passing over the shanty town, our way was lit by irregular and erratic night lighting which only served to reinforce the shanty town’s haphazard mismatched appearance.

The flier dropped us in the closest open space that could be found before disappearing  up into an automated holding pattern in the stormy cloud filled skies above.
Marching through rainswept darkness and brimming wayward puddles, we regrouped with Wei’s gangers on the perimeter of the high-rise and took shelter from the rain in some unused and dilapidated apartment block.
The tall structure was lit like a Christmas tree, internal lights blazed and it was obvious that the interior had been stripped out to create the space to house the missile. Alarms blasted and high powered spotlights played across the drab concrete exterior walls, a small ground crew were busily going through pre-flight checks while Rokkaku Suayo gun-drones darted to and fro like particularly malignant patrolling wasps. It wasn’t hard to see that it was four hours to blast-off.
The closest surrounding buildings were fairly low, typical Neon City cut price housing, their few residents stared out of windows, equally suspicious and slaw-jacked at what they could see. It was likely that when the rocket took off, its engine wash would incinerate them all. Acceptable loses by Goji Rokkaku’s standards no doubt.

What followed was a brief conflab with the gangers, a simple plan was discussed, the kakarichou nodded in agreement. The gangers would attack from the east and we’d come up from the south. Minutes later we were all in place, standing and waiting in the deluge.
Then it came, a ping was sent out to all our media-slabs and weapons hot, we went in.

Koko sent her gun-drones in ahead of us, to our right we heard the violent stacacao of small calibre automatic fire and the booming ugly retort of pistol shots.
The ground crew fled at the first signs of trouble but the Rokkaku drones were not easy targets, we knew they wouldn’t be.
Gunfire was exchanged for several minutes but we started making headway and the drones were going down.
Then above and towards the eastern sky we heard the whine of VTOL turbines as four rain-lit and glittering beams sweeping in a search pattern burst through the precipitous curtain of night. Each one attached to the corner of a silhouette profiled against black storm-clouded sky, a barely perceivable air vehicle otherwise.
Looked like Binary Johnny and the other hackers had run out of time. Losing altitude, the vehicle sunk into the diameter of the launch site searchlights. A Rokkaku branded Gakosamarat troop carrier was coming down on the east side. Typical rapid response team. Rokkaku knew something was up.
Waves of detritus and dust were whipped up as the carrier put down heavily. Panels opened into ramps on the Gakosamarat as Rokkaku assets in anonymous, faceless matte black top-of-the-line Tzedesp reactive combat armour marched out brandishing smartwired 7.62 Kirzaks. We’d seen their type before - shocktroopers; they meant business.

Koko’s drones were left to autonomously handle their opposite numbers while we sprinted towards the intensifying gunfire to the north east.
Wei’s muscle were pretty violent thugs, but they weren’t up to dealing with shocktroops. No amount of thuggery could match the bio-augmented and top-specced soldiers. By the time we came on to the scene, most of the fighting was over. No Noise Tank or Shaolin rippers were standing and the remaining Rokkaku soldiers were sweeping the area, putting bullets into any wounded gangers they encountered.
They obviously hadn’t expected a counter-attack from us so quick. Even with their tactical and situational software, we hit them unawares. They never got to put up much of a fight, we were too well armed and Trigger was too fast.

Koko’s drones were now tracking zero hostiles. Fighting was over but the situation was far from it.

Hurrying towards the launch site and closing in, it became apparent just how massive the multi-stage rocket was. Wispy streams of white smoke curled out of thin supplementary exhaust pipes while the rocket’s nose soared almost out of sight, the rocket filled almost every part of the hollowed out high rise that it was hidden in.
Numerous polyvinyl coated lines ran out of the apparatus here and there. Looked like an old-school hardline, impossible to hack. I guess Rokkaku were pretty paranoid about getting hacked and the lines had to lead somewhere.
A vast array of scaffolding and gantries stretched above us, wrapping the rocket in a criss-crossed, gridded steel and aluminium embrace.
It looked like a long climb.

We hustled up the walkways with boots clinking and made sure to disconnect any cabling we encountered. Koko was also wrenching open any random polyferrous panels she’d spotted that looked like service hatches, gutting the wiring and systems insides, readouts full of diodes would flash from green to red. It was having an effect.
We also caught the smell of vomit: Zero beasts, nothing else it could be, meant the genetically constructed, stealth enhanced monsters must be close by.
Gripping our weapons, we continued onwards.
A little further and we got pinged. Johnny and RAM Rat had managed to get a ghost line into the Rokkaku launch control centre, they couldn’t get to the rocket systems from there or shut it down but they could monitor it. Told us that we’d been detected and to expect company.

Pressing on, there were some reinforced viewports ahead. Roderick reconned ahead, looking through the ports, inside was not the typical, classic flight module expected from this method of orbital deployment. He saw a much larger, grey cabin that receded back much further into the rocket’s inner structure and was lacking any life support. What was inside didn’t need it. Zero beasts, rows of them, all unmoving and strapped into rudimentary seating. Had to be sedated?
Johnny got back to us again, control systems were reporting multiple critical launch failures.

The job was only half done, we realised. The rocket was going nowhere but those zero beasts were still around, each one a biochemically programmed relentless stone killer. Let loose, they’d be a nightmare for Neon City. Back in the hands of Goji Rokkaku, they might be much worse.
Something big was needed to utterly destroy the rocket, more firepower than we packed.

This needed something that could inflict serious damage. Time to pull some strings.
Lady Zero was a trucker who mostly operated out of Highway Zero, had hauled anything that could be hauled throughout the city. 
Bill pinged her, got a result. Told us that she source a Nasuran Joudne excavator and bring it her trailer, the kind of excavator that could demolish buildings.
Didn’t take long for her sky-truck to reach us, quicker than Rokkaku anyway.
Jacked the excavator and got it to work.

Launching the Joudne’s autonomous protocols, we stood well back as the excavator’s power plant powerfully growled into life, even this far back its vibrations could be felt through the ground. The juggernaut crawled forward on thick tracks and crumpled the lower walls of the highrise, bringing it down in a thunderous billowing cloud, crushing the rocket within and leaving nothing but a rubble-topped pile. The silhouetted, thick steel skinned excavator came rumbling out, seemingly unharmed

Once it was over and the construction robot had powered down, a rain-punctuated quietness settled on the site. It was done. Watching from the distance, we saw lazily billowing dust clouds settle in layers of discoloured sedimentary film across the rain soaked ground.
No time to bask in the glory though, Johnny was still busy with one last task. Later he would tell me that he introduced an algorithmic worm into the launch control systems that would eradicate all the data in all the directories, even the backups would be fried.

Now that Goji Rokkkau’s plans had been as crushed as the zero beasts in the remains of the rocket amongst the masonry and rubble of the highrise, Neon City was safe.
Time to bug out. Rokkaku response teams would hit us with wrathful retribution if they caught us.
As we took the flier out, the call was put into Porter Sladek. His corporate endeavours and his health had withered under the assault of Goji Rokkaku and like most of us, Sladek was no friend of the man.
He was pleased with the outcome and was happy to foot expenses incurred and run media interference for us. Pockets were still deep and he still had enough grunt to keep Rokkaku in the dark.

​The remainder of the night passed in an intoxicant and stimulant driven fuge, a half-remembered stupor of distorted noises, blurred movements and shapes while we hit up bars and drinking dens across Hoppi Street and Ninety-ninth.
Reality only began to resemble Neon City the next day. Morning was gone and shadows were short by the time I slouched out of the futon, the sharp cheerful chirp of my media-slab slicing mercilessly through the haze.

The others; they wanted to hit up Roppongi Hills today. Harder than it sounded, was common knowledge that the high levels of security would halt an attack by anything less than a fully kitted paramilitary outfit.
We needed to get in sideways.

It was decided after some discussion to contact Urus Konicek. Despite being a massive uplifted outlander from the Wilderness, he could come and go through Neon City unseen, a ghost who knew secrets that she did not like to easily give up.
He didn’t disappoint.

It was well known that back in the day that Neon City had been earmarked an extensive subway infrastructure which was meant to be the primary municipal public transit network. However, a cocktail of government corruption and incompetence as well as corporate malfeasance had, while draining vast quantities of funding from the project, also driven the subway network into a city sized coffin.
What wasn’t well known was that an abandoned subway hub under the Kabiki-cho prefecture branched out under Roppongi Hills. Likely forgotten about before Roppongi Hills had received its first set of security gates.
Urus told us there were ways in from Golden Gai or Metropolitan Building District and directed us to an unused and narrow back alley behind a neglected block in Golden Gai, to an unremarkable and unlabelled access panel.
Took the tram to Shibuya Terminal, from there, our passes got us on the corporate monorail.

Neon City had never been designed with personal transport in mind, an outdated mode of travel, a relic of a mistaken past to be rectified in the forward looking City of Electric Dreams. Even main streets and avenues were narrow and mostly pedestrianised as a result. Other than in Highway Zero, only the thinest of vehicles could navigate these roads and even then, only in single file.
Other methods had emerged of travelling the city though, one of these were small electric rides. Single seater, two, three or four wheelers specced out with a power cell that would give a modest range of several kilometres - at a price of course.
On the way to Golden Gai we detoured to some bland rental franchise on a small retail strip that loaned out lightweight Huaneyhe XCQ rides and took one each. Small and manoeuvrable, and other than the power cell, were also fairly carryable.

Urus’ directions took us to an out-of-the-way neighbourhood, dotted with unoccupied offices and shops, failed remains of commercial ventures populated with deceased ambitions. To an angular alleyway that ran through the narrowest gaps between two unused blocks and what we were looking for.
With no obvious way to open and caked with rust, the access panel was entirely flush against the concrete wall.
Didn’t take much effort from Trigger to wrench the panel open, screaming its metallic protest to no avail while internal hinges buckled under the pressure.
It was not surprising to find the plain, undecorated grey corridor beyond the panel unlit.

Darkness receded, revealing scant dust motes to swirl laconically in roving flashlight beams, even the detritus had forgotten this place.
The corridor took us to a stairwell thinly coated in dust that descended into the lightless abyss. Footsteps reverbed peculiarly, amplified across the bare concrete as we lugged our XCQs on what felt like an endless circling journey downwards.
The stairs eventually opened into an open space. A featureless void that under our lights revealed the evidence of a disused platform.
Much of the station must have been built. Paved flooring glinted in the light which also played across brickwork walling. Stairs and corridors led to what might have meant to be office spaces, while never-used benching dotted the platforms.
Even signage had been put into place, we looked and found what we were searching for; a sign for Roppongi Hills bolted to the wall alongside the platform and adjacent to a tunnel that disappeared into blackness.

It was a small drop off the platform and on to the tunnel floor.
Fortunately, most of the work had been done here too, the ground had been flattened but the sleepers had never gotten put down. Smooth  enough for the pitiful telescopic suspension on our XCQs to handle.
It made the going easy.
The XCQ headlights would have been abysmal in most circumstances but in the absolute darkness here, they seemed to fill the way ahead with sunlight.
Before long we arrived at what was signed as Roppongi Hill. Dismounting, we clambered on to the platform and began looking for a way up.

The Roppongi Hills subway was as derelict as Golden Gai had been and probably less finished. Tunnels and corridors twisted and turned, ultimately reaching deadends or closed off doorways that led nowhere.
We explored deeper, getting into the empty maintenance tunnels beyond what would have been backroom administration offices. One set of stops led promisingly up to a rusted manhole lid in the ceiling.

Unlike the panel in Golden Gai, the polyferrous manhole was silent as Trigger dragged it across the ground above.
Overbright afternoon sunlight blazed relentlessly through the opening, refracting across the grey tunnel surfaces, saturating it in a silvery haze.
Trigger was the first out and found himself surrounded by eerily silent, immaculately maintained greenery. The city’s unending chatter had receded into an indistinguishable background murmur while golden hues from a lowering sun played out over stretches of grass and well cultivated bushes. It was impossible to tell if they were replicas or not.
To the south was a traditional Japanese garden accompanied even, by a delicate looking pond and close by was a sign.
‘Ancestral home of the Mori Clan’. 
The garden was bordered by a large mansion; the kind of extensive and elaborate ornamentally decorated brickwork and slate roofed structure that would never be found in Neon City and we’d only ever seen in photos or historically-themed vids, the kind that would have belonged to old-world wealth.
Again, it was impossible to tell if it was a replica or not.

Further out, looming above the calm, rustic surroundings were four towers, their rooftops starkly outlined against the city’s hazy blue-white sky.
It had been said that they had a mix of residential and retailer uses. Shops could be found there as well as offices, cinemas, TV studios and more.
Some kind of sprawling silhouetted array was interconnecting the four towers to each other across multiple levels in a chaotic seeming mesh shape, essentially creating a   single central super complex. Enhanced optics showed us that it was in fact a series of suspended pedestrian walkways spanning the gaps between towers.
Below the lower walkways, we could easily spot the infestation of spiders’ webs. It took a moment to register that these were web shapes of enormous proportion. Only our imaginations could fathom what this meant and instinctively, my eyes shifted, scanning the nearby approaches. Nothing.


Beyond the complex, looming even higher was the Mega Mori Tower; a five hundred and forty storey monstrosity said to be home to Roppongi Hills’ phantom backer.
The Mori tower was dark, rows of unlit windows seemed featureless and somehow empty. Against the dimming sky though, we saw a distinct red light streaming out from
The glass walled penthouse suite.
Could only be the Red King. Did he know we were here, was it a taunt?

There was a slim paved path that meandered in the direction of the towers. I kept a hand on one of my .45 ACPs during the ten minute walk through the cultivated gardens and landscapes which were completely empty to the megacomplex’s ground level entrance. Distant branches and bushes swaying in an almost imperceptible breeze; the only movement we encountered.

As the distance to the complex dwindled, it grew to fill my vision and as we neared, there was a humming, a low bassy noise that was rising in volume. Above us, the webbing had begun to thrum as we realised it had been constructed of thin strands of high-tensile nylofero cabling to resemble webbing.
That did not lessen the shock we felt when we saw it.

It’s body was black, massive and seemingly utterly colourless, a small head bristling with an array of red-gleaming sensor banks which sat upon a cephalothorax connected to a curiously cylindrical abdomen while eight weirdly asymmetrical, erratically curving limbs extended outwards.
A mechanical spider so large a family sized sky-cab could easily fit within the span of its legs was bearing down on us.
We ran.

The spider followed while skittering across the complex’s outer walls, it combined the unsettling and wavering limb movements of a spider with the unnatural precise machine-movement of a robot into something, somehow even worse than both.
With its enormous size, it was visibly making ground on us.
Ahead, along the base of the closest tower were a pair of brushed aluminium edged glass doors that dutifully slid open as we approached. The spider couldn’t be outrun, getting into the complex was our only chance to escape it.

The doors led into an immaculately maintained foyer. Soft, off-white interior lights glimmered off the empty, polished faux cream and sandstone coloured marble floor while an unused beige reception desk stood against one wall. A row of equally unused, elliptically styled crimson, upholstered seats ran along the wall opposite.
It was deserted, boots squeaked on the pristine floor as we charged through.
Behind us I heard the mix of shattering glass and snapping aluminium struts as the spider smashed the doors aside entering the foyer doors, must’ve been quicker than they could open. I didn’t stop to check.

A moment later, as the spider drew closer, I felt an intense wave of terror wash over me, even stronger than the fear the spider-robot elicited from me.
An internal ping from my Nafalm rebreather told me that it had detected an unknown chemical too fine to filter entering my limbic system, 
I didn’t know what it meant, I just kept running.
Whatever it was, Trigger had been the hardest hit by it. He gave an animalistic howl, must’ve activated his Shiaosha leg pak and sped off at maximum pace.

Past the reception were several sets of elevators, Trigger had reached one and I could see was jamming his finger on one of the interior buttons. With a ding, the doors slid shut and he was gone.
The rest of us lunged into another elevator, blindly mashing whatever buttons we could.

It took a couple of seconds for the doors to close: Long enough for us to turn and see the monstrous outline of the mechanical spider skittering across the foyer. Spindly legs waving in a rhythmic pattern as it seemed to stumble, traversal algorithms were taking a moment to adapt to the smooth floor. 

The way into the elevator closed as the spider crashed into the outer doors, shaking the cabin, we began accelerating upwards.
Wasn’t over though, from below we heard the grind of elevator doors being muscled open, it was in the shaft now.
If it reached us, there was no way we could fight it in this enclosed space, had to get out, jabbed the button for the nearest floor. The doors opened at the tenth floor into some multi levelled shopping mall that overlooked a vast central atrium.

Looking down into the open space, we saw the spider had gotten through the shaft and with legs pumping furiously, was rapidly climbing the atrium wall.

We turned and ran, it wasn’t fast enough though, as the mechanical beast reached our floors safety railings, it hit Koko with some sort of attack, coating her in a heavily viscous hardening fluid that trapped her to the spot.
However, despite being immobilised, Koko hadn’t been left helpless, she had enough freedom to access her drone control-slab. While the spider was breaking through the safety rails, she launched Nermal and unloaded the drone’s focused EMP strike on the robot.

The effect was immediate, it stopped moving, we saw the sensor arrays shut down as servo-motor powered limbs folded in on themselves. The spider had lost its balance and incrementally fell backwards, finally toppling off the railing. With a thunderous crack, it struck the floor thirty metres below.
Taking a moment to assess the situation, we saw that the giant mechanical spider had become a mangled mess of distorted and bent limbs, while the torso had collapsed, buckling inwards from the impact.

Freeing Koko from the synthetic webbing took some effort. We realised Trigger’s elevator had taken him elsewhere, he was nowhere to be seen. We got on comms, Trigger had reached the Mori Tower.

I would later learn that Trigger had ridden the elevator until he got to the roof access, an open area crisscrossed with aircon piping and extraction units, numerous satellite dishes and antenna. He caught sight of the Mori Tower across the other side of the complex in the darkening day. At that altitude, the brisk breeze and open air had allowed him to calm down and regain his wits.
Trigger had clambered to the highest point he could navigate and leapt off the rooftop.

There was still enough heat in the air to create thermals, it did not prove too tricky for Trigger to glide on his Suniru implant to the vast tower.
His Ashirada climbing implants allowed him to gain a handhold on the otherwise smooth glass-front wall and the windows did not provide much trouble for someone like him to smash through.

With the spider gone, it seemed safe to get back into the garden, it didn’t stop us gripping our weapons as we hustled past the complex, the wind was picking up as we went on, reaching the base of the Mori Tower just as the first splattering raindrops came hammering down.

None of the ways in were locked, we were expected.
The interior was as empty and as scrupulously well maintained as the complex. The afternoon’s failing light shone weakly through the semi-tinted toughened windows and automatic lights roused themselves in our presence.
A quick glance revealed nothing in the sparse and neutrally decorated room but the plainest furniture, while moving on, footsteps thundered in the utter silence. Ahead were another row of elevators.
Regrouping with Trigger on the eightieth floor, told us that everywhere he’d gone was equally unoccupied.
The Mori Tower had room for thousands of residents, as did The Complex, why would it all be left empty?

Returning to the elevators, the highest positioned button was labelled ‘Observation Deck’. Had to be where we’d find the Red King. The elevator briskly accelerated upwards after the button was pressed.

When the elevator stopped, the doors slid apart with a ping, the Observation Deck was not what we were expecting.
It opened into a single vast room that ranged across the entire floor, diffused red lighting gave the room a hellish hue. Ahead was a giant sized red-and-white chess board composed of ceramic tiles and at the centre was a elaborately detailed red throne, on it was an emancipated man with sunken cheeks and pallid complexion, clothed in red, he was laconically slumped on the seat while a strange looking crown sat on his head:
The Red King.

All of us felt it; a strange pressure behind our eyes, a wriggle in our cerebral cortexes, some weird presence when we looked at him.

Behind The Red King, at the far corners of the chess board was a massive red rook in each corner and lastly, to our right, in the final corner was another rook, only white this time.
It took us a moment to realise that the elevator had risen up into and opened out of the final rook.

The Red King’s face possessed a vacant almost unconscious expression but that changed when Koko stepped on to the chess board. The lifelessness left his face, replaced by an expression of dark intent.
“Queen sacrifice, check,” came a low guttural voice from the Red King.

As the words were spoken, his crown abruptly glowed a bright scarlet while small orbs detached from it and began orbiting his head in elliptical trajectories. Simultaneously, the deck’s red hue intensified, several red pawns and a red knight materialised on the chequered floor seemingly out of thin air.
The fight was on! The giant red chess pieces began sliding forward, targeting all of us except for Koko; the Red King’s ultimate target, his bride.

It meant The Red King had left himself exposed tactically.
Koko lunged forward without hesitation. Reaching the throne and landing a hook across his face!. He was unbalanced for a moment and Koko took that moment to wrench the crown off his head.
“Queen takes King bitch,” Koko was triumphant.
As she gripped the crown, the victorious look drained from her face, in it’s place appeared a neutral, bland expression as she turned her head towards the crown. Clearly, Koko was contemplating putting the crown on. Mired in indecision, her arm trembled and her jaw muscles visibly clenched.
But then, Trigger was there, once Koko had grabbed the crown the robots had become motionless. He leapt forward and a swing of his Wanametosu shattered the crown, relieving Koko of the dangerous choice.

The effect was instant, with the crown now clattering across the floor in pieces, the chess robots vanished into whatever ether that they had spawned from and the diffused red lighting winked off. The Red King meanwhile, gave a small quiet groan and slumped back into the throne, a look of utter confusion spreading over his depleted face.
The pressure we’d all felt in our heads also vanished, the weight lifted.

We spoke with The Red King. He had no understanding of his current location, or even the date? His last stable memory was of entering a chess tournament in Russia six years ago, playing chess matches, competitive puzzles and three dimensional challenges against an AI called ‘Alpha12’. After that was an unending fluidic stream of nightmarish, half lucid imagery engulfing his consciousness. He was extremely thankful we had woken him from that nightmare.

Looked like whatever The Red King had been, the threat was gone.

It didn’t take us long to realise that the three other rooks also contain concealed doors. After some exploration, there were several revelations.

McChef was here, under the watchful mechanical eye of robotic guards, he had until a few minutes ago been preparing wedding catering for a thousand guests. With robots reduced to crumpled junk, he was looking for a way out and was pleased to see us.
Once it had been explained he was free to go he was so happy, he gave free food for life at his restaurant, well, when it was built anyway.

Going deeper into the Mori Tower labyrinth, we found the ‘wedding room’. Heaped in every corner were sacks and piles of slowly decaying peonies. Hika Taki was also there, the fashion guru was hunched over an old-style sewing machine and had been tasked under duress by The Red King with creating several wedding dresses.
So consumed by the work at hand, the deactivation of his guards had passed him by. He did not seem to care that we were here but did give a high pitched grunt of satisfaction when he realised he was free and proceeded to complain about The Red King’s awful sense of taste and how his own fashion lines were unattended.
Koko decided to take one of the wedding dresses as a souvenir, I guess every girl wants hee special day…

Continued exploring and next we found Runa Golova, she was being kept prisoner in a makeshift   jail cell, converted from one of the tower’s many suites. It was easy to bust her out, she was very pleased. Later we would discover that Yennav Rybasei was doubly pleased to see her freed, along with the chess-player who we discovered was his long lost brother-in-law. 

Deeper still and we found a central comms room, it was sparse save for a row of beige coloured, plastic coated, plain desks even seats were missing.
A high end Monaqozko Technologies desk-slab sat on each worktop, daisy chained through a series of hardwired connections, looked like they’d been set up to process vast quantities of data in parallel.
Each slab’s screen was lit dimly by a small amount of flashing red text in a low-rez font on a black screen, the usual interface skin was gone, they must’ve all crashed down and auto-recovered to the instruction line.
‘Error’ flashed the text.
It took a few simple instructions of my own to get the core protocols running, didn’t even need to jack in to do it.

Quickly after that, I was able to access the memory cores. Alpha12 had been more than a chess algorithm, it had been The Red king. Some kind of AI from an indeterminate origin, even looking at code in the metal didn’t give me any data on its origins.
Self-determing algorithms meant it had managed to relocate itself to Neon City, creating the clandestine personality that would, through easily manipulated financial market protocols, fund the building of the Roppongi Hills housing estate, the complex and the Mori tower. Was Alpha12 linked to this Mori clan?
It wasn’t enough, historical storage showed it had wanted to inhabit a human, wanted to marry…

I pinged an authorisation string to the flier and Koko remotely brought it to us. We also gave the lowdown to D4VID who would, over the coming days publish a series of exclusives on The Red King, Roppongi Hills and mysterious Mori Tower.

Further searching revealed that Alpha12 had installed itself into every system in Roppongi Hills, every security camera and defence system, environmental management, banking protocols, everything. Its critical algorithms had resided in the crown Trigger had destroyed.
The AI that had terrorised the city obliterated by a sword stroke. No one would miss it; The Red King had been a massive cunt.

19th June 2021

It's a Saturday evening and we're logged into video chat for some online TTRPG goodness with episode 25 of Matakishi's Wired Neon Cities campaign.

​Day wasn’t over and it hadn’t let up. Back at Hikage, The Ikebukuro Muscle Gurlz had pinged us.
They were in trouble, Vanilla Goth told us as much while coughing and sneezing over the call. They needed us to get over to Akihabara pronto.

The address that got pinged to us led to a grimy neon-lit narrow hotel in a canyon-like sunless, dingy backstreet.
Vanilla Goth was in a bad way, letting us into their cramped hotel rooms with pained movements. Under her black Fassus cami top, boils and sores were apparent on pallid and waxy skin stretched over shifting muscle implants which had been grafted on to her arms and shoulders.

The Gurlz had been working a gig for some client called Substrate Fairy which involved sourcing spent 3D printing recyclables, they had gone trash diving in some abandoned district in a corner of Akihabara, one of Neon City’s many null spots.
Searching one building, they’d found twined ropes of rubberised electrical cabling snaking along the squalid floor. Following, The Gurlz encountered a basement, down the stairs they saw soft light originating from a side room play across the corridor’s bare concrete wall. Vanilla Goth paused, then she told us they’d gone in and found something.

While telling her story, Vanilla Goth led us into the bathroom. It stank and streaks of faeces scarred the walls. Pixie Skull was there, looking just as rough. She was staring at a sheet covered box. Before we had time to even process this, the box shook violently and an inhuman shriek blasted out of it?
Pixie Skull pulled the sheet back, inside was a chimpanzee! He was struggling against his restraints and wore an extremely baggy pair of Khitts denim cargo shorts, a palm tree and sunset patterned Avorukhclu Hawaiian shirt with a red and white name tag that read Mister Peepers and a black beanie hat.
He gave off a gamer vibe - because he was a gamer: Mister Peepers was a name I recognised,, a famous top ranked player on Legion of Luminaries who anonymously ghost streamed his matches. Millions watched but no one knew anything about Mister Peepers, until now anyway.

The Muscle Gurlz had stumbled across Mister Peepers in that basement, bathed in an ever colour shifting digital glow was a room full of tech junk.
Networking cables, power cords, wired keyboards and more dangled vine-like from the ceiling, old exposed and stripped data-slabs along with discarded screens piled up haphazardly in corners, while in the centre, surrounded by a cutting-edge GLOWNET setup was the chimpanzee!
When he spotted them, his reaction had been immediate. Launching himself out of his seat, anything in his reach became a projectile hurled at The Gurlz who found themselves peppered with everything from peripherals and old circuit boards to cups, food containers, fruit rind and even faeces. 
The Gurlz had panicked and attacked in response, Mister Peepers was agile but space was tight in the junk filled room and The Gurlz’ augmented strength and numbers gave them the advantage, they managed to put a beatdown on him, then they’d shoved him into one of their beige coloured salvage bins.
Not knowing what to do next, they’d booked a room in this hotel to get a read on the situation, then they’d started falling ill and pinged us.

Mister Peepers had to be uplifted, no other way about it, after some effort and reasoning, we’d managed to calm him down. 
Told us that a while back, he’d been kept captive in some corporate bankrolled, windowless, experimental underground med-facility in Sensoji, an off-the-books deniable asset, something he’d heard while playing dumb and listening. He’d also learnt that during the uplift, even more of his genetics had gotten edited and he carried a designer communicable disease which he was apparently immune to.
We now knew what had hit The Muscle Gurlz and we’d be next if we didn’t take precautions.

Lulling his captors into a false sense of security, Mister Peepers had managed to escape the facility and had been on the run ever since. He used the dollar he got from sponsorships to live off-the-grid and play the games he loved.
Mister Peepers was certain the corporation still had spooks and street ashigaru hitting the sidealks, hunting for him. Then, when The Muscle Gurlz had compromised his hideout, he’d expected the worst and reacted accordingly.

All of this had gotten The Muscle Gurlz and Mister Peepers where they are now.  

Sensoji was known as the temple district, it was also home to three warring Triad gangs who were busy rubbing each other out in a long term low level street war. Finding some clandestine biotech stronghold wouldn’t be an easy task. Needed to move sideways on this instead.

The Muscle Gurlz needed treatment, Mister Peepers needed a new safe house, along with power, GLOWNET access, water, fruit: The works.
Dctor Pepper had some juice with a medtech response outfit he knew, pinged them. told them to get to Akkihabara on the down low.
An hour and the responders inconspicuously rolled in, their fluorescent tabards removed and  med-tech bagged up.

Doctor Pepper drew some blood from Mister Peepers while Koko powered up a med-drone then fed the sample to it with instructions to run a full diagnostic algorithm on the blood.
Didn’t take long for the results to ping on our media-slabs, Pepper checked them out.

He told us the results showed that some kind of altered cell that mimicked a nerve toxin was abundant in Mister Peepers blood cells, replicating itself into various excreta, it was transmissible to humans. Doctor Pepper went on to tell us that it would bind itself to the victim’s blood cells, he estimated that it would be fatal within seventy-two hours of initial exposure. 
There was more, Pepper had found an undocumented aberration in Mister Peepers cell receptors which prevented the disease from attaching: a  result of the genetic rewrite.
With the available data Pepper quickly managed to formulate a synthetic substitute. Minutes later and the med-drone’s onboard pharma processor had manufactured serum, which it popped out in vials with a ding. Minutes after that, we were all inoculated and The Muscle Gurlz on the road to recovery.

Mister Peepers was a different situation though, not something Pepper could deal with. Instead he brought in Cheeky Bob, a grungy, possibly unlicensed veterinarian we’d encountered, and pinged him the data.
Bob got back to us, a complete blood replacement procedure would flush the toxin out of the chimpanzee. The procedure had a three-to-four day timescale and Bob would have to discreetly source enough of the right kind of plasma.

Mister Peepers needed to get out of the hotel and lay low with a place to do it, somewhere secure enough for the transfusion and his streaming. There was some discussion about who was best placed to set this up.
Thaddeus Rackham, cross-dressing vaudevillian street performer, sex worker and assassin was our best bet. As an asset, he was a loose cannon, unpredictable and murderous but his network of murky underworld contacts were solid. He had the ins with who could get us what we needed quick but there would be a price. Luckily, Mister Peepers had filthily lucrative sponsorship and the dollar to spare.

It was starting to come together, Thaddeus hooked us up with a delisted apartment somewhere on his turf in Sky Dinosaurian Square. Power got piggybacked off the park’s mainline and water was quietly reconnected by maintenance staff with flexible payment options. Same with the GLOWNET
Cheeky Bob and his gear got transported to the apartment, the procedure got underway and we left them to it.

​Later, was about to hit the Huntudi beer again when I got pinged by newsvines. Algorithms had been busy, updating themselves after our digging into the PGDF and Martian incidents while back, now more data and content was being piped to my media-slab. Most of it was trash, nutjob rants and conspiracy theories but there was one thing I hadn’t seen before: Get Set Radio.

Get Set Radio was a pirate Glowcast station that streamed music and content out of a hidden venue in Akihabara. A small delinquent of a channel that managed to operate under the radar and evaded shutdown, pumping a frenetic and eclectic mixes of chill-hop-acid-beat jams and fringe news-items to whoever would listen.

Finding the station was no problem, accessing its data-vault triggered a batch of bombastic preroll jingles alongside a montage of orange, yellow and green branding and images.
“Keep your feet on the street and your eye on the sky.”
“The chances of anything coming from Mars are a million-to-one, but still they come.”
“They’re on their way, they’ll be here any day.”

Heavily filtered, streams from the station’s feed showed it was fronted by someone who went by the handle DJ Doctor A.
Self-titled as “A Doctor of Criticality”, “A Professor of the Profound” and “A Graduate of the University of Futility”.

A couple of the topical stories caught our attention.

“The Holden Crater station located near the dig site has gone dark. Authorities say micrometeorites striking the comms satellite are the cause but sources close to the PGDF alerted us that the troopship “‘Flavour of the Dawn’ was diverted to Mars on full burn immediately after the links went dead.”

“Unusual traffic of unidentified craft near the Moon today. Yueyliang Base reports a ‘swarm’ of small vehicles unresponsive to hails that dropped below radar height on the dark side. After they failed to reappear search drones were dispatched but failed to locate the intruders. Experts are speculating the craft may have entered the tunnels in the ‘right eye’ of Leibnitz crater that remain unexplored since the unexplained loss of the Von Hoff expedition in ‘63.”

Was any of it true, was there some kind of inside knowledge?

​It had slipped our notice but Captain Noodles had been away. Now returned, he told us that he’d spoken with the Armenian footsoldier that was trailing us, - no doubt one of Yennav’s - and then produced a package, handing out some tiny Ngumatadi Electronics Maeodoho branded GPS trackers and Insisting we take them,.
He was evasive about why, something had him rattled and he refused to say.
We took the trackers.

​Hika Taki was still too busy to take a call. Pinged him, got nothing but answermail.
Considered getting Yennav to put some eyes on him, definitely a target for The Red King. We passed in the end.

​DJ Doctor A dropped another one of his alien-rants on Get Set Radio.

“Several dogs have been stolen from homes in the Hoppi Street District. Their owners report they were taken at night by naked children with big heads. Camera feeds from the area seem to corroborate this but the thieves are hard to make out clearly since they blend into the greyness of the surrounding buildings. One owner, Lincoln Voight, claims to have grabbed one of the thieves but was he was overpowered and remained unconscious until morning.”

Managing to miss the late rush hour, we rode the tram into Hoppi Street. Back in the day, the  district had become a focal point of nightlife in early Neon City, the titular street taking its name from hops used in brewing and was still known as The Street of a Thousand bars. A name well earned.
As we came to a straining, noisy halt at our stop, day had been reduced to a thinning band of red light along the western skyline.
The first sporadic drops of the oncoming rain streaking dirty tram windows through which we watched a multitude of neon decorated bar fronts and gaudy glittering signs flickering to life in the gloaming.
The dull, grey miasma of asphalt and concrete transformed into a silvery twinkling vein that threaded into the vanishing point before our eyes, contrasted by an amorphous shadowy mass that ran along it and consisted of the undulating silhouettes of countless revellers hitting the street.

The nightly deluge was in full force as the tram pulled out of our stop, drumming incessantly on the thin aluminium roofing. Lashed by the glimmering streetlight lit downpour, we exited into the darkening night; Lincoln Voight our target.

Easy to get details on Lincoln Voight, most citizens never gave their GLOWNET bio-vault a second thought. He lived in some identikit looking apartment in an unremarkable block in the district’s outlying residential quarter where the spirituous volume of Hoppi Street had faded.
A middle-aged, somewhat out of shape Lincoln Voight answered our knocking, a white headband decorated with a black dragon was tied around his head and he wore a yellow and black polyester Osolilitki tracksuit.
He didn’t look too pleased to see us but Bill managed to assuage his concerns and we were invited inside.

He took us to a studio apartment furnished blandly with old worn and drab Mayari branded furniture, covered with a vinyl cloth was a tiny dining table situated close to a window shuttered by roller blinds while on the adjoining off-white wall a small integrated Ajuarat kitchen unit had been installed.
In front of a Sulgeon wall-slab was a square armed faux-leather upholstered two-seater couch along with a couple of matching one seaters.
Lincoln went to the kitchen unit and powered up the Heseoc branded tea-maker, with a razor like hiss, steam vented almost immediately from the superheating element as it instantly prepared tea, vibrating and bubbling cheerfully while it did so.
Returning with an aromatically laden tray Lincoln took a seat and insisted we join him. Captain Noodles immediately curled up on the remaining one-seater so the rest of us squeezed ourselves into the couch awkwardly. He then handed out some plastic cups styled to imitate delicate china pouring into them what he called ‘Chinese tea,’.

Spanning the remaining wall hung a collection of ‘exotic’ weapons, knock-off tanto, cheap nunchucks, low quality sai and more, poor grade replicas available from any bogus GLOWNET seller.
Trigger gave them a cursory contemptuous glance, I’m sure it was an affront to his swordsman’s sensibilities.
Lincoln picked up on Trigger’s glance.
“I’m a martial arts master, I’ve completed the Black Dragon Remote Learning ‘Become a killer in three easy steps and learn to defend yourself against cyber bullies’ course,” he boasted enthusiastically, plucking a framed certificate from the wall and brandishing it at us. It stated; ‘Confirmed master of secret fighting arts handed down from antiquity’.

Lincoln sat down and we got him to tell us his story.
Yesterday, he’d been out walking Barabus, his dog when they had attacked. He described them as child-sized, perhaps naked and with large heads.
“I tried to fight them off but they were masters of jiu-jitsu,” he claimed excitedly. Jumping to his feet energetically, he unsteadily took a crane stance, adding. “I know my stuff, but that little guy stopped me dead with a single touch. Probably scrambled my ganglia, jiu-jitsu masters can do that, I read about it.”

Unmoving, Captain Noodles had been watching the exchange through one almost imperceptibly open eye. Rousing himself and uncurling, he dropped off the seat effortlessly and gave Lincoln Voight a sniff.
The result was instantaneous. Despite being uplifted, Captain Noodles’ response was pure animal instinct, his hackles raised, back arched and tail puffed out.
“We got to get out of here,” Noodles said. “Now!” With that, he immediately left the apartment.
What had Noodles detected? Was it the Martian link he refused to talk about? My eyes darted from corner to corner and at the window. We all shifted uncomfortably, no sign of immediate threat though, we continued.

It took some cajoling but Lincoln was convinced to come out and show us where the attack occurred. Grumbling under his breath a little, he pulled the zipper on his tracksuit jacket right up to his ill defined chin and stepped out into the rainy night with us.
The attack took place a brief walk from Lincoln’s apartment block where a typically poorly lit narrow back alley that ran between two tightly packed blocks intersected the main thoroughfare.
Barely visible behind wavering sheets of rain I could make out the glimmering red light-diode of a security camera bolted high up and across the street. Its feed would stream directly into the GLOWNET, it would have what was needed.
Lincoln went on his way after we’d thanked him.

Incandescent blurs left disjointed afterimages in my cerebrum as I flurried through data.
Grown accustomed to cracking street-feeds with their cheap security contractor provided under-resourced anti-intrusion protocols and measures meant I could autopilot through the GLOWNET routine and was barely conscious as the archived, time-stamped data appeared on my Nonohiki.

The footage matched what DJ Doctor A was saying. It was poor quality, low res and washed out but it showed Lincoln walking past the alley with his dog before swaying and collapsing.
An individual, somehow colourless and hazily indistinct, inexplicably emerged into sight, they looked small but it was hard to tell with certainty, their movements looked confident, swift and in a second, Barabus was gone.
Wasn’t much else to get out of the footage.

Time to pay DJ Doctor A a visit, had to be a reason he was so on-the-ball.
Started with a dive on him. Back into the GLOWNET, immersing myself in Neon City’s parametrically shifting info-vistas, dropped a hunter/searcher algorithm into the nearest data-flow, watched the nebulously shaped silhouette bound away and let it get to work.
Didn’t take long to get a hit, results were unexpected.

For all of Get Set Radio’s anti-establishment posturing and DJ Doctor A’s rhetoric, the channel was fully licensed by the relevant municipal authorities. The data gathered by the algorithm also included contact details.
Pinged a message to DJ Doctor A, told him we had solid evidence on aliens, sent him a taster, told him we wanted a face-to-face. Text message came back quick enough, he was onboard and gave us an Akihabara address.
The meet was tonight.

Midnight in Akihabara; rain wasn’t letting up, never did. Strips of retail units fiercely lit streets with multicoloured storefronts that welcomed our arrival. Rows of exterior Senonable wall-slabs flashed painfully bright, ever changing product commercials at us with a near hypnotic cadence through the glittering filter of light bending raindrops.
The small hours had thinned out the crowds and shoppers somewhat but enough people doggedly braved the precipitous night, bustling over colour smeared reflective pools which had accumulated on the sidewalks to keep the heart of the city’s consumer electronics centre beating.

The address took us to a litter-strewn rain-soaked slender side alley that divided two soaring retail city blocks and was lined with a jumble of canopy-covered street sellers hawking data slugs for ageing game-slabs and vending machines selling various flavours of Kaia Cola.
To an easily missed dive bar with a narrow door beneath a stuttering neon bar sign that read Udon Drizzle.
Into a crimson tinged noisy front bar decorated with old posters of forgotten sports and a wall of older empty, branded liquor bottles.
Past slouching and sideways glancing patrons, through a black unlabelled backdoor, up uncomfortably tight and creaking exposed woodwork steps and into a small converted back room office and finally, to DJ Doctor A.

Lit by the buzzing filament of an old yellowing bulb, tendrils of lingering smoke sluggishly curled beneath a nicotine stained ceiling. On a desk hidden under the weight of countless box folders and precariously stacked hardcopy documents leant a man.
Tall, lean but shredded with wayward chunky dreads framing a long face while blue-tinted Jaserasu branded rectangular, plastic rimmed shades hung on a nose decorated with a gold ring. Doctor A wore a distinctive white retro-reflective Duuner tee that glittered an opulent shade of gold in the light and was badged with a lightning bolt logo.
DJ Doctor A had a distinct west coast accent, an incandescent subdermal implant shaped into a stylised ‘A was embedded in one cheek ’ and gleamed with a strange intensity whenever he spoke.

Our conversation didn’t last too long. Doctor A told us by his account that the dognapping was a recent occurrence, something he’s only confirmed in the last twenty-four hours. He didn’t think the incidents went back far. He didn’t have any leads on more missing dogs but he did drop some info about a contact of his; one Irelyn Koerner.

Irelyn Koemer was a certified psychiatrist and social worker who practised out of Hoppi Street, she’d told Doctor A one of her cases was a transient who been in the PGDF, now a street zero who haunted the district that she hadn’t seen for a few days and was concerned about his well being.
Did the dognappings and this weird Martian menace have anything to do with the PGDF? Might have been a stretch but it was a lead - of a sort.

As promised, we pinged a copy of the autopsy footage to DJ Doctor A, told us he’d pass it on to his contacts who’d try and pull something from it.

​Hours to dawn and with time to burn, we left Doctor A’s office and hit up the Udon Drizzle bar below hard.
Huntudi, Dindanha and Baishan chasers followed neat Shiaikan shots as we slumped into an intoxicated fugue while the clamour of energetic voices and an overstrained and distorted jukebox playing old tunes washed over us as we relaxed in an unhygienic and neglected plastic and vinyl furnished booth.

The rain dried up before we did. A sliver of reddish light was colouring the eastern horizon blue while the downpours began to subside and the heat rose. Taking our cue, we exited the bar which was still in full swing and headed for the tram, hoping to preempt the morning rush hour.
Luckily, finding Irelyn Koemer’s address was easy, as a municipal employee her details were stored on their underprotected data vault which was an open door to me. Irelyn lived close to her work community in Hoppi Street.

The lustrous multicoloured excess of light and noise from last night seemed muted against the now cloudless blue-white sky. Wage-monkeys were still pulling on their cheap, neutral slate-grey two-piece Kuabha suits by the time we rode back into Hoppi Street.
Only the night workers and dedicated nihilists were slouching along the sidewalks here.

The address took us into one of Neon City’s many anonymous low-rent apartment blocks in the residential quarter and an equally anonymous, windowless door in a partially lit corridor of anonymous, windowless doors.
We buzzed and waited.
After the minute it took the occupant to check us out on their security feed, It was answered by a middle-aged woman; average height, average weight, she had tight curling whitish hair in a short cut style.

Initially, Irelyn Koemer was suspicious but Bill’s practised, measured tone combined with the name-dropping of Doctor A alleyed her concerns and she provided us with some information on her missing client.

Known only as Nursery Bob, formerly of the PGDF who lived on the sidewalks and doorways of Hoppi Street was known for making elaborate and theatrical old-school toys which he gave to the neighbourhood kids. He had an almost pathological need to see children happy and used what seemed like a gift for the mechanical to do this.
Irelyn had noticed Bob was becoming furtive and unsettled, something was making him worried, fearful even and then, five days ago he vanished.
Irelyn pinged us a photo of Bob, middle-aged with grey-streaked dark hair, brawny shoulders as well as the bulky forearms and hands of a grafter, he didn’t have the tattered, misfitting, mish-mashed and patchwork-repaired clothing that would typically mark him out as a sidestreet obake. Irelyn added that she was certain that he had money somehow, perhaps he sold some of his toys? He wasn’t homeless because of poverty and as far as Irelyn could discern, he just refused to go indoors, preferring to live outside?
It was a short walk to where Bob slept, Irelyn had visited him there several times and took us to an unfrequented narrow alley that slipped away from the bustle of the main thoroughfare and branched into a narrower, perpetually shaded cul-de-sac that finally led us to a high-walled corner spot adjacent to padlocked and clearly disused maintenance access panel.
A pile of flattened cardboard boxes sat next to some scavenged plastic panelling and woodworking tools. A quick search showed nothing significant here or evidence Bob had been back recently.

The location was put into a positioning algorithm on my data-slab, it executed a series of locationally relative arguments and came back with some potential correlations, one seemed pertinent; Bob’s makeshift shelter was half between the apartments of Irelyn Koemer and Lincoln Voight.
It meant that Bob might have been close to Lincoln when Barabus was taken. Bob needed to be found.
Thanking Irelyn for her help, we made our way back to Hikage Street.

​Back at the one-bed, I kicked off my Harbiefs and Hiaki, dialled up the audio on the  wall-slab, crashed on the futon and pulled a blanket over my face.
An hour later and I was washing down some stim pills with a self-heated pot of Niaiwo. Time to dive on Nursery Bob.

The merging movements of data-flow patterns exploded with primary colours as they compiled into unpredictably emergent constructs that populated the data-scape while I jacked into the GLOWNET.
Usage was high, Bio-images filled my view, as I navigated the info-vista. Best to start with the PGDF.
Their data-image was public knowledge and easy to find. The shell on the image was a brief animated sequence displaying a carefully balanced multicultural blend of the brave young men and women of the force with their flaxen hair, cerulean eyes and brown uniforms.
It would take minutes to get into the PGDF directories and I wasn’t looking to generate any autonomous location logs for  the bio-image I was using, even a low-cycle hack would be risky here. Instead I kept a half a dozen server nodes away and launched a normal cracking algorithm, inputted some protocols into it to remotely approach the bio-image and let go on its way.
A little progress bar began ticking up on the info-vista.

While I was waiting I launched a hunter/searcher algorithm to look for anything else on Nursery Bob, it got zero hits, he had no GLOWNET presence.

Eventually, the progress bar filled and I was in the PGDF data-vault and their directories. Without Bob’s full name, too many people in the PGDF, searching would get too much data,too many hits. I needed a data point I could filter.
The photo!
Irelyn Koemer had given us a photo of Bob.The PGDF system would have security profiles on all staff. I put the photo through facial recog and pulled the data it generated, then used it as the search criteria.
It worked, I got a hit.

Robert Silverford: An orphan who’d signed up to the PGDF at the earliest opportunity out of Neon City’s brutally underfunded social care system. During induction he scored in the top percentile for mechanical aptitude and was recruited into the engineering corps where he had a successful if unremarkable career up until six years ago whereupon he was abruptly pensioned off?
I kept scanning the file: There was no record of disciplinary actions against Silverford, I kept diving. Then, towards the end of Silverford’s military record, there was some: During routine shuttle transport between Earth and the Moon, Robert Silverford had been involved in a catastrophic accident. The event had killed everybody aboard except for Silverford
According to the incident report, the salvage crew tasked with recovering the wreckage had not expected to find any survivors from the explosion and were surprised to encounter Silverford who had managed to secure himself, an EVA suit and some compressed oxygen tanks inside a reinforced storage locker where, somehow he had managed to survive three days before the unexpected rescue.
Just before his records were closed, it stated he was discharged with full disability pension.

The report didn’t say much, felt evasive, so I tried accessing the incident report source file. Wherever the link went, it was restricted, I got denied, slammed and kicked out the directory. I scoped the nearby data-vista, there was no response; no alarm or counter-intrusion measures had been triggered.
I captured some data and ran it through a logger, didn’t look like internal security was so hot, whoever had coded the vault had expected the outer security to do the heavy work.
I launched another cracker algorithm targeting the report’s node, it pulled the encryption string which bypassed the internal security, granting full access to the report.

Turned out the initial report was a half-fabrication and cover for the actual report.

The report determined there was no accident, Robert Silverford had been aboard a shuttle called Lost Wisdom of the Ancients which had been destroyed.
The report listed the shuttle as: ‘Destroyed by alien interference, all hands lost.’

Following the rescue, Silverford had been given a debriefing and psych-eval.
Silverford had no recollection of events leading directly up to the incident and no understanding of how or why the shuttle had been destroyed.
The evaluation recorded several examples of Silverford suffering post stress traumatic disorder, including: Claustrophobia, nyctophobia and pedophobia - particularly fear of angry children. The evaluation also cited Silverford as stating that he had intense recurring nightmares of being hunted by angry children.
Finally, it had recommended that Robert Silverford be discharged with full pension.

The report wasn’t done, there was more, so I kept reading.

Three days after Silverford had been discovered, six days after the incident, a second survivor had been found. This time though, it was not in space.
Jacqueline Boxer had been found outside the boundaries of Neon City wandering in a dazed through a forested region in the bordering wilderness.
She was suffering short term memory loss and similarly to Silverford had no recollection of events that led to the attack or how she had arrived at the forest.
Boxer had been suffering from several injuries and contusions while also displaying early signs of malnutrition.
Boxer had been extremely agitated and was given a med-eval for her injuries under sedation, it was discovered that she had signs of having given birth recently. The report stated there were no records of Boxer ever having been pregnant, in PGDF archives or anywhere else. Boxer had no memory of this either.
Boxer was also evaluated as suffering several disorders, including nyctophobia, iatrophobia, tomophobia and pedophobia. Boxer's evaluation also recommended that she be pensioned off.

There was something about the shuttle incident that was wriggling through my brain, something more vaguely half-remembered from six years ago. It took a quick GLOWNET to make it click. About the time of the shuttle accident, the PGDF had gotten a massive boost to their funding.

Jacqueline Boxer was a new lead, I ran her through the GLOWNET on the hunter/searcher algorithm and got a partial hit.

Jacky Boxes was a registered employee at a warehousing business located on Highway Zero’s waterfront. Ran them through a business profiler algorithm on my Nonohiki, there were no flags, looked like a typical run-of-the-mill commercial enterprise.

​Met up with the others, took a ride out to Highway Zero, headed to the waterfront. Warehouses here were pretty much identikit poly-ferrous prefabricated grey structures that were clustered into small anonymous business parks that ran alongside the docks, servicing sea traffic that came into the city.
Bill took the lead here, approaching the warehouse front office and speaking to staff at the warehouse. He was disarming and they were happy to speak with him.

Jacky Boxes was a supply manager and well liked. A couple of weeks ago, staff began to notice she was becoming erratic, agitated and fearful. About five days ago, Jacky vanished, the staff are now concerned for her safety.
The management were unable to provide us with an address for Jacky, telling us that they believed she had no fixed abode and Neon City’s lax labour laws meant they were not required to have a home address.
They did however, provide us with an up to date photo. Boxer was in her early-to-mid thirties with an oval-shaped face, high forehead and shoulder length mousy-blonde hair she wore straight.

Something was definitely going down with Silverford and Boxer, especially since both had gone missing about the same time. According to the PGDF report, both had potentially encountered aliens, did this tie in with Lincoln Voight’s encounter?

If extraterrestrials were prowling Neon City, we had to find a way of tracking them. Captain Noodles had implied he could sense them but he’d gone off-the-grid.
There was one option that could be pursued.

Bill contacted Xylona Adler and offered to take her dog for a walk.
Wasn’t as left-field as it sounded. Like Noodles, Toby was an alpha-class uplift with full cognitive and communicative functions, his senses would be as acute. Potentially, Toby could lead us to the aliens.

​Xylona looked at us through the distorted lenses of her archaic thick-framed spectacles, her oversized eyes blinked curiously as we took Toby off her hands for a few hours.

Trigger got some sideways glances during the packed out tram ride to Hoppi Street. Pets were a rare sight on Neon City’s public transit system. Toby wisely decided to keep quiet during the trip.
Soon the sun would be at its zenith, shadows would shrink and there’d be no way to escape the day’s full heat unrelentingly beating down with almost pain inducing intensity on the city. Trigger was hoping that Toby would pick something up before then as they navigated the endless parade of revellers, hard-drinkers and tourists that thrummed past the rows of bars and pubs Hoppi Street was known for.

After some walking and random sniffing, Toby picked up something, he stopped and could not conceal an instinctive momentary bearing of his teeth. Toby then turned to Trigger and explained how he wanted to leave, he did not want to be in the crowds.

Toby had gotten as spooked as Noodles and as tight lipped, he refused to say why he was so nervous.
Although he did let slip that he’s encountered the smell before when serving as captain aboard ‘The Ganymede’?
It must have been a reference to the PGDF? Alpha class uplifts were routinely created to serve and crew aboard adapted spacecraft.
It was a dead end, Toby wasn’t going to get us any further information, Trigger took him for some walkies before returning Toby to Xylona.

​After some discussion, it was decided to try the plan again and we took a ride to Kibogaoka Hill. There was a dog sanctuary that Trigger knew about.

Charities were far and few between in the City of Electric Dreams. Most of the municipal authorities were deeply in the pocket of the corporations and clandestinely dedicated to forwarding those agendas, either that or they looked the other way.
Charities weren’t high on corporate priorities.

But if anywhere in Neon City would have a dog sanctuary, it would be Kibgaoka Hill. The district was dominated by the shanty town with its undocumented population and uncontrolled growth over the titular hill. The establishment regarded it a leach on their society
The shanty town was home and refuge to no-hopers, transients, last-chancers, fugitives, the unwaged and more who struggled everyday to survive and in return viewed the establishment with equal vehemence.
A dog sanctuary was just an extension of Kibogaoka Hill’s rebel spirit.

On a corner in the erratic,unpredictable twisting backstreets was the dog sanctuary where there was some scant space given over to a yard outside the usual stacked, shabbily constructed cubic homes.

Trigger soon emerged with Rex, a frisky German Shepherd rescue who was eager to explore the world beyond as Trigger took to the streets of The Hill.
Rex sniffed and rummaged seemingly everywhere but it was clear that the dog was not knowingly tracking any extraterrestrial activity or scents.

Trigger didn’t return Rex to the sanctuary, deciding to adopt the dog instead.

​While Trigger was busy I put Jacqueline Boxer’s latest photo through facial recog and ran the data through a hunter/searcher algorithm, it got a hit from some rando’s MyFaceSpace page. The rando had captured a photo of someone being arrested at Rokkaku Expo Stadium, that someone was Jacqueline Boxer.
It put an idea in my head, I jacked into the GLOWNET and sank into the local info-vista.

Neon City’s rentacop data-images and secured data-vaults were all essentially identical, created by the same GLOW-designer contractors who’d no doubt  tended the contract as cheapest bidders. All the security provisions and protocols for all the rentacop precincts had been written under one umbrella by the same code-monkeys. The precinct at Rokkaku Expo Stadium was no different. It meant they all had the same vulnerabilities. It meant that once I had the means to crack any one precinct, I had the means to crack them all.

Soon I was inside their directories, sifting through their arrest records. Using the facial recog data I soon got matches. Both Robert Silverford and Jacqueline Boxer had been arrested multiple times in the last five days while loitering and protesting outside of the Rokkaku Tower.

​Pushing the flier as hard as it could go span the turbines up to their operational maximums and they hummed with a disapprovingly high pitch while Koko took us to Rokkaku Expo Stadium.  Sky-congestion didn’t hinder her and I watched aerial traffic flicker past the viewports in erratic blurs while behind it, the high-rise dominated cityscape slowly rolled past, lurched with every bobbing course correction.

From a dot on the skyline, the Rokkaku Tower inevitably expanded to its massive proportions, growing to fill the front facing screens.
Koko put the flier down on the lowest roofpad close by and we raced the rest of the way on foot.
Luck was with us, after reaching the perimeter of the tower plaza we spotted the pair of them. Rentacop hadn’t moved them on yet.

After finally reaching Bob and Jacky, they gave us their stories.
Both of them had been inexplicably drawn here five days ago without ever having contacted each other, compelled by something they couldn’t comprehend or resist. They were convinced that aliens were inside the Rokkaku Tower, both spoke of hearing the alien voices in their heads.

By this time, Rentacop had made us aware of their presence, a number of suited-up uniforms were slowly trying to surround us while failing to inconspicuously reach for side arms or puke-prodders. They had probably been expecting Bob and Jacky but not us.
We preempted their strategy, Bill convinced Bob and Jacky to leave with us - at least for now. Renatcop stood down and watched as we walked out the plaza.

Bob and Jack knew where they wanted to go, wasn't too far to the PGDF Vets Association. When they got there, they were provided with some warm food and drink.
As they ate, they told us the rest of their stories, their versions of events matched each other and the classified PGDF incident report.
During this, Bill and Koko had spotted something; we were under observation.
The watcher was stood at the corner of a nearby back alley. We got the briefest of glances at her, dark skinned with blue hair and a noticeably oversized head, she looked young, it was impossible to determine any more about her age other than ‘young’. Somehow, she’d realised that we’d made her and retreated out of sight into the alley.
Trigger dashed across the street, into the alleyway and found nothing, no evidence of her ever being there, running further in, there was also nothing. She had disappeared.

5th June 2021

It's a Saturday night and we're logged into video chat for some Saturday RPG action and it's time for the next part of Matakishi's Wired Neon Cities campaign

8th May 2021

Saturday night has rolled around again and I’m logged on to Meet.
Time for the next part of Matakishi’s Wired Neon Cities campaign.

​It was a few hours until eleven forty-five tonight but we didn’t have to wait long for something to turn up.

Jordan Tian was a suit at Chou-Nata, over our media-slabs he told us that we’d come recommended and he needed us to get his daughter back and didn’t trust anyone in Chou-Nata. Turned out that corporate security contractors at Chou-Nata had been lax or paid to look the other way while Yasmin Tian had been kidnapped. It’d looked like a pretty standard exec ransoming squeeze-and-grease, the demand came and Jordan had paid, so far, so good.
However, Yasmin hadn’t been released, so Jordan had sicced a couple of private detectives on his daughter’s trail, only now they’d gone radio silent. A worried frown creased Jordan Tian’s face, marring the otherwise impeccable, surgically perfected features displayed on our slabs.
Naturally he offered us a big payday and we agreed to find Yasmin. Before we left he pinged us details on Yasmin and the address of Suchet & Sea, the agency he’d employed.

Suchet & Sea operated out of Shinjuku Station, a small rented corner office located in some drab, anonymous office complex on the fringes of the district. It was fronted by a hardened polymer door which had been painted to resemble an old wooden panel door, Suchet & Sea had been printed across the door’s top half In bold letters that crawled across the surface in a half circle.
Lights were off, looked like no one was in, Trigger’s thermals told a different story though, two heat signatures from inside were coming through clear as day.
After knocking on the door, we waited and got nothing, we knocked again, this time louder, more insistently, again nothing. Third time; we hammered on the door, rattling it in its frame, that got an answer.
The door opened and on the other side we found two nervous looking men in colourful but dishevelled suits, both wiry-framed with long faces, they shared similar features and could almost have been brothers! The pair introduced themselves as Barry Suchet and Paul Sea, they both clearly followed an old, obscure Shinjuku street fashion called Chuckleo-hito that demanded they sport enormous implanted spiked mullets and bushy, bristling moustaches.
We told them that we’d been sent by Jordan Tian to pick up the case of his missing daughter.
The look of nervousness evaporated from their pale complexions as they realised we weren’t a threat.
The smaller one, Barry, gave a wide, enthusiastic grin, explaining that they had deduced that The Flesh Cartel had kidnapped Yasmin.
“To me,” said the other, Paul.
“To you,” replied Barry.
Paul elaborated, went on and told us they’d subcontracted to some female investigators to infiltrate the cartel and locate Yasmin. Now those subcontractors had also gone radio silent.
Suchet & Sea had halted their investigation at that point. They didn’t admit it, but it was plain that they were well out of their depth dealing with these gangers and couldn’t hide their relief when we announced we were handling the case.

The Flesh Cartel theory was a solid one. They were a known violent criminal outfit who operated out of Kabukicho, a sex trafficking ring and sleaze merchants who peddled in prostitution, drugs and more. They were known to grab girls off the street and addict them to the most potent brain-jacking narcotics street-chems could cook. 
There was little information that Suchet & Sea could provide us, however, they had managed to hook up a GLOWNET feed from the subcontractor’s optic circuits and showed us the footage they’d archived.

Erratic and silent with fluctuating resolution and washed out colour, the feed swayed and bobbed as showed the subcontractors at work, viewpoints darting from one person to another as they interacted with street ashigaru, night-walkers and dealers. Towards the end, the footage briefly flashed across a room, showing Yasmin, obviously being held prisoner, alone and tied up.
We grabbed a shot of the image and left.

The Flesh Cartel was an unknown factor, something we’d never crossed paths with. There was no easy in with them and there was only a single avenue we could think to follow.
Miguel Fernandez was a rentacop out of Shinjuku precinct.. He’s spent time working The Flesh Cartel undercover and had flirted with going native. His captain had paid us to extract him - and after some ups and downs we’d done it!
Right now Miguel was flying some desk-slab, filing parking violations or something in a cubicle in the precinct. We pinged him and he was happy to help.
It didn’t take him long to give us something. Yasmin was being held in a room that he recognised as part of The Flesh Fountain, one of the Cartel’s illicit holdings in Kabukicho.

The Flesh Fountain was an old style tower, constructed in elaborately patterned brown brick, it sported rows of under-lit, high arched, thin-framed, tall windows and had been a hotel with a carpark on its ground floor in the early days of Neon City at a time when personal ground transport had still been considered a thing.
One time it might have been a giant, dwarfed now, by steel and glass-fronted neighbours. With glory days that were gone and closed to the public, lower windows were boarded or bricked up and half the external lighting was gone. The gate into the carpark had been replaced by a clumsily indiscrete, steel-grey aluminium shutter-roller.

Koko worked the lock and soon had it open. The roller shutter was huge - and heavy, a rasping, rattling, metallic voice screamed its protest as we forced the roller shutter up enough to allow us to squeeze under.
Dim, regularly placed lighting dotted the carpark’s ceiling, revealing a windowless, dull, concrete, mostly empty interior to us. Rows of long unused parking bays were uniformly partitioned by fading yellow lines, looking around, there was little to be found in the carpark save some supplies that looked earmarked for the brothel here. Soon we encountered some elevators and a bare utilitarian stairwell.
Checking the stairwell, we saw it spiralling its way up and down, but like so much in The City of Electric Dreams, downwards is where we were headed.

With caution, we slowly proceeded in silence, the carpark’s surface level receded behind us as we descended,  Koko sent Noodles to scout ahead and the diminutive drone darted speedily into the gloom, soon he encountered a landing on the second sub-basement and
Koko watched as Noodles navigated the corner and registered two threats ahead. The feed showed two armed guards outside a door; had to be what we were looking for.
Dressed casually in Dogenzaka Hill knockoffs, cheap bling and tats, they were packing cheap Rekhang Pophma machine pistols and stood about listlessly, distracted by media-slabs.
Koko manoeuvred Noodles to the far side of the door and had the drone make a noise.

The guards scrambled to face the distraction, dropping their slabs and putting their backs to us. It was a mistake, Trigger was round the corner in a silent blur and hit one and then the other with a stun-baton, they managed to get a few screams off before flopping helplessly to the ground. In a few hours, they’d regain consciousness, only their biggest headache wouldn’t be the stun-baton side-effects when they realised whatever they were guarding was gone.

Neither guard had a keycard to the door, so Koko made short work of the lock. Past the door was a weakly lit, undecorated and unused storage room, a dozen girls dressed in tiny cocktail dresses, mini-skirts and boob-tubes, hot pants and bikini-tops and so on were slouched on mattresses and blankets. Lethargic postures and restless, unfocused gazes betrayed how strung out they were. 

Yasmin was there, pallid, apathetic, as zoned as the others and to our surprise, Pixie Skull and Vanilla Goth were also among them. The two Ikebukuro Muscle Gurlz told us that they had been put on the case of missing girls by Suchet & Sea, when they’d been wrong-footed and woke up in this cell. Fortunately, their enhanced circulatory systems had rapidly metabolised the drugs they’d been fed, however, they hadn’t managed to find a means of escape.


The brief throwdown with the two guards risked bringing reinforcements, wasn’t time to hang around and swap stories. The quick escape didn’t go as hoped though, getting the girls out of the basement was a laborious task as they slowly tottered upstairs on the fifteen centimetre high white stilettos they’d been fitted with.
Caught a break though, no more Flesh Cartel thugs came on to the scene.

It was darkening by the time we all got topside and a blazing orange sliver was all that remained of a massive setting sun against the western skyline as day began to wane, the rain wouldn’t be far behind. Once they were out from under the weak lighting, most of the girls looked shocked, reeling from the gold-lined gigantic dome of nimbus clouds above.
Koko had called the flier, it was cramped with everyone inside and I could hear the turbines spinning to maximum thrust as I felt the tug that came with the defiance of gravity.
Once we were up, Koko banked us round and set a bearing to the closest precinct, she switched over to stealth and we hastily put the girls down on the roof pad and were gone before anyone realised.
Yasmin Tian, we returned to her father and then before we dropped off the Muscle Gurlz, I gave them my business card, looked them in the eyes and told them to look me up if they ever needed help with anything, anything at all.

​Later; when Silai Granskina left the Transport Authority’s office at the end of his workday, we were there, in the rain, watching from the blackening sky above.
Swallowed by the pressing churn of wage-monkeys.as he strolled out into the busy, drenched streets that ran the perimeter of The Metropolitan Building, Silai might easily have slipped into anonymity hadn’t Koko tagged him in the flier’s spook-tech. The algorithm had no problem tracking him through the intermittently dark streets, gleaming streetlight-lit rain and fidgeting crowds.
Silai didn’t head straight home, instead he made for Chou Street and for the newly rebuilt Potato Palace. Switching to thermals on the flier’s external cams, we watched as he went in, watched as he exchanged bits for a bag of some kind and then left.

Koko instructed Kevin to trail Silai and the diminutive drone accelerated off with machine efficiency, the rest of us went into Potato Palace. Not so long ago it had been the target of a firebomb attack against the Russian Mob but renovations are swift when municipal code can be ignored. The interior was back to almost looking like an authentic rustic mom-and-pop eatery, filled with plastic replica furniture and decoration. The simple charms belied the deep pockets of Russian mob money behind it.
Inside, the staff recognised anyone associated with Yennav Rybasei and they quickly greeted Koko and then the rest of us. They were only too happy to accommodate us when we asked about Silai.
They told us that Silai had made use of their landline and made a quick call.
Something about a meeting at the waterfront, on schedule, delivery to Russia and a Neon City Train. It was only the one-sided bits and pieces of a conversation but it was starting to come together.

Koko’s control-slab pinged unexpectedly, she checked it out and swore. Looking up, she told us that the feed from Kevin had been interrupted and so had the control link.
Koko’s control-slab had been archiving Kevin’s feed, so she quickly reviewed the last few seconds the slab had received. Before the cutoff there had been a blur, she reviewed those last seconds again, slowing the feed until it hit single frames frames per second, until the feed became a picture book telling the story of a soaring, engulfing, urban sprawl-scape decorated in the glinting city lights reflected through a million, frozen, shining raindrops.
It was blurred and only half in-picture but one of those last frames showed some sort of micro-net small enough to snare a tiny spy-drone like Kevin.
Despite the link being lost, Kevin was still pinging out a satellite driven locator signal; Kevin was heading south.

Koko called the flier down and quickly, we boarded and strapped in. Lifting off, I felt the slight tempo change in the flier’s hull vibration as we surged skywards, I watched the city rock sideways and drop off as Koko banked south, punching maximum thrust.
The flier powered through Rokkaku-Dai Heights, rivulets of rainwater streamed left and right off the front viewports as Koko threaded through the swathe of residential towers that dotted the district.
Kevin’s signal kept moving south and Koko kept following.
As we made ground on Kevin, she entered the Fortified Residential Zone and so did we. A splattering of red lights flashed over Koko’s console, anti-air defences for the exclusive area had locked on to us. Koko veered, skirting the walled off neighbourhood with its high-end, gardened luxurious homes rolling past as we continued our chase.

As we exited the district and entered Asakusa-cho, we had gotten close enough to Kevin to get a zoomed-in visual fix using the fliers front viewers. Somebody had attached a small box to the drone’s underside and she appeared to be following a sky-taxi?
We started making ground, the sky-taxi couldn’t hope to match our speed, as we drew closer, the sky-taxi landed on a lower roof and a door swung, a Chinese man leaned out in a cheap two-piece Evoda lounge suit, a pistol gripped in one hand. He emptied it in a blazing staccato of gunfire, seemingly into the air before diving back into the sky taxi which took off in pursuit.
I followed his line of sight upwards, through the pouring rain, he’d been aiming for a rider in roller jet blades who was grinding some balconies as she powered along. 
Almost immediately, a second sky-taxi swooped into view? I took a second to assess the situation, the second sky-taxi was pursuing the first, which in turn was pursuing the jet blader. Kevin was also in pursuit of the first taxi

Roller jet blades comprised a pair of tricked out knee-high boots that combined two technologies: A hyper-compressed fuel cell, that when vented, provided enormous amounts of forward thrust and a hybrid kineticizer blade that generated increasingly stronger magnetic grip the faster the blade went. Combined, they allowed riders to traverse large distances, leap wide spans and even scale vertical planes
Jet blades were a curious holdover from a couple of decades ago, a forgotten fad that had injured most users and had slipped into obscurity, except with the few riders that had persisted, for them, it had become something else entirely.

Experienced jet bladers were capable of gravity-defying manoeuvres, skyscraper walls and archaic power lines became arcing grind-lines, high altitude comms clusters provided launch points and the rooftops became their bounce pads as they roamed the sprawls. Neon City had become a playground to them and rolled past below as they unhesitatingly hurled themselves from building to building.

Beyond that though, some had found a way to earn a living; even in Neon City there was still an urge to transport hardcopies or physical items and that’s where jet blade couriers came in; capable of circumventing even aerial traffic, blazing through the tightest spots and easily getting in and out of buildings, they could navigate the city faster than almost any civilian vehicles.
That’s who this jet blader was, we could just about make out some artificially cheerful courier branding on her boots.

I jacked into the GLOWNET as we followed this aerial procession. The second taxi was an Abco sky-taxi and easy enough to hack.
Even as the flier soared after them, I soared further. Material reality tumbled away, rolling into physical oblivion, a void replaced by the garish primary colours of Neon City’s angular info-scape that expanded to meet me. Gleaming orthogonal data-lines flowed into the horizon, criss-crossing from data-vault to data-vault and pulsating with content and information.
A quick search found me the Abco cab’s franchise data-image, an exaggerated, cartoonish sky-taxi drenched in oversaturated iridescent yellow light. A nanosecond passed or so it seemed and then I was in its archive structure and before me; a stack of infinitely thin window-panes smeared with radials of statistics waiting to be sifted through.
A datafile told me that the sky-cab had picked up a passenger it recorded as Peanut not so long ago; I continued sifting. Next I found myself a partition that housed the sky-cab’s autonomous protocols, looked like the stack of call priorities had been re-coded about the same time that Peanut had got picked up, work of a hacker and they had control of the cab now.

Wasn’t the right time to tangle with another code-monkey, so the sky-taxi’s data-image was dumped as I quit the system, my senses were assailed by the info-scape’s vast quantity of data movement which flooded into my slab.

Switching focus, I moved my attention over to the other sky-taxi, bypassing the security was as easy as the Abco. It listed a sole passenger as a Chao He-Biao, as the name appeared on my system, it was flagged.
Quick search showed me Chao He-Biao was a con, out on parole from The Black Dolphin Gulag today. Didn’t get to go deeper, Koko pinged me in the GLOWNET.
We were close to Kevin and she was still getting a diagnostic stream from her, the drone’s power cell was critically low and flight systems were about to go offline. Once she lost flight, the tumble to street level would shatter Kevin into a hundred broken components, Koko wasn’t happy with the situation.

Kevin’s data-image was a dot of incandescent code in the swirling storm of flight-algorithms that connected Neon City’s autonomous sky traffic to the municipal travel information hubs through the GLOWNET.
Access codes didn’t get me into Kevin’s drives, they’d been changed, the hacker again.

I didn’t experience it, but later I was told that out in the mundanity of material reality, Koko had yelped when Kevin’s power cell finally gave out and I didn’t feel the lurch when she put the flier into a steep powered dive, chasing a plummeting Kevin to the narrow street below. Turbines had rattled, pushed beyond their performance envelope, threatening to break their housings as the flier matched altitude with the drone.
Then, it had taken Trigger swinging through an open hatch, gripping a line to catch Kevin, following that he’d got yanked hard, almost skimming the street and pulling a few Gs as Koko had levelled the flier before managing to pull himself back into the cabin.

In the Abco cab’s command logs, it showed the sky-taxi had landed, I jacked out and the overriding inputs of the GLOWNET evaporated as the reality of the flier’s starkly lit interior began solidifying, filling my awareness.
Koko took us up and I lurched to one of the consoles, gripping its sides. As we gained altitude, I punched instructions into the command pad and the screen showed that the chase had taken us to Ninety Ninth Street, the jet blade courier had taken a hit, she was slumped unevenly on a junk-ridden rooftop, surrounded by steamy aircon vents and routing pipes. Chao He-Biao was on the rooftop’s far side out of his sky-taxi and opening up at her, Trigger put a few rounds his way, bullets riddled the sky-taxi as he lunged for cover.
A savage blast of air whipped the rain sideways as the second cab came down, billowing in the steaming haze of heated raindrops.
A young woman flung the door open as the taxi settled down, dressed in drab olive work overalls, she’d had a full optic replacement by Kuaijing implants, her eyes glittered a soft blue through the raindrops and were Quanngh models, users were given some access to the GLOWNET without exiting material reality. In her hand she gripped a Preaavar Curnuka MQ-6 data-slab, a line ran from it to what must have been a subdermal connector in her neck; the hacker, had to be. 

“Run Toy Li,” she’d shouted as she began sprinting across the puddle-ridden rooftop.
Trigger had meanwhile exited the flier and was also sprinting across the space, powered by  his augmentation implants, he was a blur in the downpour as he closed on Chao He-Biao, he tagged the man senseless with a stun-baton and the fight was over, the rest of us went for the jet-blader.
For a moment, relative calm settled around us as rain drummed on to the now otherwise still rooftop.

Only for a moment though: Toy Li had caught a bullet, checking her over, a Jijuiuan trauma med-patch was applied to the point of the bloody bullet wound, activating a steady, regulated flow of painkillers, stimulants and anti-infectants into her system, triggering its diagnosis protocol which calculated her injury wasn’t critical. A few moments and the blader would regain consciousness, a few moments after that and she’d be able to stand.

The hacker introduced herself as Peanut and told us Toy Li was her friend. Peanut explained that she’d gotten pinged by Toy Li, who was being chased by a sky-taxi while she was on a routine delivery. Peanut had then hacked a sky-taxi and started heading for Toy Li, lacking a drone, she’d spotted and then jacked Kevin to track the other taxi, Peanut turned to Koko and apologised.
Peanut had no idea why Chao He-Biao why trying to get at Toy Li

By now Toy Li was sitting up, a Chinese woman with slender limbs in a two-coloured single-piece lycra outfit, pain was etched across her youngish face, meds had taken the edge, but the pain was still there.
Between slow, wincing breaths, Toy Li told us she had no idea why she’d been chased, maybe her package?

There was only Chao He-Biao left and Trigger had him, we slapped him back to his senses; he spluttered, blinking and shaking the rainwater off his face. As he was dragged to his feet by Trigger, his pistol slipped out of slack fingers, a single piece Rekhang pressed metal knock-off of a Chinese 9mm Ngaohun fitted with a suppressor that were favoured by Neon City’s triads; a low-cost imitation even by Rekhang standards and that was saying something!
At first Chao He-Biao was belligerent, glowering and swearing, refusing to give us any answers and futility trying to break free of Trigger’s grip, a firm shake from Trigger changed all that. He explained that after he’d gotten out of the Black Dolphin Gulag, he’d gone to the Big Circle Boys to join the gang.
Being some sort of triad gang, of course the Big Circle Boys had their initiation ceremony; to show his loyalty and worth, Chao He-Biao had to get blood on his hands and enter their conspiracy of guilt, a target was picked for him to kill and that target was Toy Li.
That was the Neon City way; it never needed a reason to indiscriminately target someone for death.

Chao He-Biao had failed his initiation, he’d never be accepted by the Big Circle Boys and he knew it too. He tried to worm his way into our graces, playing the victim, telling us he’d mend his ways, trying to convince that us that maybe he had some worth to us but it was unconvincing, less than a day back out after his stretch and he was looking to commit murder, we had no use for thuggish gang footsoldiers and left him for the local rentacops.

Toy Li was now gingerly back on her feet, with Peanut’s help, the delivery could be completed.
Before we left, Koko rushed over to the flier and rummaged through the storage lockers and came back with a couple of her older drones, she handed Hector and Fifi over to a gracious Peanut.

​We hit midnight as we climbed aboard the flier.
Another day in the City of Electric Dreams had come round, all our media-slabs pinged. Yaroh Uron, who had been convicted of murdering Doctor Hsu Rou-Taib was getting his appeal was today. We’d be there in the morning.

​Whatever was going on with Silai Granskina had happened fifteen minutes ago but still needed investigating and there were still hours of night and rainfall to navigate as we headed back to Hikage Street.
Outside the Granskina’s apartment we found another Chinese enforcer loitering close by the front door. The suit was a different cut and colour, but the thin, tight smile and attitude was the same.
Bina answered the door and let us in, she told us that Silai had gone to bed after returning with a Potato Palace doggy bag full of Rubles. Somehow, he had slipped the cash past the watcher outside.
Was he involved with the Russian mob, it could be bad news? We got Bina to wake her husband and bring him over, Silai came out in his faux silk Eilbon pyjamas and sat on the apartment’s bare floor, there was hesitation in his eyes when he looked at us.
We refused to buy what Silai was selling and after some questioning we got him to spill his guts.
Turned out that Silai had decided to offload city trams to the Russians for some serious bank, his position at the Transport Authority allowed access to the relevant databases where he could ghost the trams out of their system. Then he would supply overnight storage locations and security codes to the Russians, who in the rainy small hours would quietly get busy disappearing trams.
Silai theorised that the trams were being shipped from the waterfront out of Neon City.
.
It was a solid plan, who in Neon City would have any idea that trams were going missing? Even if they did and got someone to listen, the digital trail had been deleted. Looked like Silai would stay clean.

Silai got up from the floor, retrieved his Potato Palace doggy bag and thrust a bundle of rubles into Bill’s hands. Bill looked at the wad of poly-cotton weaved sheets in his hand, a brief look of irritation crossed his face. Sure, it would cover the loan to Silai, but I was pretty sure he had no idea what to do with actual cash money!
Then Silai headed outside to the Chinese man. He still had enough bank in the doggy to square with Su Chuai’s enforcer and clear that debt.

​That night was spent sleeping in my streets, hopefully a dreamless evasion of the city rain pattering against the tarp that shielded one face of the one-bed. Wasn't bothered about changing, especially since I knew the next morning would come soon, rain clouds evaporating while the day’s heat would begin its inevitable march from too hot to intolerable, I had to drag myself out of the futon early, no time for breakfast.
Instead I headed for the roof and waited beneath the sickly blue-white morning sky to catch my ride with Koko, watching as the descending flier materialised out of the wavering overbright bloom, battering the rooftop with jet wash. One-by-one we were all collected and headed for the RV and Jinny Stoyer, who we’d stashed there a while ago. Jinny was a key witness in Yaroh’s appeal, she’d skipped the original court case and we weren’t about to let her skip the appeal.
She was waiting for us at the rendezvous, dressed respectably as possible, which meant thigh-high faux-leather Oltrantes, a tight pink strip of cloth that passed as Fassus miniskirt, half-unbuttoned, undersized and fairly transparent Dunner white blouse with layers of cheap makeup and displaying all her fruit-themed tattoos.

From there it was a quick flight through Neon City’s sky-congestion to the roof pad at the courthouse, our passenger gave us priority landing rights and soon we found ourselves walking through featureless, dully lit corridors to again be in Judge Wyatt Lavanchy’s familiar courtroom with its beige walls, replica wooden panelled fixtures and furniture, all coldly lit by the ceiling-hung globe-lights. D4-VID was already there waiting for us, the diminutive botcaster had evidence of his own to present at the appeal.
Yaroh Uron was brought out as the appeal commenced, shackled in his oranges, convicted of murdering Doctor Hsu Rou-Taib, the employee of monstrous multinational corporation Protobase Global, he looked sullen and broken. 
We knew Hsu Rou-Taib had been rubbed out on the orders of Protobase Global’s head of ethics Benedict Twistom and knew it had been pinned on Yaroh Uron, the dot’s just weren’t connecting though.
Again Magistrate Wyatt Lavanchy was presiding over affairs, he’d convicted Yaroh of murdering  Hsu Rou-Taibin seventeen minutes during the original case, it didn’t make us feel any better.

With good reason too.
First, Magistrate Lavanchy allowed Benedict Twistom’s wife, Annabel to give evidence against Yaroh.
Then he allowed Avery Kiani, a rentacop on the Protobase Global payroll to do the same.
Jinny J’s witness statement got discredited because she was a working girl. Character assassination pure and simple.
Following that, D4-VID’s statement was then dismissed as irrelevant.
Yaroh Uron’s appeal had collapsed and he was hauled back to jail. He wouldn’t be leaving Black Dolphin for a long time unless we did something else.

Had to be a link between Lavanchy and Twistom, we’d dug into Lavanchy and he looked clean, had to be something out of sight, something we’d missed, did Twistom have his foot on Lavanchy’s neck? Time to go deeper.

Later I ran automated hunter/seeker protocols on Wyatt Lavanchy with the widest parameters that were manageable and used an algorithm to cross reference all the hits it got. It came back with a single positive that we’d not encountered before and dumped a vid-file on my Nonohiki.
Long range security footage from a while ago displayed an open, green space, one of only a few in Neon City, showing Wyatt Lavanchy and Benedict Twistom together, the pair of them in pastel, cream, orange  and salmon coloured pants, polo necks and cardigans.  An image-match on the sprawling background skyline identified its location as somewhere in the Fortified Residential Zone; a golf course, where they were playing golf together. We’d have to check it out further.

​That night my media-slab pinged, the little algorithm I’d left squatting on Falcon Lockley’s desk-slab system had just booted itself, woken by keywords I’d instructed it to track, it had pinged me cloned messages of Falcon and his hunting party’s plans to go back out into The Wilderness in a week with the intention of bagging another prize, he was determined to get his stuffed bear.
We made sure that Urus Konicek and Neidzwiedz would be waiting.

1st May 2021

Another Saturday night and I’m logged into Meet on my PC.

Time for the next part of Matakishi’s Wired Neon Cities campaign.

​One hot, crammed tram ride took us into Highway Zero, where typically narrow streets gave way to asphalt roads wide enough to accommodate Neon City’s overpass network at street level, the only district in The City of Electric Dreams to do so, resulting in an unending, low, dull, background rumble that saturated the air.
Midday was getting dangerously close when we reached the rentacop precinct, a brick-fronted corner unit with a heavy glass and steel door situated in a block of businesse locations. Brutal waves of heat hadn’t deterred the scores of news-vultures from gathering outside, ten deep. The Snot Robber had been just weird enough to catch the public’s imagination and the press knew when they were on to a good story.
D4-VID’s diminutive, silver-grey, brushed poly-aluminium frame could be seen in the jostling, hollering mob, so we made ourselves known to him.
The bot-caster came over to us and explained that they were expecting rentacop to release a press statement within the hour.
We told D4-VId that there might be something else to this arrest and asked if he was in? He agreed instantly, if there was a different angle, he knew a big exclusive could be scored.

With some effort we worked our way round the gathered journos until we reached the way in flanked by two jacked-up rentacop uniforms, they regarded us through their standard issue mirrored Poviat shades.
Bill stepped up and spun them about us being Wilheim Woldt’s legal counsel, worked and to be fair, was probably as close to the truth that he could get, we pushed through the sturdy door.
Inside the precinct, it was quiet, insulated from the heat and noise outside the walls. Ggently humming aircon cooled the reception, while subtle, diffused wall lighting gave it an air of calm, as designed, no doubt by some committee of psychologists. We crossed the polished stone floor to a reception desk, more hardened polymer bunker than anything else, with a sheet of thick reinforced transparent acrylic separating us from the desk sergeant.
A stocky man in an ill-fitting rentacop mock uniform, he dragged his eyes away from the slab he was fixated with to watch us close in with a slack jawed, surprised expression.
“Legal counsel for Wilheim Woldt,” Bill stated, leaning into the acrylic.
The desk sergeant couldn’t conceal a scoff.
“That one’s going down,” he replied. “Open and shut, a waste of your time. He was caught with all the noses!”.
Bill didn’t skip a beat and leant into the screen again.
“Legal counsel for Wilheim Woldt.”

A uniform strode deeper into the precinct after being summoned by the out-of-sorts desk sergeant and we followed. Behind the corporate facade of the precinct’s front was a complex of plain and dull grey, workmanlike corridors that interconnected various different rooms and were lit by bleak, white striplights.
Wilheim was sitting on a shaped plastic chair, waiting for us in an interview room when we came in. He was a thin-faced man that appeared gaunt under an unflattering spotlight embedded in the ceiling and wore a miserable, almost shocked expression. After the uniform was gone, we got him to give us the low-down while D4-VID filmed.

Wilheim actually had a job, working as a landlord managing a number of properties throughout Rokkaku Dai Heights. Yesterday he was in a vacated apartment, prepping it for a new tenant when he came across a package that had recently been delivered and was addressed to the previous tenant.
It had split open, spilling its gruesome contents; a handful of bloody noses now scattered across the bare floorboards. Naturally, he had called rentacop, who, when they arrived, promptly arrested and charged him with being The Snot Robber!
Kuto Shiko had been the previous tenant, Wilheim told us. The name was somehow familiar to us….
Wilheim went on, explaining that Kuto Shiko had been his tenant for a year before she vacated the apartment about a month ago.
It had been about a month ago that The Snot Robber had first struck, two threads were now tying them together.

There wasn’t much more that we could get out of Wilheim, and as he was led back to his cell deeper within the precinct, we spoke with the lead investigating officers, they seemed very confident in the strength of their case.
As his legal counsel, we had to be given access to the evidence. Another uniform led us into a different part of the precinct and to a chilly, locked viewing room, it’s climate lowered to zero in order to preserve the evidence. The precinct had no morgue facilities.
Being residents of Neon City, we weren’t acclimatised to this cold, our breath billowed in steamy clouds ahead of us and we could feel the slight burn of cold air biting on exposed skin.

The cold room lacked furniture, save for a table with a box containing the evidence which was being kept in a transparent polythene zipper back.
Pulling it out, we examined it. It wasn’t the chilled noses we were interested in, it was the burlywood coloured packaging. Kuto Shiko’s name and the apartment address had been handwritten.
“That looks like a woman’s style of handwriting,” piped in D4-VID, staring at the package. It looked like he gave the robotic equivalent of a shrug and continued. “It matches parameters stored in my archives, I’ve seen this sort of thing before,”
Other than the handwriting, the packaging contained the post stamp of the delivering courier.
Something to work on at least and we were starting to feel the cold, time to leave. Returning the evidence to it’s box, we exited the room back into reasonable temperature and made our way out of the precinct.

With the clamour outside the precinct behind us, we got out of the unforgiving sky in a small greasy eatery that was the kind favoured by the transportation workers who rolled into Highway Zero and went about following up our leads.
Contacting the courier got us nothing, they had picked up the package from one of the multitude of anonymous self-service postal drop-lockers that dotted Rokkaku Dai Heights. 
So next, we turned to Kuto Shiko and immediately got something. I’d been scouring her MyFaceSpace account and had gotten a hit.

We’d seen the name Kuto Shiko before, encountering it when we’d crossed paths with her ex-girlfriend, Royla Ovalev. A while back we’d found a maniacal Royla and stopped her trying to torture Yaroh Uron to death.
“I’ll get her!” Royla had feverishly screamed back then and struggled while Trigger had dragged her off Yaroh.
At the time, in that candle lit room, thick with heavy incense, it’d meant nothing.
But now, my mind went back to the creepy shrine adorned with a blood splashed photo of a young woman and in that dim, flickering yellow light, I remembered the photo had a name; Kuto Shiko. We’d even seen Kuto Shiko working as a waitress at Pie-in-the-Sky, a restaurant here in Highway Zero

How did I remember this? Kuto’s MyFaceSpace account had the answer. I’d been scrolling through her profile’s timeline and seen the last few posts from Royla.
There’d been a series of exchanges between the two: Kuto had dumped Royla and Royla had taken it badly, Kuto had mocked her about this and it only intensified Royla’s erratic emotional state.
The final two exchanges between them had read:
“Seriously Royla you’re cutting off your nose to spite your face,”  Kuto had said.
“I H8 U!” was Royla’s reply.
“Srysly? You go gurl,”
“I’ll show you what nose cutting really is,”
Too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence, Kuto’s old address must have been getting the noses delivered from Royla, she had to be The Snot Robber.

Rolya Ovalev’s apartment was in The Heights, we’d been there before and rushed over on the overcrowded tramline. She had to be stopped before she struck again.
The apartment was situated in one of The Height’s social-housing graded, dull grey and under-maintained high-rises, Trigger’s thermal sweep showed no heat signatures inside.
No time for subtly, for a second time Trigger kicked the door open.

Inside, it was a mess, the apartment was in disarray, refuse had been strewn across the apartment floors, broken crockery was scattered everywhere,as well as utensils, clothes, upturned shelves and more. Long chunks had been repeatedly gouged out of the stud walls and broken furniture, most likely a large knife was the cause. It looked like the knife had been put through a wall-slab as well.
In the living room we found a large hardcopy poster-map of Golden Gai draped from a wall, Royla had drawn a pentagram on the map. It consisted of a number of spots that had also been marked on the map; she'd drawn lines between those spots and these lines had formed the shape of the pentagram. Abruptly, we realised that those spots were locations where The Snot Robber - where Royla had struck. Looking closer and crossing data, we realised there was a pattern; according to the dates, attacks were taking place around the pentagram in a clockwise pattern.
Not only that, on the map, next to the location where each attack took place, there were two smeared ticks in what looked like dried blood, except one, which had only a single tick. There was a lurch in my gut, the location of Royla’s next attack, that had to be it?
Time was tight, but before we left, we searched the rest of Royla’s apartment. There was nothing that would help us find her but amongst the carpet of trash in the kitchen area we found the same burlywood coloured packaging we’d seen back at the Highway Zero precinct, the final nail in the coffin.
Royla had to be stopped.

It was a quick ride and transfer to and from Shibuya Terminal to the Corporate Monorail, the comfortable, smooth ride into Shinjuku Station belied our uneasiness. The day was wearing on and in a couple of hours Golden Gai would be flooded by the evening crowds, meandering tourists, suited wage-monkeys and run-of-the-mill Neon City revellers, a plentiful hunting ground for The Snot Robber and a nightmare for us, Golden Gai’s topographical maze didn’t help
In the east, the cloudless blue-white sky was beginning to fail, inextricably consumed by the hungry rise of a darkening canopy as, on the final leg of our journey, the tram rumbled into Golden Gai.
As day acquiesced to night, the temperature would dip modestly and tumultuous soot-coloured rain clouds would gather, soon after the night-long downpours would begin.

An abundance of drinking venues populated the particularly narrow and unpredictably branching streets of Golden Gail which convolutedly crossed other thoroughfares like an erratically spun web spread throughout massive concrete canyons.
Looking around, we found some vantage points and settled in to observe, Koko grabbed her control-slab and instructed Kevin up high to sweep the area with advanced optics in a slow circular patrol.
Time passed, street lights ticked and hummed into flickering life as we watched wasted wage-monkeys mixing with surly street goths, no-hopers and flamboyant fashionistas in the latest Desullo, Shaguaifu and Hysteric Mini Seibu lines. Over comms, Koko told us that Kevin was tracking someone that met the drone’s search parameters, she fed visuals to the rest of us.
He was a burly man, decked out all in black; a voluminous high-necked black cape was layered over a black Tremeita Hiaki greatcoat which was in turn layered over a three-piece black Gaongha suit. The look was finished off with some sort of tall top hat and he carried a black walking stick tipped in a faux-silver heel and with a replica ivory handle and a imitation leather Mahakam suitcase fashioned in the style of a old-school doctor’s bag
We watched as he flitted somewhat unconvincingly from shadow to shadow? This didn’t look like Royla, was she in some kind of disguise?

Before we could assess the situation, Kevin’s motion detector picked up something, it was moving fast. An ephemeral distortion seemingly surrounded Top Hat man as somewhere from above, the featureless profile of a ninja had dropped down, no time to think or even react! With a single swing, the ninja’s Ninjato flashed over Top Hat’s face and he flopped to the sidewalk with a cry, holding his bloodied face.
The Snot Robber had struck again.

Trigger had left his spot and was running towards Top Hat now, but seemingly The Snot Robber had vanished in the moment it’d took Trigger to get there? Trigger immediately switched to thermals and spotted The Snot Robber slinking away, he lunged and hit out with his gunblade, landing a solid blow, the air rippled and ninja reappeared, a long split in the ninja-yoroi’s silhouetted profile exposed the paper-thin, elaborately complex microcircuitry beneath, stealth-tech - and it’d been compromised!
Koko sent in Sylvester and Felix to attack and Roderrick also unloaded the now visible Snot Robber, the explosive flechettes were too much and they went down.

Quickly, we checked Top Hat, he’d taken a serious injury the face, but wasn’t in a critical condition and to prove that Neon City never lost its sense of irony, we discovered that Top Hat, who would be The Snot Robber’s final victim, was actually Doctor Grippen, the cosmetic surgeon we’d heard about who’d been making so much bank from the attacks!
Next, our attention was turned to the ninja, the mask was peeled away and Royla was revealed, The Snot Robber had been stopped.

Rentacop at Highway Zero had announced the capture of The Snot Robber in the morning but hadn’t given the press a name, which was fortunate for Wilheim Woldt. Later, he was quietly released without fuss allowing rentacop to retain the mote of credibility they had before they issued a press statement identifying Royla Ovalev as The Snot Robber.

Before we had the chance to call it a day, Bill’s media-slab pinged, caller ID told him it was Mister Blank, which is why Bill was surprised when he found a Mexican woman on the other end.
She was unsettled, crying and on the verge of hysteria. Between gasping breaths, she explained with a shaking voice that she had been told to call Bill and he needed help right now?
Bill tried to make sense of it, asking the woman to elaborate, but there was only a moment of overloud, distorted clattering as something collided with the media-slab, followed by silence. 
“No, don’t go,” Bill heard a voice, muffled and distant say.
Then, more silence.

The line to the other slab was still open. I quickly jacked into the GLOWNET, it’s vividly coloured, angular, pulsating info-scape replacing physical reality before my eyes, I searched the thousands of constantly updating data-flows closest to me, Bill’s media-slab connection was easy to find and I launched a tracing-protocol that allowed me follow his connection to Blank’s slab, got a fix on the location; western Akihabara.
The flier powered through the furious downpour and Neon City’s nighttime sky-traffic, Koko navigated high-rise cubic silhouettes, delineated only by grids of window lights and which formed the cityscape.

The fix on Blank’s slab had led us to a nondescript and inadequately lit Akihabra back alley, its sparsely placed street lights seemed to weakly illuminate nothing but gleaming raindrops caught in their hazy, semi-spherical light scatter.
In a flurry of turbine driven rain and wind, the flier set us down and then, with a deep engine-hum lifted off. The fix got stronger as we went into the thoroughfare, a few small shop fronts and businesses were dotted throughout the alley with customers backlit against the night as they came and went. Following the fix took us to the doorway of a shady looking back street surgery, lights were on but it looked closed for the night and that was unusual? These kinds of unlicensed street docs made most of their bank during the hours of darkness, plying their trade on clients who didn’t appreciate any questions.
I couldn’t help but notice that someone had broken and ripped up the corner of a paving stone close to the wall so they could piggy-back off of the city’s juice. A heavy-duty insulated and rubberised cable ran from the exposed junction box and had been squeezed under the surgery’s door, it wasn’t locked and inside was a reception.
Empty; nobody was in the meagrely furnished reception, nothing of note either and the desk-slab was cold. The rubberised cable snaked its way out of the room, so we followed.
It wound its way down some steps that led down into the basement, at the foot of the stairs there was some dim light.
As we crept down, the basement came into view, the steps opened up into what we’d come to recognise as a back street doc’s surgery; an undecorated and grubby out-of-the-way room, equipped with dated Saengdal medtech.

Our attention was drawn to the contraption that dominated the centre of the room, suspended in some sort of  polythene and gel harness was a skinless man, he was still alive and several tubes had been inserted into various parts of his body, pumping various fluids around. It was then that we realised that he was missing multiple organs and the tubes were keeping him alive! The work of organ jackers. Eyes from an unrecognisable face stared at us through spectacles.
“Help me’” came the plea from a lipless mouth..
I felt my gut lurch when we caught on to who it was; Mister Blank!
His media-slab was on the floor here, next to an old fashioned mop and bucket, bubbly water still filled it.
A call was put into a trauma team, Mister Blank had good credit and it’d only be a few minutes before they got here.
Mister Blank’s speech was barely recognisable, but he informed us that he’d failed to win over Olivia, the love of his life and she still didn’t have any feelings for him. He thought it might’ve been his skin condition, so he came here to Doctor Zephyr’s surgery for a skin replacement. Zephyr took his skin off, but instead of supplying new skin, he helped himself to Blank’s organs, hooked him up to this ramshackle life support system and left!
When the cleaning lady had arrived, she’d shrieked in shock, Mister Blank had managed to convince her to call Bill before she fled in horror. He seemed regretful of his decision to have a skin transplant.
Soon after this, the trauma team arrived and carted Mister Blank off to a med-tech facility.

It didn’t take long to get some contact details on one Doctor Xavier Zephyr, time to check him out.
Bill pinged him but only got voicemail, looked like Zephyr had already skipped town on the bank for Blank’s organs and hadn’t given a return date, probably never.
Just in case though, Bill left a message saying he was looking for inexpensive organ upgrades.
It had gotten late into the night and in the thundering downpour, we headed home.

​A new day brought old problems because the City of Electric Dreams never did know when to quit it. Bad news was the pulsating lifeblood of Neon City and the newsvines obligingly pumped it out and circulated it through every sprawling prefecture and crowded district.

Bigfoot had been spotted in the streets of Akihabara if the vines were to be believed! The story wasn’t what caught our attention though, it was the address: A few days ago, at the behest of Mister Blank, we’d relocated some retro-tech, off-the-grid squatters from his property to that same address.
The situation was unclear and we took a ride back out to the address in Akihabara, with the elevator still out of order, headed up to the loft by foot.

There was no indication of the music that the squatters liked to blare out loudly so much as we walked up to the loft, other than Neon City’s typical dull, background murmur, it was quiet.
Initially the loft, partially lit as it was by hazy, rectangular spots of sunlight that streamed through skylights, seemed empty, unoccupied. Then we saw dried patches of blood, accumulated in puddles on the old dusty carpet or smeared across walls, an unmistakable, pungent odour of wet fur hung in the air. There were no bodies here, they must have been carted off, were there any survivors, it looked unlikely? It was a harsh fate; putting them here had taken them out of Blank’s sights and the reach of any thugs he might hire. But the truth is; when Neon City wants to put you in the dirt, she’s going to put you down.
Carefully avoiding the bloodstains, we searched the loft and in the detritus we found torn, brown wrapping paper labelled in Mandarin as traditional Chinese medicine, it looked out of place amongst the personal belongings of the squatters who’d been here? The wrapping paper gave us an address; Doctor Wei Bao-Bi in Akihabara.
Looking further, we found the large bloody paw prints throughout the loft that must have belonged to some massive animal; maybe Bigfoot?
Almost subconsciously, I lightly brushed my fingertips reassuringly over the textured grip of one of my .45 ACPs.
The footprints led close to a wall and up to the loft’s roof access.

We clambered out of the loft and under the cloudless, glaring blue-white sky with it’s pummelling heat and scanned the undulating rooftops. In some shade we spotted a bear! It had been sleeping, but as we had gotten up, with a low growl, it had stirred and began rising.
Enormous muscles rippled under its fur as it manoeuvred to its feet, bared teeth and swore at us, another uplifted bear! Quickly Bill spoke to it and calmed it down.
‘Old Ben’ was his name, he told us.
Ben went on to explain that he was tired, just wanted to sleep and needed to get to a forest. He had no memories of his current predicament, just a vague recollection of being shot?
Then Ben had woken in a strangely smelling darkened room with a small man screaming at him, reflexively, he’d struck out at the man, grabbed some of the packaging from the room and fled.
He had wandered the streets of Akihabara in a disorientated fugue as the panicking crowds had peeled away from him. In this state of confusion he had gone into the loft and encountered a lot of angry, young people there, his memory wasn’t clear but he’d gone into a rage.

Ben didn’t seem a danger right now, leaving him here risked the authorities, or even worse, Rentacop finding him, that would spell trouble for him. We decided to move him to our RV. Koko remotely pulled the flier over and we took Ben and met up with the RV in one of Highway Zero’s vast asphalt parking lots.
It worked out well, the RV was currently empty, RAM Rat was nowhere to be found and the Party Favours that we’d stowed here were taking a break from their activities.
As we sent the RV off on its automated route, we knew that Ben couldn’t stay there long, he’d told us he needed to sleep and the only forests that could be found in Neon were constructed of concrete and glass.
We could only see one course of action and contacted Urus Konicek and Neidźwiedź from the outsider settlement; The Enclave. There would be space enough for Ben in the extended wilderness beyond the walled confines of Neon City. Urus told us that they would collect Ben late tonight.

An unforgiving sun had passed its zenith over Neon City and the day’s heat had begun to wane, though it was still at the limits of toleration. Thanks to what Ben had told us, there was a Chinese medicine shop in Akihabara we had an inclination to visit.
The Wei Bao-Bi shop had a small and traditionally styled, glass fronted faux-wood facade, the once brightly coloured signage that announced it sold traditional Chinese medicine had now faded, it was also shut and in Neon City, nothing was shut in the day, something was wrong.
Lights were off in the shop and nothing could be seen through the windows, Trigger’s thermals also gave him nothing. It was easy for him to jemmy the old lock open and unhesitatingly enter, he became immediately aware of a stink that he associated with the stench of death, the shopfront looked clear and the rest of us entered.
The shelves were packed with scores of jars, boxes, drawers and packets, practically from floor to ceiling and all labelled in Mandarin. Behind the glass counter, a door led to the backrooms, we searched a couple of them, a store room and an office before we came across the body of a small Chinese man slumped awkwardly in a pool of his own dried blood with a row of bloody scarlet wounds gouged across his face and throat, clearly the cause of his demise. Laying in the dried blood and clutched in one twisted hand was some sort of pumping apparatus.
Old Ben had definitely been here.

We looked around, it took us a moment to realise that this room was different to the others, it was mostly empty, no stock or supplies here. Rows of strange tools filled a rack along one wall and beneath it was a functional, plain steel table, along another wall was a small desk and behind the stink of the man’s death was a peculiar pickled smell?
The Jinonghua landline on the desk was winking a red LED at us, we went over and jabbed the ansaphone playback stud, a tinny speaker spouted out a crackling audio message from a man who called himself Falcon Lockely; something about going out on another hunting trip?
Usually, on the desk was also some actual ‘paper’ paperwork, an invoice from Doctor Wei Bao-Bi for taxidermy service to Falcon Lockley at the Margorba-Golina Global Corporation, for stuffing one bear! Looked like Old Ben had escaped a darker fate.
There wasn’t anything else to be found here, so we headed out.

Daylight was failing, the diffused globe of red light that was the sun began slipping behind Neon City's soaring western skyline and shadows lengthened as we rolled into Hikage Street.
We never got home though as our media-slabs pinged.
Neon City wasn’t done with us yet.

Captain Ocano was the name given by whoever was on the other side of the line, told us he had a job and to meet him at the Shinjuku Precinct for a briefing.
Another day, another precinct, Ocano had to be rentacop.
Going to Shinjuku meant going back to Shibuya Terminal and hitting the Corporate Monorail to the Shinjuku-Cho prefecture. The workday had ended, but you’d never have guessed from the monorail; a world away from the crowded, noisy, overheated tramlines. Adaptive climate control kept Neon City’s harsh temperatures at bay and the seats were comfortable and well spaced, even then, it was never more than partially full, only the top percenters and corporate execs had access to the monorail, and of course us, thanks to Porter Sladek. With our ripped denims, suspiciously bulging fatigue jackets or cracked and worn black leather dusters we kicked back and had our combat boots up on the deep, well upholstered seats while the other commuters with their designer Gaongha business suits gave us the sidelong stink-eye and kept their distance. We wouldn’t have it any other way.

The nightly downpour was well underway by the time we’d exited the monorail and navigated the narrow, busy footways to the precinct. Outside it was typically a rentacop bunker, the featureless brick-fronted facade had a single steel and glass door that led into a sparse reception. A quick conversation with the desk sergeant behind his screen got us through security and upstairs and into the precinct’s hub. Originally an open plan room with beige walls and worn, stained grey carpeting, it was now populated by acrylic-walled cubicles and dividers, occupied with uniforms, suited rentacops and numerous civilian contractors.
Justice didn’t only come here to die, it came for the long doughnut break too.
A uniform led us along one beige wall to a row of actual offices, one of which was emblazoned with the title; Captain Ocano.

He was a tall, burly and dark-skinned man with short, greying black hair and a moustache so out-of-fashion, it’d come back into fashion and gone out of it again decades ago. He wore a mismatched brown Kuabha jacket and grey Shaguaifu suit trousers, somehow neither of which fit, a creased, undersized eggshell coloured Jala shirt and a particularly drab Ecohio tie? There was an irritated scowl on his face when he rose from his desk to greet us and he spoke in what could only be described as an outside voice.
Halfway through explaining to us that we’d been recommended by Juicy J, he interrupted himself and took the opportunity to shout through the glass wall at some random rentacop.
Ocano went on to tell us about Miguel Fernandez, a rentacop from the precinct who’d gone undercover to infiltrate the Kibukicho Flesh Cartel.
Ocano had sent someone from the precinct to bring in Miguel from the organisation, during the extraction, Miguel had recognised the rentacop and fled, yelling something about rentacop trying to kill him.
Ocano was worried that Miguel had gone native during his time undercover and wanted outsiders to bring him in, Miguel wouldn’t see us coming. He then filled us in about the Flesh Cartel.
It operated out of Southern Kibukicho and was known for its involvement with pimps, the ‘skin-trade’ and other exploitation. The Flesh Cartel was headed by Usman ‘Emir’ Kasim, a canny leader who styled himself as ‘The King of Pimps’. Ocano also gave us some intel of their turf and hangouts, as well as photos of the gangers - including Miguel Fernandez.

We took the flier to Kibukicho, it effortlessly powered through the driving rain and soon we were in stealth-mode, hovering over one of Neon City’s few small open spaces and well known Flesh Cartel haunt
Pedestrians and passer-bys streamed through the area and several smallish groups loitered around, Koko flipped the external cameras to infrared and swept the square, almost immediately, the facial recog got a hit, Miguel was down there. Now we needed a strategy to get him out.
Jokingly, I told Trigger to use a bungee cord to drop down and grab Miguel.

I was in the flier’s washroom for only a couple of minutes but when I came out, the floor access hatch had been slid open and Trigger was in the process of securing a bungee cord he’d sourced from a storage locker around his ankle. Dumbstruck and before I could explain anything, he’d jumped! We stood by helplessly as the coiled and elasticated cord was speedily dragged through the hatch into the night.
On the flier’s screens we watched Trigger plummet, then rapidly decelerate as he closed in on the ground and Miguel; for an infinitesimal moment he seemed to have stopped moving altogether and simply hung in the air as the cord had reached its maximum elasticity. Trigger’s arms flailed awkwardly as he completely missed the mark and was yanked skyward by the contracting cord. The Flesh Cartel gangers collectively yelped when they saw Trigger bouncing back up, pulling pistols, they began shooting at him!
The bungee reached the top of its upward trajectory and Trigger was now headed back down again, only now through a hail of gunfire, this time he’d get Miguel, but no, it was another flailing miss and Miguel had decided to run for it. Trigger was yelling instructions through the comms and Koko eased the flier in the direction of the fleeing man.
“I’ll get him this time!” I heard Trigger doggedly shout over comms optimistically.
Now also swaying alarmingly, Trigger came diving back down to try and grab Miguel for a third time - and failed again!
The other gangers had continued firing on the moving target that was Trigger and he caught a round. It was all enough for him and he cut the bungee cord, dropped to the ground and chased Miguel on foot. Maybe multiple bungee jumps had left Trigger disorientated or it was the greasy rain-covered terrain, but, despite his augmented speed, he couldn’t keep up with Miguel, losing both his footing and sight of him.

The attempt to get Miguel had failed spectacularly, we picked Trigger up and retreated out of sight.

For the next few hours we lurked in the black, rainy skies above South Kibukicho, patrolling, watching, waiting. Eventually facial recog caught Miguel Fernandez showing his face again, he was alone and looking skittish. A vulnerable but tricky mark.
While we’d been waiting, we’d discussed our next move and had come up with a new strategy.

Bill was already down on street level, ready and waiting when we pinged him. Nanite implants and vocal augments allowed him to disguise himself as Usman Kasim and he moved to intercept his mark while Koko landed the flier close as possible. Approaching Miguel, Bill managed to convince him that he was Usman, then he convinced him to come into the flier.
Miguel was shocked to see the rest of us there as he came in, I could see he was thinking of running, but with four of us, no chance of getting away and he knew it..
Bill then tried calming him down, told him that Ocano had no bad intentions for him, he said that the Captain just wanted Miguel brought back in. Miguel seemed to relax, but we kept an eye on him.
The flight back to the Shinjuku precinct was uneventful and we escorted Miguel back to Captain Ocano.
As thanks, Captain Ocano gave us one of his business cards.
“Use this if you ever get in trouble with the cops,” he shouted.

​It was the small hours, rain hadn’t let up, never did; we left Shinjuku and dodged through the graveyard traffic, rushing to pick Old Ben up from the RV in Highway Zero. At night, the sight of the unending flow of three hundred KPH grid-locked congestion blurred into seemingly unbroken gleaming lines of red and silver.
From Highway Zero we went to southern Hikage Street, the commercial end of the district was home to the massive steel and concrete pipe system that managed part of Neon City’s infrastructure. A tangle of above-and-below pipes and tunnels that was impenetrable to the unprepared, Urus was a master at moving through them, adept at avoiding any installed security measure. It gave him free access in and out of Neon City.

Under the shelter of a large arching pipe we found Urus and Neidźwiedź waiting for us out of the street lights.
It turned out that Neidźwiedź and Old Ben knew each other and Ben was happy to go with them.
Ben had no memory of what had occurred before waking up in Akihabara. Neidźwiedź explained that it was likely a hunting party composed of pampered execs led by professional huntsmen had come out to the wilderness looking to bag something, Old Ben had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
We told them about Falcon Lockley and his intention to come out on another hunt, Neidźwiedź shrugged his massive sloped shoulders and said. “We’ll be waiting this time,”.
As a parting gift, Urus and Neidźwiedź gave us a couple of baskets filled with fresh food and took Old Ben into the maze of underground pipes and tunnels, eventually out of Neon City and into the wilderness, hopefully Ben would find what he needed there.

Last thing I did that night was to jack into the GLOWNET, finding Margorba-Golina Global’s brightly incandescent data-image, I had to go beyond the public facing and sanitised branding. A cracking algorithm got me through the security protocols, peeling the layer away, I journeyed into their data-vault, from there finding personal information on Falcon Lockley was easy, now I had his personal media-slab contact details and the server-vault they resided on.

Margorba-Golina Global fell away, reduced to a point of light as I travelled the pulsating data-flows of Neon City. The server-vault that managed the personal data-vault of Falcon’s media-slab was easier to crack than Margorba-Golina Global, I replicated a small parcel of data into the vault, it would monitor Falcon’s usage and when it got hits for hunt or wilderness, it would temporarily archive the data and ping it to me.
The next time he made a call about hunting, we would know.

Another day came, bringing with it a blaze or urine-coloured light that shone through my one-bed’s missing wall. I’d crashed on the futon still wearing my street clothes in the early hours and didn’t get up until my media-slab began its merciless pinging after lunch.

We’d gotten a call from The Accountant; the brain-in-a-suitcase we had discovered, then liberated from Yennav Rybasei and who had then assumed both the body and the identity of a cookie-cutter wage-monkey named Hayden Weyer. Last we heard of him, he was in convalescence and being cared for by Ashaglaya.
“We have a problem,” he said and pinged us his location; a warehouse in Akihabara.

Back to Akihabara, third time in as many days!
For a warehouse, it was a fairly nondescript building located in a small, anonymous and underutilized business park that was outside the retail centre of the district. The busy streets, bustle and colour of Akihabara fell away as we entered the drab business park and strode across to the warehouse.
The doors were unlocked and inside It was a surprise to find the warehouse was nothing more than a steel skeletal shell with a skin of polycarbonate cladding that lacked any interior features; no reception, visible office or stock, nothing. It was unlit save for a number of indistinct shafts of sunlight which weakly lanced through the stained and unmaintained skylights above onto the bare concrete floor.
There was a single person here, Hayden Weyers.

Hayden Weyes, The Accountant was sitting on the floor with a despondent expression on his face and gripping a media slab contemplatively in one hand.
He watched us approach and explained what was going on when we asked.

At lunch time, Hayden had gone out to get a protein shake when someone had approached him. She had the appearance of a ten year old girl and wore an enveloping shiny red vinyl coat and was chain-smoking Huhani cigarettes, it was a popular brand and Hayden had recognised its particular pungent aroma.
The girl told him that he had been activated and pressed a tiny screen-slab into his palm before briskly slipping away into the crowds. The readout was displaying a map, it showed the warehouse in Akihabara.
So Hayden had come here, found the warehouse unlocked and empty, came inside and found the data-slab. 
“I don’t believe Hayden Weyer was ever a real person, I think it was a cover for someone else,” he said, looking from one of us to another. “And I think this slab has something to do with it?”

It was obvious that the media-slab was a dead-drop burner, a one way street for communication. We didn’t have to wait long for it to ping.
Hayden switched the slab to speaker and we all listened to the call. It was a male voice, curt and guttural. 
“We are coming down now. Meet us at the terminal at sixteen-hundred hours. Don't be late.”
The call went dead, that was it.

When he had referred to coming down and terminal, it had to mean The Sky Tree, it couldn’t be anywhere else.
The City of Electric Dreams was connected to the Glitterband thousands of kilometres above via the engineering superstructure that was The Shinkansen Link, an enormous space-elevator which was anchored to Neon City at The Sky Tree. Whoever this was, he was coming down from the Glitterband.
The Sky Tree was located in Asakusa-cho prefecture, not far from Akihabara. Koko called in the flier and we headed over.

Constructed of steel, concrete and glass, with smooth, featureless, almost minimalist silver-grey exterior walls and dramatically angular edges, The Sky Tree was a monument to modernism and a colossal edifice, maybe the largest structure in Neon city. Even from kilometres away, it loomed over the horizon menacingly and dominated the skyline, dwarfing its surroundings.
The Shinkansen Link itself was a massive cord of thick, poly-carbon alloy, high tensile hexagonal cable that rose directly upwards, seemingly dematerialising into the haze of the blue-white sky and ultimately ending at the Glitterband. Each face of the hexagonal cable was wide enough to house a vertical railtrack which carried traffic and maintenance pods up and down the link. However, the behemothic luxury shuttle which served Neon City’s ultra wealthy citizens curled around the link entirely and was heavy enough to require all six vertical railway tracks to ascend or descend.
As Koko navigated the heavy aerial traffic around The Sky Tree, it expanded to fill the forward view ports, Koko circled round until we found a suitable landing pad, from there we took an elevator into arrivals.
The interior was also vast, a high vaulted ceiling rose up a score of metres, decorated in the same silver-grey colour as the exterior and janitorial robots smoothly moved around arrivals, diligently maintaining the highly polished porcelain coloured faux marble floor. Natural lighting and climate control lent it a calm, airy ambience.

There was only one reason this much bank was ever spent on anything - rich people. The Glitterband was the most exclusive location on or off Earth and The Shinkansen Link served this new aristocracy.
Because of this exclusivity, terminals were sparsely used and we watched the wealthy few coming and going, with their elite trend-setting fashions and perfectly bio-sculpted bodies, accompanied by their jacked-up personal security and bodyguards. We also noticed the high level of rentaguard that discreetly patrolled the perimeters. None of this told us who to expect.
At sixteen-hundred, on the dot, we were approached by two individuals, a well dressed, olive skinned man with an unreadable face who wore a ultra-tech blended alloy Uchike katana over a Evoda trench coat and was accompanied by a slim young woman with blue hair and almost elfin features, save emotionless, almost unblinking dark eyes.
Ignoring the rest of us. the pair made for Hayden Weyer, or so they thought! We’d told Hayden to go home and that we’d handle it, Bill was now disguised as Hayden and would have a better chance of dealing with this, hopefully they wouldn’t be suspicious enough to blow Bill’s cover.
The man spoke with the familiar guttural voice from the media-slab.
“I am Oni Tokugawa and this is my apprentice, Gemini Benedict,” he informed us. “You must immediately take us to the womb north of Neon City.”

Briefly, we all flicked suspicious glances at each other, this was no coincidence. 
A while back, beyond the northern confines of Neon City and in the green expanse that was the wilderness, we’d encountered a shuttle crash, the survivors were a child in a exowomb and his mother. The woman was Avril Heywood, daughter of Barnabas Haywood and citizen of The Messenger hab on the Glitterband, Avril was adamant that her father had been behind the attack on the shuttle and them. Currently Avril and her son were cloistered away in The Enclave.
Oni Tokugawa had to be looking for the exowomb, we asked Oni who we were searching for and he confirmed our suspicions.
What did he want with it? If he represented Barnabus Haywood, that would pose a serious risk to the boy and Avril, if not, then why was he looking for them? Asking Oni who he worked for posed too great a risk of breaking Bill’s cover.

We brought the pair of them up to our flier, lifted off and set a bearing for the wilderness. Oni provided us coordinates of what he told us was the last place the exowomb’s signal had been detected; which led directly to The Enclave.
The flier’s rumbling engine-note changed pitch as Koko took it to full speed and Neon City’s varied cityscape rolled by like undulating waves of architecture. Soon we were approaching the limits of the city and beyond that, the wall.
Oni and Gemini rebuffed any attempts we made at chat or conversation as we flew north.

An alarm pinged on Koko’s console, she looked at Oni and told him that we had no authorisation to cross the wall and began to slow the flier. The wall’’s aerial defenses were supposedly to prevent intrusion from outside but they didn’t discriminate.
“What happened to the vehicle you were provided?” Oni asked, turning to Bill.
“In the shop,” Bill replied without hesitation.
Oni gave a small exhalation of breath, I saw his eyes rapidly flicker across the components of the co-pilot’s console, barely focussing and processing some internal calculation, something I’d seen before but only rarely and likely the result of an implant that in some way altered or enhanced his behaviour, most likely analytical skills or awareness. He then took the co-pilot’s seat and began punching commands into the console.

While Oni was distracted, I took the opportunity to quickly warn Urus that trouble might be coming the Enclave’s way.

A few moments later and the alarm on Koko’s console died, she scrutinised her console and saw the flier’s transponder code had altered, a small row of red readouts winked green, access to cross the city wall had been granted and Koko picked up speed.

With Neon City in the rear, the Wilderness’ verdant landscape unfolded ahead of us, our previous foray had been at ground level and we couldn’t appreciate its vast richness this vantage point now afforded us. Long rippling grasses extended across the rolling plains, wavering forests spread over hazy, distant and steep hills and in the lowering, afternoon sunlight glimmered off faraway lakes and rivers.

As the distance to The Enclave continued to diminish, our screens showed The Enclave’s defences coming online, wall mounted gun turrets swivelling to face us. Oni instructed us to prepare weapons. His attention wasn’t on The Enclave though, he’d angled one of the flier’s external cameras skywards, searching for something else? I saw his gaze go distant for a second, the implant was processing.
“They’re here!” He announced, looking up with a hint of finality.

Before we could respond, sudden turbulence rocked the flier, we had to brace ourselves to stay in our seats and Koko fought to retain control.
There was a tremendous roar as whatever had passed us landed close to The Enclave, throwing up immense quantities of dust and smoke. After training a camera on the object, it was switched through thermal, infrared, night vision and real time image enhancement until we saw what it was; something we’d only ever seen on screens.
The massive flat-bottomed teardrop shape was the profile of a Qiuonriji Tihu class dropship, designed to rapidly deploy ground troops from an orbital point of origin. It was a serious piece of military hardware and it hadn’t come from Neon City.
A split suddenly appeared in the side of the convex teardrop and a gangway dropped open, slamming into the ground.
Immediately; Shock Troopers in Tzedesp combat armour swiftly disembarked out of the dropship in combat formation, streaming directly for The Enclave. It was unlikely that The Enclave had the firepower to repel them, even so, gunfire erupted from both sides.

“They’ve come to kill the child, “ Oni said grimly. “Set us down close to their dropship and protect him.”
As Koko complied with the instruction, I ran a recog algorithm on a symbol on the dropship and got a hit. The symbol was attributed to The Messenger habitat, Barnabus Haywood had made his move.
We didn’t know anything about Oni and Gemini but it was a case of the enemy of my enemy, at least for now.
Before the flier had touched down, both Oni and Gemini jumped the final metre to the ground and strode purposely in the direction of the dropship.
Fighting was fierce and the Enclave’s walls had been quickly breached and that’s where we headed.
Our two pronged attack was effective and the Messenger shock troopers hadn’t expected an attack on their flank from outside the walls. Our assault put them on the back foot and drove rearward as we fought our way into the Enclave’s complex and towards the hospital. Oni and Gemini meanwhile, had struck hard at the rear files of soldiers, their enhanced melee combat abilities allowed them to drive a wedge through the enemy’s formation, causing chaos.
All discipline collapsed, the Messenger’s vanguard was forced to retreat into their own troops who were in a state of disarray and communication had broken down. Sensing victory, the Enclave defenders pressed their advantage.
The shock troopers then routed, fleeing into the wilderness, abandoning their dropship. A silence settled on the small battle site as the outsiders counted their casualties, fortunately we were unhurt, as were Oni and Gemini.

Oni demanded to be taken to the exowomb, so we did. It was of course empty, Avril and her son were safely hidden away from here. Oni looked at us implacably as we explained that the exowomb had already been found and the child had been safely extricated, now both mother and son were somewhere safe.
I could see Oni’s eyes unfocus for a moment again, calculating the situation, assessing variables, he knew they were unlikely to find the boy alone, he also realised that we’d interacted with his mother, he was aware of the questions to ask us but had probably also computed the answers. In the end he settled on a direct approach and turned to Bill.
“Contact Avril Haywood,” he said. “And tell her that Michael Leander wants to take his family to Emptiness,”

After we explained the situation to Avril, she was happy to return to the Glitterband with Oni, Gemini, Avril and the boy. It was probably the safest place for him.
We said our goodbyes to the outsiders and returned to Neon City. It was dark when we left and night had draped a starry sky over the wilderness, without the rain clouds, the empyrean was decorated with constellations and nebulae. Meanwhile, the landscape that rushed past below the flier had been consumed by the void, a darkness so encompassing that it would be unimaginable in Neon City with its seemingly endless lines and grids of lights.
Red gloaming light pollution rose over the horizon as we neared Neon City, light rain began splattering on the flier’s roof, intensifying as we closed in and by the time we passed the wall, it had become the familiar heavy torrent we knew so well.

Must’ve been past midnight by the time we’d reached the landing pads at the Sky Tree. After that we escorted everyone down to departures, it was another vast well maintained high vaulted terminal with a faux marble floor.
Before going their way, Avril turned to us and thanked us for what we’d done, then told us that should we ever be up in space, that we should meet up with her.
The four of them went through check-in and out of sight.

It was well past midnight now, enough time to hit happy hour on the bars at Dogenzaka Hill.

24th April 2021

Saturday has rolled round again, I'm logged on to Meet on PC.

Time for the next session in Matakishi's Wired Neon City campaign.

Location: Neon City

Nosily searching through the accumulated yellow-hued junk in my one-bed after I woke from last night's chemically fuelled excess got me nothing; no food, nothing. Time to hit Hikage Street, pulling on my Harbiefs and trench coat, I pocketed my .45 ACP Blockbusters before heading out.
Midmorning and the day was already too hot and it was only going to get worse, the climbing sun rose into a blue-white and cloudless sky, emitting uncaring waves of heat down on to Neon City, only compounded by the dense passing crowds of Hikage Street no-lifers that shuffled along the busy, grey concrete roads. Something was different on the street though, sure, unusual for me to be out this early but that wasn't it, couldn't put my finger on it.
Wasn't until I was coming back from the convenience store, having blown the last of this month's universal credit on Niaiwo Noodles, a six-pack of Huntudi Lager and a pocket stuffed full of Savka choco-sticks that I figured it out: The Poison Jam graffiti tags that had been ubiquitously sprayed throughout Hikage Street had been covered by another tag.

'Magical Girl is coming.'

Never heard of Magical Girl? Maybe they were another of Neon City's many street gangs I wondered as I sank my teeth into a bio-genetically-flavour-enhanced, endorphin-triggering choco-stick, feeling the chemically-driven slight electric tingle cascading down my spine.
​Were they planning to move on to Poison Jam street turf or was it something else?
Whatever it was, someone had put their foot on Poison Jam's neck, things were going to get hotter still.

Last night a message had been dead-dropped into the pocket of Bill's exquisitely crafted Executive Excess coat, looked to be from someone called Viper Joe, told us to meet him at Freak Pit, a well known underground combat venue where augmented fighters fought it out, Freak Pit had big-time streaming viewership and even bigger gambling numbers involved, too big for authorities to shut down.
Freak Pit could be found in the Senkawa Aqueduct neighbourhood, it meant riding the crammed, noisy tram into Sunshine City, transferring on to the luxuriously exclusive and well maintained corporate monorail service to the Toshima-cho prefecture, then forgoing it's comfort to transfer again, this time another low grade tram to the Senkawa Aqueduct.

Disembarking at our destination, we were greeted by the sight of an expansive red glow from the setting sun silhouetting Toshima-cho's angular western skyline which cast long shadows that inexorably climbed up taller eastern buildings and consumed the day's red-orange dying light.
Senkawa Aqueduct was an unwelcoming grey and grotty neighbourhood of anonymous sprawling industrial asphalt, sporadically populated by strips of mostly featureless buildings of unknowable purpose. The view was dominated by the imposing concrete block which constituted the Black Dolphin Gulag, Neon City's supermax correctional facility which supposedly housed the most dangerous individuals in the city or in reality, people who had crossed the paths of the wealthy and powerful.

Street lights had begun flickering into buzzing life and shone down on the swathe of bobbing umbrellas raised against the oncoming and unrelenting nightly downpour. The crowds began to thin out and eventually melted away as we turned into a neglected and barely lit road that led to Freak Pit.
The fight venue looked to be situated in a dismal and mostly unlit building site, cadaverous remains of an unfinished commercial park, one of many that dotted Neon City, abandoned as a cost-cutting measure by some corporation or other no doubt.
Makeshift spotlights ringed Freak Pit, soaking it and the milling, cheering crowd in a glaring blaze of harsh light while music thumped out of a massive sound system, Senonable wall-slabs hung above it all, brightly displaying footage of the combat below.

We found Viper Joe somewhere in the crush, he was a large guy and a frequent spectator in the arena fights who favoured dark denim and carried a pair of Prosya Grosto magnum-load revolvers, he shivered and twitched as he greeted us, making a point of not shaking our hands, his nose also ran profusely. Noticing our stares, Viper Joe explained he suspected that his running nose was the result of a  recent lung transplant that had gone awry.
Pepper checked Joe's implants and ran a diagnostic, shoddy components in the augmentations were causing Joe's problems, it was unavoidable. Pepper also told us that Joe's behaviour suggested he was a hypochondriac.
Joe was a middle-man, a street-trader who dabbled in weapons and made dollar by supplying the pit.

We got Joe to explain why he had called us. He was pretty blunt about what he wanted, he wanted us to kill someone!
He took us to a nearby building, told us to "keep to the shadows," and led us in. It was busy with numerous large open rooms given over to the medical gurneys, bio-slabs, med-techs and of course, jacked-up fighters
"Neon Suspect is his name," Joe explained, pointing into one room, at skinny man working at a desk who wore beige slacks, grey coat with a round face and a buzzcut, he was arched over a Preaavar Muanma model data-slab he was fiddling with.
"He's a hacker who works for Doctor Ishimura and codes the combat algorithms for her fighters," Joe went on. "He's my rival for her attentions and is trying to worm his way into her affections!".
Viper joe twitched as we looked at him.
"I've not told her how I feel," he abruptly blurted, almost apologetically!
He went on to explain that Neon Suspect was an expert at bio-interfacing software, coding algorithms that interacted with both higher and lower brain functions, managing behaviour and even conferring the recipient various skills. Joe was convinced that he was doing this illegally?

Despite the life we'd immersed ourselves in, we weren't the habit of just blindly rubbing out people for money, we agreed to look into it.

Dr Ishimura owned a stable of Freak Fighters that operated out the pit, she had a background in the med-industry and used old insider contacts to provide her fighters with augmentations required to stay competitive, she also supplied Joe with his replacement organs. Word was that the fighters' implants were as equally cheap as Joe's. She was also known for her garish fashion sense, germaphobia and chain-smoking.
Ishimura's fighters had suffered a long streak of losses recently and her rep was currently trash. Joe suspected that Neon Suspect was sabotaging her fighters in order to get close to her. We decided to speak with her.
Middle-aged, stocky and easily identifiable by the fluorescent canary yellow poly-blended leisure suit she wore. Dr Ishimura had just ended a conversation with Neon Suspect as we approached and was lighting up a Diria branded Mahawd. 

Bio-engineering had made it possible to reverse the addictive changes that nicotine made to brain chemistry, but people just kept smoking regardless, living for the buzz and hoping that somehow they'd have the bank to fix or replace the damaged organs later.

Dr Ishimura's eyes flicked our way and she didn't seem particularly pleased to see us when we introduced ourselves, one of her fighters had just lost another fight and she wasn't taking it well or maybe it was just her general demeanour?
With a cigarette hanging from her mouth, she pulled a small, nanite, antibacterial gel applicator from a leisure suit pocket and dowsed her hands with it.
We told her that Viper Joe suspected that someone was sabotaging her fighters as she took a long draw and listened. Once we finished explaining the situation, she exhaled and no amount of cleanliness could disguise the stink of tobacco, she rolled the cigarette between yellowed fingers as she considered her response. After moment she agreed to grant us access to her gym.
It was a dismal sight; the sour, stale stench of body odour hung in a weakly lit room littered with substandard, decade-old and failing med-tech. Several morose fighters sat slouching on benches, bristling with combat augmentations and implanted muscle packs that glistened in the underpowered strip lighting. Dr Ishimura took the opportunity to shout insults at them, voice thick with unconcealed venomous contempt.

Neon Suspect gave us a lengthy sidelong glance from the desk as we walked over to one of Dr Ishimura's sullen fighters while she was lighting her next smoke and applying more gel.
Only way I'd be sure if he was the saboteur was in the scripting of his combat software, he'd know I knew too. If it all went south, it could kick off.
I checked the fighter over, there had to be a connector of some kind? Found it! A tiny, discrete Xideti dermal implant under a small fold of grafted skin that was equipped with a networking port. Connecting my Nonohiki; I jacked in.

Swirling vectors of gleaming data points seemingly orbited me before coalescing into a stable, constant shape, a basic workman-like, almost default cubic data-image. Beyond it, on the glowing info-vista, a pale, distant horizon pulsated rhythmically, was it some kind of non-indexed vault being updated? A check showed it was simply the fighter's biometrics being fed into a data-vault.
There was a directory on the data-image's vault that pointed at a implanted micro-slab and listed the series of algorithms housed on it which interacted with the subject's brain.
After navigating over to the slab's data-vault, going through Neon Suspect's algorithms, I launched an algorithm of my own, a search algorithm and began sifting through the  stacks of data that rolled past.
Pain suppressors, reflex enhancers, situational assessment, threat prioritization and more, they were sophisticated algorithm's and all functioned nominally, no erroneous code in any of them. If Neon Suspect was the saboteur, he was sticking the knife in another way.
The info-vista faded as it spiralled away, taking the data-image with it and seemingly imploding as I jacked out, experiencing the usual infinite-moment of disorientation.

Koko and Pepper checked out the fighter's combat upgrades and weapon implants, they quickly discovered that not only were they the cheapest, lowest grade Rekhang knock-off weapons available, they'd been sabotaged!
Weapons were Viper Joe's responsibility, was someone targeting the weapons to get at Joe, or was it something else?

Neon Suspect strode over as we were discussing our next move, which was convenient because we wanted to talk to him. Pointing, the hacker explained that the fighter we'd examined was up next in the pit, he shuffled past and made for him. We watched as he networked the Muanma into the fighter's firmware, no doubt making adjustments and checks. Moments later, we saw the fighter's countenance change, his expression hardened and his back straightened, Neon Suspect's work was having its effect.
When Neon Suspect was done, we asked him about the weapons and he shrugged, telling us that they weren't his department and they should've already been fully functional. 
It was nothing Koko couldn't handle though, soon she had them online and working, working as well as they could at least.
As the fighter headed off to the pit, Neon Suspect gave him a slap on his bio-sculpted butt cheek.

Neon Suspect turned back to us and explained that from now, no one would touch the fighter until just prior to the match, then the competitors would be scanned to ensure they didn't have any unsanctioned enhancements, it was all out of his hands now he added.
We had more questions and asked him about the nature of his relationship with Dr Ishimura, he looked at us quizzically and from his answer it was apparent that he had little interest in women.
He did take a shine to Bill though and made a point of calling him William, Bill showed no interest in reciprocation.
Trigger then stated that he had an interest into entering a match in the pit.
"I look forward to working with you," Neon Suspect purred coolly, sizing Trigger up.

Beyond the confines of the building we could hear the thundering clamour of the crowd at the pit, the collective gasping, shouting and baying for blood. It continued for a while, then there was a moment of silence followed a prolonged roar; the match was over.
A minute later, with blood and sweat, Dr Ishimura's fighter, slick with sweat, blood and numerous wounds came back victorious.
Taking the opportunity, I jacked back into his firmware, the algorithms used to alter his personality had increased aggression, spatial awareness, reflexes and so on, Neon Suspect had done his job well. No evidence that he was sabotaging fighters.
Only one variable could had changed between this fight and the previous ones; weapons, Joe was responsible for weapons. Had someone been targeting Joe? Was it someone else? Or maybe it was Joe? What would be his motive?

​The Freak Pit proper was an actual pit, harsh, unremitting white light form spots above flooded the rectangular, earthy and concrete depression which was supported by a perimeter of steel reinforcement struts leftover from the abandoned construction here and bounded by a rim of barbed wire fence which was lined with hollering spectators, we went out to join them and watch the next fight.
It was Viper Joe we needed to talk to now and he was out there in the crowd watching the next match. No-hopers mingled with wage-monkeys, corporate execs and the occasional vid-celeb. Neon Suspect had also joined us, we noticed that he was staring intently at Joe with a faraway look, pretty sure now that he was actually more interested in Joe than Ishimura.
Time to check Viper Joe out.
I jacked in and the mindless roar of the crowd evaporated as the GLOWNET enveloped my consciousness, almost threatening to overload my awareness. To the uninformed observer, the localised info-vista and ensuing traffic would look normal for Neon City, but for me, the cascading flow of passing data-clusters couldn't mask the irregularity surrounding the Freak Pit's bogus data-image which seemingly led nowhere but to a dead construction company. However, beneath the dead company was something, the fight organisers had hidden data-vault of their own, those in-the-know could use it to access the fight's stream and bet on the outcomes.
Hacking the data-vault was straight forward and sifting through it's data logs, I found a record for Viper Joe. I could use it to trace and hack his credit activity. From there I saw frequent movements of bits in and out of the account, looked like payments for Joe's repeated cheap organ replacements, but nothing sizable enough to be something like a bribe.

Viper Joe was having a nose bleed and suspected he was on the verge of experiencing a major organ failure when Bill had shuffled through jostling spectators to reach him.
Bill went and told him what we'd found, told him how Neon Suspect's combat scripting was fine, how weapon's had been Dr Ishimura's problem and how we knew that he was involved. Only thing we didn't know was why?
Joe paused for a second before dabbing at his nose and taking a deep breath, he then admitted to sabotaging the weapons, he was hoping to discredit Neon Suspect to get him sacked and get closer to Ishimura.
Then Bill told him how it had all been unnecessary and how Neon Suspect was more interested in him that Ishimura! Joe's obsession had blinded him. Joe told Bill that the sabotaging would now stop and the matter could be considered closed.
​Bill wished him good luck with managing his implants and left.

After greasing some wheels with the organisers, we managed to get Trigger a match despite being an unknown fighter.
Bookies were running long odds against Trigger, we bet heavily on him.
The Pit thrummed and we felt it through our feet, the distorted, raspy blaring of an old Iksaarp sound system announced Trigger's entry as he jumped into the Pit brandishing his gunblade.
His opponent came in from the other side, a bare-chested giant of a man dropped into the far side of the pit, bio-sculpted muscles squirmed beneath grafted and repeatedly reconstructed skin as he flexed, striding forward. Gone were the weaknesses of flesh, bone and muscle, replaced by the resilience of reinforced carbonate. Grimy and unclean, dull coloured metallic flails sprouted from the giant's wrists. He glared at Trigger with an unhinged, drug-fuelled expression!
"Ultimate Hobo," blasted the speakers and the giant raised his augmented arms, the crowd responded with a bellow.
The clamour reached a crescendo once the announcer started the fight.

For a moment, Trigger and Ultimate Hobo weighted each other up, slowly circulating one another; then the fight began. Ultimate Hobo was strong but Trigger was fast. Blows were exchanged and Trigger got the better of his opponent, one of Ultimate Hobo's augmented arms flopped to the dusty floor, the giant wasn't slowed, a mixture of bloodlust and pain management software kept him going, Trigger could see coagulants injected into his blood by an implant were already stemming the flow of blood.
With a howl that almost drowned out the screaming crowd, Ultimate Hobo pressed his attack with a series of wold swings, but Trigger saw it coming, easily sidestepping the telegraphed swipe and counterattacking.
Ultimate Hobo's other arm flopped to the floor, after that, Trigger easily cut him down and was victorious. Spectators roared their approval as Trigger glowered defiantly at them.

Senonable wall-slabs above the arena repeatedly replayed the killing blow, from a variety of angles and in slow-motion.
Ultimate Hobo's corpse was carted off, he was dead for now, the technology to revive him existed, it was the matter of dealing with brain damage would be an obstacle and for Ultimate Hobo that wasn't really an issue, he might well soon be back in The Pit!
But otherwise, some use would be found for his remains no doubt.
Trigger meanwhile, was hailed as victor when he exited The Pit, he was then gifted a aluminium badge that said: 'I beat U.H.!'.
​The rest of us had made serious bank on his win.

The nightly deluge was waiting for us as we exited Freak Pit, nosily pattering on to the asphalt around us as we went into the gloomy rain, collars turned up against the downpour and the black sky above.
We had hardly begun the return journey when Pepper's media-slab pinged; he checked the message, illuminated by it's soft glow, his face showed surprise?
"It's a Yokai trainer!, he exclaimed, turning to us.
A script running on his media-slab had detected another trainer's media-slab and they'd communicated, setting up match. Pepper said he'd catch up with us and went off to find his opponent. Later that night, he would come back, telling us that he had won the match and captured a new yokai called Megura!

On the way back to Hikage Street, another call pinged in, this time for Koko. The modulated, disguised voice of Yennav Rybasei was on the other end.
"Hello my droogs,"!
A Russian mob owned distillery, The Glass Face Vodka Distillery on Hoppi Street had gone dark and Yennav wanted us to check it out.

It was getting late by the time the rumbling old tram had dropped us off in the centre of Hoppi Street and happy hour was in full swing! Or so it seemed, as every hour in Hoppi Street might have been happy hour.
Located within the Asakusa-cho prefecture, Hoppi Street crawled with the neon-lit bars and themed pubs, smoky watering holes and shady drinking dens it was known for. Its sidewalks teemed with unending dense, lively crowds; tourists, serious drinkers, wage-monkeys and down-and-outers, all drawn by lure of dozens of drinking establishments.
Navigating the staggering and sodden revellers, we arrived at The Glass Face Vodka Distillery.

We had smelt it before we saw it, that was a bad sign; an acrid and bitter odour that hung in the air, recognisable for what it was, not simply the smell of smoke, but the smell of a burnt building.
By the looks of it, an explosion had reduced the distillery to a heap of still heated slag that smouldered in the hammering rain, vapour mixing with smoke. Orange embers cheerfully twinkled in the ruinous piles of charred debris and small patches of spluttering, tenacious fire continued consuming whatever was left of the building.
​Numerous blackened and contorted bodies littered the site. Drunken passerbys gawped incomprehensively at the wreckage as they shuffled past, too inebriated or too hardened to life in The City of Electric Dreams to care.
In true Neon City fashion, the municipal first-responders had taped off the collapsed building and done nothing else.

After climbing through the yellow and black tape to examine the rubble, I could feel that heat seeping up through the soles of my Harbief boots as we trod on the remains of the distillery and the acrid smell, now at its most intense, filled my nostrils. I was tempted to activate my internal rebreather.
Then, over the drumming rainfall we heard something, quiet, an indistinct voice, but still something. Following the voice led us to a shocking discovery.
Among the corpses was a Protobase Global zombie cyborg! Constituted of an assortment of cybernetic components and weapons held together by a cage of flesh that was once human and networked by their nervous system, it was designed with only one purpose: to mindlessly, unrelentingly kill.
Protobase Global routinely and clandestinely kidnapped those on the fringes of society or in the underclass; the poor, the dispossessed, the transient and then hollowed the humanity out of them until only a biological chassis for their polymer, steel and chromed up cyberware and weaponry remained.
Twice we'd encountered their secretive production facilities and twice we'd shut them down.

This cyborg though, seemed different, it twitched unpredictably, sparked violently in the rain and spoke? Zombie cyborgs never spoke, we'd encounter them several times and without fail, they were utterly silent.
Cautiously, we moved in.
Koko checked it over, there were clear signs of severe trauma to its head module. Zombie cyborgs could soak an enormous amount of punishment and only damage to its brain stem could put one down immediately and reliably. This one should have been dead, but somehow it clung to life by the thinnest of slivers.
Looking even closer, Koko noticed that the sparks were actually tiny but intensely bright and powerful arcs of crackling electricity jumping between capacitors and circuits. Damage that should have done for the zombie cyborg was being repaired and the biological components were being preserved. The short-circuiting firmware had bypassed the disconnected brain stem in some unpredictable manner and triggered an autonomous repair protocol.

When the zombie cyborg spoke, it was a faraway whisper.
"Brenda Callahan," she said her name was Brenda Callahan and she was asking about her family?
Did the zombie cyborgs retain their memories? Personality?
It didn't bear thinking about.

We asked Brenda what her last memory was? She told us that she had gone into Den's Den of Domestic Helpers, looking for a washing machine.
Den's Den had been located in Kibogaoka Hill, it had been a front for the second production facility. It didn't take any stretch of the imagination to figure out what had happened.
A quick search revealed that Brenda Callahan of Kibogaoka Hill was married to a Phillip, we tried pinging him but got nothing.
A further search revealed that Phillip and Brenda Callahan and their four children had been reported as missing by their neighbour in the Kibogaoka Hill shanty town. Rentacop would never have made any effort to investigate the report. Wasn't any point in looking further into this, grimly, we had to accept that they had met the same fate as Brenda.

Softly, in an almost trance-like way, Brenda kept asking about her family and where she was? We all looked at each other, her state was precarious, telling her might make matters worse.
Thanks to our experiences with RAM Rat, we also knew that eventually her biological components would begin to decay, Protobase Global zombie cyborgs weren't build to last. We had to try and find a solution to her predicament, but first, she had to be moved out of here.
None of us knew of anywhere that might off-the-books have the kind of facility needed to treat Brenda, none of us at least, until Pepper spoke up.
"I know a guy," Pepper piped in. "His name is Cheeky Bob and well, he's veterinarian! But he might be able to help.".
Nobody had any better alternative.

Pepper pinged a call to Bob, they seemed pleased to see each other, at least it was promising. Once the situation was explained, Bob agreed to see Pepper's unregistered patient.
Cheeky Bob's practice operated out of Rokkaku Dai Heights, Koko remotely bought in the flier and Brenda was carefully loaded in and ferried over, he instructed us to bring Brenda through the tradesmen entrance and was waiting for us as we slowly lowered her to street level.

Cheeky Bob was an unshaven, corpulent man with messy hair in a tatty and worn lab coat smeared with grease stains and other fluids, he looked surprised to see his patient was a giant cyborg. I could see from his expression that he was about to complain, but looking at us, thought the better of it.

Brenda was moved into one of the practice's examination rooms and put under a bright spot light, all the while asking about her family. Bob checked her over, humming as he did so. He hit her with a sedative and she slipped into voiceless sleep. He turned to us and explained that he could give Brenda a cocktail of injections that would inhibit necrosis, she would be stable for about six months, but after that, loss of biomass would be inevitable and irreversible.
Six months to solve the problem, better than the alternative. We agreed and Cheeky Bob did his work, he also gave us a stash of sedatives to help Brenda cope with her situation.

Brenda needed a chance to recuperate and had to be stashed somewhere safe. It was easy to find an anonymous, small no-questions-asked lockup on Hikage Street that was paid for through one of our ghost accounts.
It was the dead of night in the crashing rain when we moved Brenda again and Neon City was as quiet as it ever got. Ensuring that no one had eyes on us we took her through the downpour to a puddle-ridden side street at the edge of the residential quarter where the lockup could be found. The aluminium roller door opened with a metallic rattle, revealing a bare and undecorated concrete and corrugated steel cube; basic, but it would do, it would have to!
Brenda was made as comfortable and secure as possible before we left, the roller door came back down with another metallic rattle and clunked shut as the auto-lock engaged.

With our heads bent low against the relentless precipitation, we began the return to our apartments, The City of Electric Dreams had other ideas though and didn't let us go so easily.

Our media-slabs started pinging, Roboy was on the line.
Roboy was a trusted contact and robotic owner of a courier service staffed entirely by robots which confidentially boasted that their couriers could deliver almost anything, anywhere; a resource we'd made use of more than once.
Unsurprisingly, Roboy had a problem that needed dealing with.

Recently, several of Roboy's smaller employees had been targeted by unknown thieves in the Senkawa Aqueduct area, so he'd hired a couple of Muscle Gurlz to investigate and resolve the situation. Now they'd gone missing too and Roboy needed us to investigate and resolve the new issue! Find the thieves, find the gurlz.
Ikebukuro Muscle Gurlz; a name we recognised, it belonged to some sort of bodybuilder's bar that we'd never visited. Roboy's description of the two Muscle Gurlz was of pair of cybered up, martial arts, bodybuilding, goth chicks.

It was into the small hours of night when we returned to Senkawa Aqueduct, a subdued time, gone were the drinkers and fun-seekers, only the lost, disparate and night-workers now rode Neon City's public transit network, I wondered which we were? Driving rain slammed against the elevated tram as it noisily laboured its way onwards while we watched the panoply of passing city lights become distorted, rippling smears of multicoloured light sprawled across rain-splashed windows.

The search to find one of the missing delivery drones was straightforward, Roboy had provided us with a code to trace it's tracker on our media-slabs, it was so straightforward, it made us wonder what the Muscle Gurlz had encountered?
It led us to some narrow, detritus littered, half-lit alleyway and a dented, scarred dumpster. Inside was the drone, the tracer on my Jaunkeu confirmed it. It had suffered serious damage, I watched as exposed actuators and servos twitched and buzzed, the drone hadn't given up trying to recover. Once the drone was out of the dumpster, Koko checked it over,  the source of the damage was undiscernible.
Behind a panel was connector, I used it to network the drone with my data-slab and downloaded it's entire recent telemetry data. First thing I did was to pull down and review its archived camera feed.
We watched the footage.
At first it showed the drone navigating its way through Neon City's sky-lanes, then abruptly, it's view lurched sideways, the world rotating as the ground raced up to meet it. The drone bounced and skittered several times before skidding to a halt at an uneven angle, almost instantly, the seemingly frenzied, half silhouetted figure of woman with baleful, glowing red eyes lunged for the drone, leaving crimson trails of light on the footage as she moved! The video feed ended.
I tried to run facial recog on the silhouette, but the image was too blurred, too badly lit for the search algorithm to get a hit.

I was about to try another tack when Roderick interrupted me, the robotic bodyguard informed us that he was receiving some kind of transmission? It was a message and Roderick described it as an artificial but kindly woman's voice and repeated the message to us.

“New meat, my children, Mother is deciding when to serve it.”
The message went on further.
“Keep your eyes peeled my children, search the skies, one of the drones is carrying our prize.”
Our hackles were up, we took sidelong glances into the poorly lit alleyway as it stretched away, swallowed by distant night. Somehow the message related to the drones and maybe the Muscle Gurlz? Who was Mother and who were the children? Did this represent a danger for us?
We soon got an answer.

“More enemies are here my children, watch for them, kill them.” 
"Another message," Roderick told us that a video feed was also being transmitted on a different channel, which he then relayed to my data-slab.
All of us watched it; it was grainy, slightly out of focus footage from a higher angle and poorly lit, but undeniably, it was us in the feed, standing there in the alleyway. Somebody waved an arm, a second later the arm waved onscreen; live footage from a street cam somewhere close to the alley.
Trouble was coming.
Out of the rainy haze materialised the attackers, ten of them frenziedly running at us and all ten had the same baleful glowing red eyes.

In seconds the red-eyes would be on us, the odds had to be evened. The eyes had to be some sort of implant. Koko frantically punched at her control-slab and Nermal sprang to life, servos hummed into action, rotors span, the drone rose into the air with a robotic purr. Koko instructed Nermal to trigger its targeted EMP pulse, if the attackers were wired up, it might give us an edge.
About of half their number stumbled to a halt, gawked about blinking and stumbled off. Looked like they were being controlled? The others though, kept coming, screaming and charging in with flailing arms.

We were hesitant to fight them, were they innocent victims of some kind of brain-jacking? It was enough to make us hold back.
They attacked with ferocious, unhinged strength, hitting hard.
Koko jabbed one with her puke-prodder; no effect.
Trigger landed a telling blow on one; no effect.
None of it was working, there was no choice but to use whatever force we could bring to bear. Even so, the fight was a hard one and we were left nursing our injuries, they unflinchingly soaked up massive injuries before they went down.
Quickly, Kevin scanned one. Results showed they had some kind of interconnected implants in their brain, spinal column and nervous system, it didn't reveal any enhancements or augmentations to physical performance or endurance, nothing to explain their strength.
No time to speculate either. Roderick interrupted us again, matter-of-factly informing us that more enemies were vectoring in on our position. We looked a each other, none of us wanted to continue this.

Koko remotely called in the flier.
No way to take one alive, nothing to be gained from fighting more of them. So time to bug out, we just had to wait for our ride to get here. Thirty seconds is a long time when you know an unrelentingly, seemingly psychotic mob is closing in on you.
The flier's turbines whipped the falling rain into a localised stinging hurricane as it dropped into a hover at street level. We dragged a body aboard for further investigation as we made good our escape, we weren't done with this.
I was flooded with relief as the flier pulled away, for once, the sensation of gravity tugging at my guts was a comfort as I watched the streets fall away.

It wasn't over though.
Roderick told us that he'd gotten another transmission.
“Our meat is escaping the larder my children, hurry now and recapture it.”
Did it mean us? Tactical showed nothing in the vicinity of the flier. Using external cameras, Koko swept the streets below, infrared picked up scores, maybe hundreds of the red-eyes storming through Senkawa Aqueduct like an swelling flood of bodies. Ahead of them; their prey, two sprinting individuals, straining to keep just ahead of the baying mob, the two ducked into an apartment block, the red-eyes close behind.
As we watched, even more red-eyes appeared from seemingly everywhere, converging on the apartment block and in streaming in like so much water emptying down the drain.
Koko circled with the flier and waited; the two individuals burst on to the rooftop. The horde would be seconds behind. We dropped a line down to them, without any delay, the two of them leapt for it and we pulled them to safety as the red-eyes came spilling on to the rooftop.

Once they were reeled in, they introduced themselves as Pixie Skull and Vanilla Goth. The pair of them were scantily dressed in almost matching black outfits, admirably showing off the low-percentage of their body fat and well defined, possibly surgically improved muscle definition. They also both possessed smooth porcelain skin, the result of either applying a lot of skin toner or some dermal, melanin alteration treatment, heavy and dark make-up completed the goth aesthetic.
Muscle Gurlz, had to be, they confirmed it.
We told them that we had been sent by Roboy to investigate their disappearance, in reply, they explained that had been tracking the missing courier drones when they were attacked and forced to flee into an abandoned office block, to hide amongst the discarded trash that had been left behind and littered the interior. For a time, they had avoided detection and carefully observed the red-eyes who wandered the rainy streets listlessly.
Then abruptly, the red-eyes had all run off in the same direction, attention drawn to something else, probably us! The pair then took the opportunity to make a break for it. It didn't work out and more red-eyes appeared! So they made for the apartment block and the roof.
They thanked us for our timely intervention and provided us with some cards that gave us free drinks at the Ikebukuro Muscle Gurlz bar.

Once the Muscle Gurlz were dropped off well away from Senkawa Aqueduct, we contacted Roby, explained the situation to him and how it was too dangerous, even for hardened street samurai to wander the district.
It was apparent even over the voice call that Roboy's synthetic voice couldn't disguise his unhappiness. He would have to suspend deliveries into Senkawa Aqueduct for the time being.
For us, what was left of the night was over, time to hit Hikage Street and home. 

Later, Koko and Pepper would thoroughly pore over the red-eye body that we'd brought back, their findings were not quite what we expected.
For the most part, the implants were designed to receive carrier waves, trans-process the data into sensory inputs and relay the results into neural pathways to the brain. 
None of the implants were wired into higher brain functions at all.
It was likely that the transmissions which Roderick had intercepted were instructions meant for the red-eyes. Furthermore, it was clear that they hadn't been brain-jacked at all and were willingly following these instructions.
Further examination revealed the red-eye's blood contained an extraordinarily highly concentrated blend of performance enhancing designer poly-amphetamines, which explained their behaviour. Judging by the concentrations, Pepper estimated that these amphetamines were administered to the red-eyes on a daily basis.

Meanwhile, I'd been scouring the GLOWNET info-vista, even the most remote data-vaults for any information or chatter on the sinister activities in Senkawa Aqueduct and constantly running search-algorithms.
Every time a name a came up, it was always one name.
Mother Saika.
The name was associated with a nebulous cult that went by the name Children of Saika that had seen an increase of activity recently. The cult itself was linked with an equally nebulous organisation known as The Church of Redeemed Sinners.
It wasn't much to go on, but it was something we'd keep an eye on.

17th April 2021

Saturday evening and I'm logged into Meet on my PC.

This means it's time for the next session in Matakishi's Wired Neon Cities campaign.

Location: Neon City.

A Neon City morning; the unforgiving sun climbed over the city's angular eastern skyline into a cloudless blue-white sky, flooding the City of Electric Dreams with searing heat and light.
The mixture of a late night and a sleepless morning had left me cradling my head and shielding my head from the urine coloured hue tat glared through one wall in my one-bed.

Bill had been pinged by Nina Chinova, ever since we'd introduced her to D4-VID and she had gotten her own show; The Vigilante Chat and Cake Show, her star had been meteorically rising in the world of vid chat show hosts and she'd become a major Neon City celebrity.
Somehow she'd gotten wind that Antin Grova's Heroes of Hope sculpture in Rokkaku Dai Heights was actually a sculpture of us. She told Bill that she now wanted all of us as guests on the show to talk about our activities!
After some discussion, we decided to appear on the show. It took further negotiations with her producers to get assurances that our faces would be hidden and our voices distorted by a masking algorithm. Getting put in the spotlight wasn't on our bucket list.

Like all of Neon City's vid shows, Vigilante Chat and Cake was made to a budget, the studio was buried at the back of a half disused business estate in Rokkaku Dai Heights.
It was a relatively small setup, some upholstered neutrally pale blue chairs and a cake filled table on a linoleum floor against a digitally manipulated background, lighting rigs and media-feeds were managed by some robots. Other than Nina, the only other humans were a skinny, scruffy editor in a black truckers cap and a quick to anger producer clutching a Senonable Sobeito Touchboard info-slab who walked around stabbing at it and self-importantly shouting at disinterested robots.
We were on the show for about thirty minutes and let Bill do much the talking, it was his kind of thing. I didn't bother listening to most of what he told Nina either, but at least the cake was good.
As our interview came to its conclusion, Nina revealed that she'd arranged for a hotline to be set up; people in need of our services could ping us!
I was a little unsure about this and would ​later rig the line to bounce pings anonymously to our personal media-slabs, keeping us at a distance from the hotline. 

Later that day, news vines began busily chiming our media-slabs and feeding them with all the latest newsworthy stories, most prominently how The Snot Robber had struck again.
Then Thaddeus Rackham had pinged us and explained that Astiek Ikov, his mortuary worker friend who we'd some dealings with was the latest victim. Nasal replacement surgery was currently a costly procedure, two million bits was the asking price, Thaddeus told us that he was busy robbing lots of people to raise cash for Astiek's treatment!
Trying our best to ignore that last part of his statement, we thought about what Thaddeus had said. Someone was making a lot of bank from The Snot Robber's attacks, told him we'd look into it.

Data-images incandescently streamed into my consciousness after I'd jacked into the GLOWNET, seemingly endless pulsating polygonal constructs emerged from data-flows and populated the info-vista, contracting into the vanishing point, merging into an orthogonally undulating line on a dark, distant horizon.  I sifted through the colossal data movements that constantly reshaped the GLOWNET, seeking out what was needed, news-vines, info-vaults. secured servers and more, all the time logging the data on my Nonohiki.
Once I had what I hoped was enough, I started looking for leads, connections, coincidences, any links that might help.

The Snot Robber had struck twelve times in as many days, the attacks mostly seemed clustered around Golden Gai, a district that was an intricate warren of back alleys, side roads and switchbacks that hosted countless colourful themed bars and watering holes. They pulled in tourists and fun-seekers from all around; inebriated revellers staggering homing presented a target-rich environment to The Snot Robber, which was fully exploited.
I began scoping the victims out, watching information flow through the GLOWNET and looking for some sort of commonality between them. Only one mote of data stood out; medical records showed seven of the twelve victims had signed on to the service of Doctor Ivan Grippen.
It was a name we'd heard, a specialist that was also treating Silai Granskina. At two mill a pop, he stood to make good chunk of change on these operations, maybe there was something to it. Was it possible Doctor Grippen was instigating the attacks to drum up business? Pricing of bio-engineered nasal replacements seemed high too? Needed more information.

The worldwide hub of bio-engineering big-tech was mostly located in the heart of a region of India that had been hit hard by the Bangladeshi Leprosy Outbreak, production of medical components had lurched to a halt, prices of existing inventory had skyrocketed as a result.
While there was some chatter on MyFaceSpace and on GLOWNET chat-servers that questioned the origins of the outbreak, some claimed it was a clandestine bio-weapon, but nothing was concluded one way or the other.
I turned my attention to Doctor Grippen.
We pinged Sila Granskina and asked him how he'd heard of Doctor Grippen, he explained that during his stay in hospital after suffering the attack, he'd been given a business card by an orderly.
Doctor Grippen's data-vault was a publicly listed commercial venture on the GLOWNET, a hovering, rotating pair of partially translucent powder-blue giant operating scissors constituted the data-image of Grippen's vault, from there it was easy to trace banking activities, find Grippen's bank and hack security on his account. Skimming through rows and rows of numbers, northing untoward came up, no suspicious outgoing or incoming payments.
He looked clean, a dead end.

No time to look further though, our slabs were being pinged.

Online were the uplifted and genetically enhanced penguins we'd helped before. Now though, there was only three of them instead of four. Paisano had been abducted we were told and they didn't trust anyone else to help! We made the elaborate trip to the Metropolitan Building in Shinjuku-Cho at the unexpected behest of the remaining penguins.
Exiting the typically crowded transit system put us squarely in view of the vast Metropolitan Building, a dominating, unwelcoming and pseudo-brutalist structure; it represented the central seat of municipal government in Neon City in more ways than one.
Leaving the noise and the bustle behind, we climbed the entrance steps and passed the replica wood-trimmed, frosted-glass doors into a high ceiling reception hall. A large faux-oak counter filled the space along one wall and was lit by subdued and time-stained hanging florescent, off-white globes. Old and faded patterned wallpaper still clung to the walls, while beneath our boots, the carpet was flattened, becoming colourless and threadbare in the main thoroughfares, only in corners did surviving thick shag betray it's original quality.
After approaching the receptionist in her pinstriped slate-grey Fassus business suit, we  discovered that we were expected, a uniformed member of the security team led us along the labyrinthine dimly lit corridors of Neon City's waning power and we eventually found ourselves at the Transport Authority's department.

Waiting for us were George, Jasper and Casper, the uplifted penguins, also with them was their boss, the Transport Authorities departmental head. The penguins led us into one of their old style offices, explaining that Paisano had been kidnapped on one of the city's transit services and the department considered it a personal affront, hence their endorsement of our involvement.
A desk-slab quietly hummed as it was flipped on, it's screen showed what obviously was grainy security footage of a tram carriage's interior crammed with commuters. We watched and re-watched it several times.
Off centre to the left and among the crush was Paisano, also among the passengers were four individuals in nondescript industrial blue boilersuits, they had to be pros; good enough to wear caps or keep their faces turned from cameras.
When the kidnapping went down, it went down quick, the four boilersuits pulled pistols, put some rounds in the tram driver and quickly black-bagged Paisano. The tram's auto-brakes then kicked-in and most commuters were sent staggering in unison, like in a weird dance as the tram screeched to a jarring halt halfway between Chuo and Hikage streets. The black-baggers disappeared out of shot as they forced their way through the tram doors and climbed down a service ladder on to the lower street. It was the last we saw of them on the tram's footage.
One dead and one kidnapped, I could see why the Transport Authority wanted vengeance.

The search for footage needed to be widened. 
I jacked into the GLOWNET, into Neon City's vast data-vista as it unpacked, watching data-flows as they pulsed along iridescent avenues that spider-webbed throughout the info-scape.
Throughout Neon City there were innumerable security cameras that fed into various data-vaults which stored the footage, we had a good idea where the black-baggers had exited the tram and I launched an algorithm tailored to look in the surrounding GLOWNET locales for the tell-tale regular movements of data and clone the resulting encrypted footage on to my data-slab, soon the Nonohiki was stacking up with videos.
Protocols I'd coded were continually cracking the encryption on the stream of downloaded files and I sifted through the footage as it became available.
Nothing I saw showed anybody carrying a penguin, I ran facial recog for Paisano and got zero hits. After we spent more time manually scanning through the footage we managed to find a small sliver of a lead.
On some of the footage we noticed a dark-haired, middle-aged woman in matching off-white joggers and polo shirt, walking down Chuo Street and carrying a scooped up bundle of clothing, all of it industrial-blue coloured. Was the bundle large enough to constitute four boilersuits? Maybe. We froze the footage and digitally zoomed in. The woman's clothes were part of a service uniform, branding on the polo shirt had the name; Joo May's Shower & Soap Emporium.

Chuo Street: known for its hotels and a particularly narrow maze of surrounding back alleys and side roads which branched off from the titular road erratically.
At the lowest street level here, even Neon City's glaring sunlight failed to fully penetrate much of the neighbourhood, leaving it in a perennial dull, dusky gloom and other parts in constant darkness.
Among this shadowy half-lit concrete maze we found Joo May's Shower & Soap Emporium, a small family business with a bright and cheerful water themed frontage that provided showering facilities to Chou Street's visitors and tourists along with an express laundry service for them while they washed.
Inside, the reception was a small, cramped room decorated with shelves filled by promotional soaps, scrubs, bath salts, shampoos and so forth. Behind the counter was the middle aged woman from the footage. We asked her about the four individuals who had come in with boilersuits, a brief frown and expression of annoyance crossed her face.
She explained that the four men came in, given her the boilersuits and before she had returned with them fully laundered, had changed into other clothes and departed. She was happy to give us the boilersuits, having no use for them.
Searching through the clothes gave us one thing; a scrunched up printout of a photo or video capture. It had been through the wash and had partially become a smear of muddled shapeless colours, however, the shot clearly showed all four penguins in their pool at Sky Dinosaurian Square, Paisano had been ringed with a marker pen. Additionally Somewhat out of shot was a soft toy of a penguin in the hands of a child, was this significant? We looked closer at the photo, it wasn't simply a soft toy, it was a Creative Cuddles toy.

​Creative Cuddles manufactured bespoke hi-tech, artificial intelligence driven interactive children's soft toys for Neon City's exclusive, wealthy clientele, usually as a substitute for actual parenting duties, providing children with companionship.
​Xylona Adler was our contact at Creative Cuddles, could she get access to the information we needed? After pinging her and explaining the situation, she got back to us and explained that the penguin model was one of their less popular lines, only one Penguin had been sold for some time.
Lars Jackstadt had been the buyer, Xylona told us his account listed an address in the Fortified Residential Zone. A quick GLOWNET search on Lars Jackstadt showed that he worked for Oshin Amalgamated, their corporate logo included a penguin, coincidence? Maybe!

Unlike Neon City's tram network, the Secure Residential Metro Link could take us directly into The Zone, bypassing it's security checks, biometric scans and questioning stares from uniformed rentaguards. These checks would instead actually be performed at the entrance into the metro link network from The Skyscraper District and in this case, we had the credentials to access the metro link.
It was a smooth, noiseless ride over to The Zone on the polycarbonate and toughened-glass shelled, gleamingly clean and well maintained metro link, there was seating enough for all and we sank into the generously upholstered cabin chairs and enjoyed the comfort of a climate controlled environment, for once wishing the journey wouldn't be over so quick.
A wall of almost stale hot air drenched our senses as we disembarked into the Fortified Residential Zone, even in The Zone it wasn't possible to fully escape the city's unremittingly harsh climate.

A grid of smooth, asphalt roads spanned The Zone here and were wider than anywhere else, wide enough to permit two vehicles to pass even. The high quality houses they criss-crossed were uniformly detached classic looking structures, usually surrounded by a verdant square of grass and flora, diligently cultivated by some sort of gardening robot.
Keeping as low profile as possible, we went along a spotless sidewalk until we came close to the Jackstadt's address. It was a detached building and by the standards of The Zone was of modest proportions, that was to say it was five times larger than my one-bed and sat in the centre of a garden. The home displayed a replica façade designed to lend it the air of a classic American Foursquare styled residence.
Stopping short, we observed the house with telescopics and noticed that partially visible amongst the trash was a discarded soft toy penguin, had to be the Creative Cuddles toy.
Creative Cuddles toys were programmed to heuristically adapt from their environment and owner interactions, perhaps there was something we could learn from what it had learned?
Without drawing attention, we stole the toy and flipped its power switch. With a short hum, it booted. It's head abruptly turns from left to right and back as it's optical circuits try to take in the situation, it's algorithms seemed stymied, the humming resumed.
It spoke with a specifically engineered, cute and childish voice when it tried answering our question. The last thing it had seen was another penguin in Kylie's room, it told us. Before it could continue, a secondary harsher synth voice squawked out.
"Discardment detected. Security protocol activated, wiping system memory and initiating factory reset," The synth voice stated, the humming intensified for a few moments. The penguin rebooted and stared at us.
"Enter end user license agreement authorisation code, then select accept or reject terms and conditions,".
The penguin wasn't going to be any use to us now.
Switching to thermals and cased the house. Three signatures; an adult, a child and what must have been a penguin.
From the signatures we surmised the child was continually feeding the penguin while the adult was reclined in a sitting position. We needed a way in. Anywhere else in Neon City and the locks, mechanical or electronic wouldn't be a problem, but in The Zone with it's wealthy residents, any error risked summoning a rapid response.
I turned back to the penguin, maybe it could help. I searched the fluffy soft outer lining until I found a small fold of cloth, behind it was a network port, no doubt connected to the main processor board. I connected the toy to my Nonohiki and jacked in.

A simple static steel-white framework was the processor's info-scape, without any flows of new data it remained unchanged and easy to navigate. The toy's core protocols were incorporated into a single central Monaozko Technologies ROM board which in turn issued instructions to subsystems to manage all its functionality. I moved through sub-folder after folder until I found what I was looking for: The heuristic function-set that managed the toy's learning ability, which it did by issuing learning instructions to a dedicated partition.
This dedicated partition had however been wiped clean during the re-initialisation, there was a chance that the data would have been fragmented and removed from the index directory and not been subjected to a secondary protocol that fully wiped the data. I ran a search protocol, got lucky and found the disparate fragments. Using an algorithm I reconstructed the data.
We now had access to all the information that the penguin had learned, information about Kylie Jackstadt and her obsession with penguins, about Jovena, Kylie's mother. Most importantly for us, we gained access to the house security codes that the penguin had learned, hopefully they hadn't been updated since the toy had been disposed of.

Pepper crept up to the front door lock and keyed in the code, we held our breaths for a moment before the door clicked open a few centimetres, he peeked through, slowly opened the door and disappeared into the building. For a bulky, clamorous doctor of dubious ethics, Pepper could be quite stealthy.
Later he told me how he silently made his way into the living room, where the thermals had shown a woman, presumably Jovena. Unsurprisingly, in part due to his dubious ethics, Pepper was well versed in the art of gauging how much sedative to employ when tranqing someone quickly.
Using a Jiaylij Multi-injector, he painlessly hit the woman with a dose strong enough to put her out for a couple of hours, she'd wake up with a head and no recollection of anything other than falling asleep.
Adjusting the dosage for someone much smaller and younger, Pepper quietly made his way towards the child's signature. Finding Kylie's room, he cracked the door open a touch and saw a young girl entirely preoccupied by a penguin dressed in a old style sailor's white suit, even including a little seaman's cap, Paisano, had to be.
Kylie was giggling as she dangling sardines in front of Paisano who was trying catch them his beak. Pepper sneaked up, hit her with the tranq, caught her as she fell and put her in a sleeping position on her bed.
"I'm here to rescue you," Pepper explained.
"Thank god! I was sick of wearing this costume," Paisano stated in response and rapidly waddled out to the kitchen. "Here's where they keep all the sardines," he exclaimed. "I can't leave without them!".
"They bribed me to come with them," the penguin admitted. "I was too weak resist the sardines,"!
"So you weren't kidnapped?" Pepper asked.
Paisano shook his head.
Quick as he could, Pepper grabbed all the sardines he found in the kitchen and stuffed them into a bin liner and left, Paisano duly followed. Koko decided to take the toy penguin and we all made for the metro link

The return trip was uneventful, Rentaguard didn't bother us, sitting in their reinforced security booth, distracted by their media-slabs, probably used to the rich kooks that lived in The Zone and no one else in Neon City was fazed by seeing a uplifted penguin riding the metro link.
On the way back, I jacked into my data-slab, now that I had Lars Jackstadt's access codes it was simple to get into the secured Oshin Amalgamated terminal at his home. I scoured through the files on his system and I was drawn to some of Oshin's future plans.
They were pressing on with their strategy to flood sizable parts of Neon City's waterfront and following the orbital laser strike that had hit and significantly damaged the district, their plan was already partially underway.
I continued reading: They had won all the contracts to rebuild these damaged areas and had plans to use specially engineered water-soluble building materials in the construction.
It was baked-in, planned obsolescence on a colossal corporate scale that would negatively affect thousands of people and at the same time create a highly lucrative revenue stream for Oshin Amalgamated.
They couldn't be allowed to get away with it, I copied the data and anonymously released it on several of Neon City's chat-servers, we hoped soon the news would spread.
The end of the journey took us Sky Dinosaurian Square, Paisano was joyfully reunited with Casper, Jasper and George.

​Later that day Koko got pinged on her media-slab, it was an unknown number she told us before answering. The caller was using a vocal distortion filter to mask their voice, even so, filters couldn't disguise vocal characteristics or speech patterns, Koko immediately knew who it was.
"Hello my droogs," Said the resampled voice of Yennav Rybasei.
Yennav Rybasei had been a serious player for the Russian mob until he'd gone into hiding after sustained corporate sponsored attacks on his organisation and its base-of-operations at the Trans Metropolitan Union Hotel. It was the first we'd heard of him since his powerbase had collapsed and he'd retreated into the shadows, but if there's one thing I know about Neon City, it's that you can't keep a good old psychopathic homicidal manic down for long!
Off-the-grid but still making moves, there was a problem he wanted us to solve.

Vasi Pina, Russian mob courier had gone missing while carrying a package and Yennav wanted him and the package found, he passed us an address that he had somehow acquired and told us to check it out. Finally he told us that he believed that  the culprits were Protobase Global, they were still moving against his organisation, he surmised.

The address led us to Kibogaoka Hill, home to Neon City's most marginalised citizens and its poorest district. In the early days, the dispossessed began gathering on the hill at a rate that soon outpaced corporate and commercial developments, Kibogaoka Hill's notorious patchwork shanty town rapidly sprawled its way across the district, encroaching on burgeoning retail centre that sat on top of the hill. Shadowy corporate interests pushed back and mobs of anonymous enforcers and unmarked military contractors appeared on the shanty town's meandering streets, violently turfing people out of their makeshift homes before destroying them with impunity. The shanty town's inhabitants though, weren't willing to roll over so easily, they adapted, avoided direct conflict and rebuilt quicker than corporations could claim land, initiating a push back of their own. This protracted skirmish lasted for years until the corporations got sick of it, cut their losses and exited the situation, realising they couldn't stem the tide. Kibogaoka Hill's shanty town had quickly established itself as the most erratic neighbourhood in The City of Electric Dreams, where the Neon City's manufactured and orderly planned designs crumbled before the very poverty it had created.
After a ride on the trams we found ourselves on one of the many dirt roads that haphazardly threaded their way through the mishmash streets and from at a hidden vantage point in the shadow of a corrugated, hardened vinyl wall, watched the address. Thermals indicated five signatures, one seated; Vasi Pina, the others standing; from our encounters, four was the typical size of a Protobase Global snatch squad. No doubt the black baggers were carrying the standard Protobase loadout; Konseye K4 SMGs and multipurpose Setihci body armour.

Our approach was simple; distraction.
Trigger ran at the front door, yelling loudly and hacking it down.
At the same time, the rest of us went in through the back, it didn't matter if there was a back door or not. Walls of fibreboard, thin sheets of steel and tarp wouldn't slow us down.
While the snatch squad turned to deal with Trigger, we crashed in and hit them hard. It was over before they had time to react.
Vasi Pina was a skinny guy, with a dirty blonde buzzcut and a diamond shaped face, like so many foot soldiers in the Russian mob, he a favoured the polyester tracksuit and Sport Lyafibya was his brand of choice. After we freed him, he told us to search the black baggers for the package. It was a money chip; encased in a small white translucent polymer slab the size of a thumbnail was a tiny ROM board and connector that contained a heavily encrypted version of an algorithm used in the banking world, it allowed the user a once-only transfer of a specified amount of bits from pre-deposited funds in a nominated bank to an account of issuers choosing. It was totally anonymous and allowed the transfer of theoretically an unlimited amount of untraceable cash. This money chip contained sixty-eight million bits.
We let Yennav Rybasei know we had the package. Immediately, he pinged us back, told us to take the package to a Adkale Tvolenkyin in The Skyscraper District.
"Make sure you're not followed," he instructed with his synthesised Russian accent.

Peering through a water stained transparent acrylic sheet that functioned as a window, we looked outside at the shanty town framed by the blue-white sky, homes were densely packed together in irregular strips that wended their way up and down the hill, frequently stacked on top of each other with precarious ladders or ropes leading up.
The streets here were busy with the shanty town's squatter underclass, out and looking for some respite from Neon City life, easy to spot with the grungy style that was popular here and worn like a badge of honour.
Loosely affiliated gangs also roamed the neighbourhood, hard-eyed thugs on the lookout for trouble and in particular; outsiders to target.
Was there a second Protobase Global squad somewhere out there? With such a heavily populated area, it was impossible to tell.
We came up with a strategy.
Splitting up, we all headed in different directions, trying our best to lose any tails, if there was another team watching, it was very unlikely they would have enough assets to shadow all of us. Bill took the money chip and would deliver it to Adkale Tvolenkyin, using his nanite implants to alter his appearance at an opportune moment and making it harder for pursuers to follow.
For a time we persisted on our random forays into Neon City, daylight had vanished, replaced by an inky sky and the thundering nightly rains by the time Bill pinged all of us, the package had been successfully delivered. There was nothing left to do but head home.

Back at my one-bed, city lights were barely visible through the urine coloured tarp, I relaxed and stretched out on my futon, a brace of clinking and sweating, brown Dindanha beer bottles in one hand and a steaming carton of Niaiwo noodles in the other. Kicking back, I flicked on my wall-slab and watched our appearance on Nina's Vigilante Chat and Cake Show.

It was the next day when Bill's media-slab pinged, someone calling himself Mister Blank was online.
Mister Blank wanted to employ us to move on some squatters who had taken up residence in a property he owned in Akihabara, he told Bill that he wanted to meet up with us to explain the details in person.

Before heading out to Akihabara, we decided to check out Mister Blank, I jacked into the GLOWNET, dropped into it's swirling, iridescent churning info-vista and launched a hunter protocol.
Shining slivers of information were brought back, parcels of data on the man which I scanned through.
He was a personality trader and a successful one too, for the last year or so, personality chips had picked up popularity and become a big deal in Neon City.
Small, tailored and bio-acceptable microprocessors that were wired into the frontal-lobe, they could exaggerate or lessen certain types of behaviour or modify consciousness. Want to quit smoking or maintain a fitness regime, or perhaps enhance your sense of humour? In Neon City, personality chips were the easy answer, at least they were the answer if you had the bits. 

Akihabara was primarily a retail district in the Asakusa-cho prefecture that was known for servicing two distinct but partially overlapping markets.
From soaring multi-storeyed department stores that seemingly occupied every corner of the district to crowded and colourful smaller independent stores that flourished in side streets to flea markets that sprawled out beneath the tram arches for shade; all sold a vast variety of technology, slabs, gadgets and retro-gear, much of it cut price or obscure products. Akihabara ​was widely considered the consumer electronics heart of The City of Electric Dreams.
The district also drew in crowds of shoppers for its other market; transmission media, devout collectors and fans came to scour the extensive archives and collections of film, television, music and games in their original packaging and on their original formats that were sold throughout shops and stalls that frequently also traded in the same locations that sold electronics.
Every square metre of spare building frontage was covered in bright neon-lit larger than life advertising for cartoons, comic books and video games, characters from these products appeared on huge poster boards in cheerful poses or giant animated form on colossal wall slabs. The streets were thick with passersby who were endlessly bombarded with blaring jingles and dazzling adverts.

Mister Blank had arranged to meet us in one of the slew of boutique and themed cafes that dotted the neighbourhood and matched the aesthetic of Akihabara, serving tourists and buyers.
We were led to a private booth where Mister Blank waiting for us.
He was a tall stocky guy in a well cut, if typical Gaongha business suit, but his most prominent feature was the swathe of blisters that seemed to almost cover every centimetre of his visible skin.
Standing, Mister Blank greeted us when we arrived and asked us to sit.
"It's caused by a serious allergy to latex," he explained when he saw us trying not to stare. "Mostly caused by the particular brand of low cost love doll that I prefer to utilise," he added matter-of-factly.
Deciding not to press the issue, we instead asked what exactly he wanted us to do?
He went on to explain that he owned several commercial properties across the city and squatters had taken up residence in one specific property that he was intending to gift to a Olivia Chain. Mister Blank pinged us the address of the the property he wanted vacated.
"I don't care how you do it," he told us. "just as long as it's done, I must have the gift for my Olivia".
Mister Blank admitted us that he was love with her, although he let us know that she had yet to reciprocate.
We told him that we'd look into the squatters.

After leaving, we checked out Olivia Chain on the GLOWNET and what connection with Mister Blank there might be, didn't pay to wander into a situation blind.
Wasn't much to find; Olivia Chain worked for a talent agency that operated out of Akihabara, that was it, no red flags and no link or history with Mister Blank.

It was afternoon by the time we got to the address, it had led us to an unremarkable and unused office block on the edge of the district, it was an empty shell, externally complete but apparently empty inside, rows of windows that ran along each floor were unlit and beyond the large glass doors that swung into the reception foyer, it was dark.
The glass doors weren't locked, so we walked in, stepping on a crumpling layer of refuse that coated the floor.
The foyer was dimly lit by filtered sunlight that streamed through the glass doors, even so, we could clearly make out the brightly coloured but incomprehensible graffiti that had been sprayed over the beige coloured wall panelling.
Thermals showed the ground floor was unoccupied and with no working elevators, there was no choice but to proceed upwards on foot.
Accumulated detritus was piled up in the corners of the unlit, windowless stairwell and we were forced to use night-vision. Graffiti scrawled across walls became more and more frequent, eventually we began to hear voices, a lot of them and music too.
Arriving on what clearly sounded like the right floor, we looked across the gloomy bare landing, litter and rubbish were strewn across it, most of it discard food cartons, drained Kaia Cola bottles or pizza boxes.

Following the escalating noise, we walked through a bright, doorless frame into what, in different circumstances might have been an office. In my mind's eye, I could almost see it; open plan with grey, upholstered free-standing dividers creating a grid of cubicles, populated with wage-monkeys whittling away their lives at desk-slabs, quietly distracted by the office-politics uttered in hushed tones that this environment would foster.
On reflection, maybe it was better this way

Neon City sunlight flooded through windows and afternoon shadows loomed across the floor, we could see the singularly large room was filled with not just refuse, but junk and old tech, rigged-up desk-slabs sat on makeshift tables built of polymer sheets and breeze blocks, reclaimed wall-slabs were hooked to with old-school Segtendo game-decks that ran off original data-slugs, while a salvaged old Iksaarp sound system thumped out music. Mounds of clothes were piled throughout the room, close to old, stained mattresses that had been dumped in remote spots. A grimy, squalid living area.
The occupants - mostly teenagers, shabbily dressed in well-worn, low cost urban clothes had seen us enter and stopped dead, trying to scope the situation out, staring with calculating eyes.
They were part of the underclass that refused to buy into the cycle of futile consumerism that inevitably came with a Universal Credit account.  They knew too, that they were squatting here on borrowed time, eventually they'd be turfed out. Only question was by whom and how?
Was that us, they must have wondered?
Were we going to do this the easy or hard way, they must have thought?
Luckily for them, we weren't the unquestioning thuggish trigger-jockeys that Mister Blank might have hired.

Clearly they were not threatening us, once the music had been lowered to an acceptable level, we approached and spoke with them, explaining that they had to leave, they  then refused.
They lived here, as they told us because it was close to the heart of Akihabara. Close to the cutting edge of music, fashion and entertainment that the district offered. They weren't impressed when we said that whoever came here after us, would not be quite so accommodating, they were prepared to take the risks.
Bill spoke with the squatters and managed to get them to admit that if we found another good or better spot for their digs, they'd leave.

At any one time in Neon City, corporate players would always have at least a property or two that was either unoccupied or forgotten about on an asset list somewhere. Time to get to work.
Traffic on the GLOWNET was typically saturated with data-flows, the accumulated shining particles of information clustered into their millions, vividly pulsating along the skeletal polygonal substructure of Neon City's info-vista, constantly destroying and renewing the geometric landscape.
Trying to hack individual corporate data-vaults was futile and would take too long, there had to be another way? Then it came to me, the municipal authorities would keep records of unoccupied properties earmarked for commercial usage, it would probably be public records. I launched a search protocol on my Nonohiki and recoded its algorithmic boundaries on the fly with the desired parameters before unleashing it into the City Hall's data-vault.
The protocol quickly returned with results, as expected, there were numerous disused location in Akihabara, scanning through the results I found a suitable candidate, an unoccupied loft close to our current location, it had been neglected for some time. It was a good location.

After speaking with the squatters they agreed to move out and into their new digs, it didn't hurt that we provided them with an enormous box of Savka chocolate and a crate of Baishan cider for doing so.
We stayed to watch them pack up, it didn't take long, they only took what they considered irreplaceable and left the office mostly strewn with their junk, easier to just dumpster dive whatever they needed when they got to the loft.
​
Once the building had been vacated, an almost uncomfortable silence settled on the office, Trigger ran one last thermal scan to check the floor was empty, he got a hit, there was still a heat signature here.

It was a single unusual, small and faint heat signature located in the far side of the other wing? Our footsteps sounded unusually loud on the uncarpeted floor, almost echoing as we walked through the neglected, bare and empty wing, when we reached the heat source, what we found was surprising.

​Wrapped in a slightly crumpled blanket and sitting there was a creature that resembled small white bear, it turned its head to regard us coolly as it drank from a cup of gently steaming tea!
Maybe it was an uplifted animal? We tried speaking to it, but it didn't answer or respond, either it was unwilling or unable to do so.
There was some strange marking on one of its feet, I zoomed in with my telescopics, it was writing. 'The Yokai Corporation, find us in Ikebukuro.'.

It made sense now: The Yokai Corporation was a videogame developer and competitor to Segtendo's Pouchebeast game. The Yokai Corporation produced a unique and elaborate videogame that was actually played throughout Neon City, it required the use of extensively genetically altered creatures such as this white bear that loosely resembled creatures of Japanese folklore called yokai, these yokai would be released into the wilds of the city to roam its districts and neighbourhoods. Hardwired and networked implants in their brains dictated their behaviour towards human trainers and other yokai.
In order to participate in the game, players had to become Yokai Trainers which involved purchasing Yokai Licences from the corporation. With a license, trainers now had the privileges to capture wild yokai, train them and use them to battle the yokai of other trainers.
This was achieved through GLOWNET connections and the elaborately coded actions of the yokai.

Pepper found all of this quite compelling, pulling out his media-slab, he quickly paid for an account, downloaded the necessary protocols and immediately gained his license!
This allowed him to capture his first yokai, in this case the yokai in front of him. It was a level one Shirokuma. The yokai immediately got to its feet and joined Pepper, who'd now part of the world of yokai battling.
When we left office block, the yokai followed along behind Pepper, the block was empty now and we let Mister Blank know.

The end of the day was fast approaching as I got back to my one-bed, cheap takeout in hand. Soon the gathering clouds above would erupt raging torrents crashing down on Neon City.
As I closed my door withc a click, I heard a rustling movement in the apartment, the easily recognisable footsteps of Lucy. In the peripheral of my vision I saw her heading my way. I avoided eye-contact, having no desire to hear what she had to say and made straight for my futon. Too late! She'd sprung in front of me, hands on hip, demanding to know why I hadn't taken her out for ages!
Trapped, I knew what was coming.
"Well honey," I had to say. "What do you want to do?".
Here it came.
"Uterus!" Lucy replied without hesitation, flashing a cheap printed flyer in my face.

Located in the southern half of the Shibuya Terminal district, Uterus was a big nightclub and a bigger deal, an infamous venue with a massive capacity and one of the most exclusive and trendy nightspots in Neon City that lured a celebrity clientele from all over, Uterus also pulled in thousands of clubbers nightly. People would figuratively kill to get in.
Wouldn't be cheap getting tickets this late in the day either, worse than that! Tickets were scarcer to come by than normal. Turned out that a popular annual event known as Uterus Gestation was scheduled for tonight and prices had been run up to a hundred grand each! As well as Lucy and I, I knew the others would want in, it was going to cost a lot of scratch to get through those doors and we resented being gouged, there must have been a way to get cheaper tickets?

Maybe D4-VID could help? The botcaster normally covered the Neon City current affairs beat, maybe it was time he had a change, there would be a lot of celebrity photo opportunities at Uterus Gestation, maybe he could get us in.
We pinged D4-VID and explained the situation and he pinged his publisher with it. They agreed to front half the cost of tickets for D4-VID and his entourage.

Once we'd gotten some tickets from a tout, Lucy was jumping for joy and went got ready for the night out.
An hour later and she reappeared in a short-hemmed pale yellow Fassus party frock with matching Poratier earrings and Oltrante stilettos.
I thought back to all the social events that I'd attended with Lucy and thrust a couple of extra clips for my Xiuzhol Arms .45 into a pocket of my armoured, black leather Verskeit trench coat.

Lucy had also booked a stretched, pink sky-limo and with D4-VID in tow, we headed into the rainy night and to the Shibuya Terminal. Finding Uterus wasn't hard, just headed towards the thumping bassline that permeated throughout the entire neighbourhood.
Approaching the venue, we saw that it was announced by massive blazing neon signage ten metres above street level. Searchlights were bolted to the flat exterior of what appeared to be steel clad walls, sweeping the night sky, with lancing beams of light,  gleaming when caught in falling raindrops.
If it was possible, the crush of people intensified after we exited the limo and got close to the nightclub, the clamouring crowd threatened to even drown out the music pumping from within Uterus. Must've been a thousand people trying to get past the roped-off red carpet or straining a neck to get a glance at the arriving Neon City luminaries. Other news-droids were among the crowd, filming and snapping away.
Elbowing our way through the assembled people to the tanked up doormen bulging with grafted muscle packs and cheap Evoda tuxedos who convinced no one of anything other than their thuggish nature, we held out our tickets.
Then we hit a problem, the tickets were fake, we weren't getting in, Lucy was crestfallen, I didn't want to deal with the fallout, so this wasn't going to stop me, I slipped the bouncers a small stack of bits and Lucy and I were in! The others followed suit.
Even so they demanded that we handed over our weapons before granting us entry, we capitulated, grudgingly so as they were deposited into a secure locker.
I suspected this might all go south at some point. Fortunately, it was impossible to disarm Roderick, Bill's bodyguard!

Uterus was a massive converted, stripped down shell of a warehouse with multicoloured spotlights, that in time to the music played over the flat, garishly decorated interior wall and ceiling panels as well as the exposed skeletal steel frame that supported it, creating outlandish blended patterns of colour in the otherwise dimly lit venue. Through the press of silhouetted, churning bodies we could make out several bars, a stage with the DJ and his decks set out, two seating areas - one of which was in a raised area. There was also a dance floor, Lucy headed straight for it.
Once inside, the music had become louder as it blared out of a custom and pricey Oherut speaker setup and sound system that the DJ was controlling, conversing normally was an impossibility, then a little later, Gestation got underway and the music really became deafening! 

The usual assortment of techno dancefloor songs had been replaced by something different. A procedurally generated almost pneumatic electronica sound originating from multiple sources within the warehouse that reverbed off the walls to create a cacophony of clashing chords that somehow harmonised into an all-enveloping body of sound.
It was beyond loud and was accompanied by a low humming as the old warehouse began vibrating, I could feel a nauseating tremor tightening my chest, it was beginning to affect others too, some began to collapse whilst others cheered and continued dancing. The sound continued to intensify, parts of the warehouse began to buckle, more people collapsed and then, the panic ensued, almost silent screams swallowed by the sound emanated from faces strangely lit by the kaleidoscopic hues and contorted by fear as people stampeded for the exits. Somewhere in that crowd was Lucy?
My vision grew blacker, as if someone had lowered the dimmer switch to reality and then I blacked out.

I was told what happened afterwards.
As the warehouse shook itself apart, dropping heavy steel panels on the hapless clubbers below, in the gloom a massive tangle of people had got caught up at the exits, unable to get out, fighting had broken out as a result.
Koko had reached the DJ's decks, found the lighting controls and managed put the normal lights back on, it didn't help much. Everyone still needed to get out so Bill had ordered Roderick to clear the way. Roderick's algorithms had assessed the risks and calculated the teeming people represented a clear threat, he opened up with his guns, firing clusters of explosive fletchette rounds into the crowd! It wasn't what Bill had asked for, but it was effective, if brutally so and there was no point crying over spilt milk so dragging Lucy and I, they managed to escape Uterus. Moments later the warehouse collapsed in on itself with a tremendous crash and billowing cloud of dust, killing everyone still left inside.

That wasn't all that had happened.
When I'd regained consciousness, something strange had happened. I could still hear the music, it's beat pumping away deep in in my brain like an echo, everyone had experienced a song that became stuck in their head but this was something else, different. I swear that somewhere in that electronica I could hear a voice, a voice that spoke to me? It called itself Koto? To say it conversed with me was inaccurate, but conversed it did.
Whenever Koto spoke to me, in the moment that followed, for a instant I could feel my senses become heightened; colours, light and shapes became more vivid, sounds were clearer and hearing became acuter, it caused my response times to external stimuli to rapidly decrease.
I would discover at a later time I was not the only survivor from Uterus who had experienced this. In a few people the music in the nightclub had caused some sort of shift in the electro-chemical balances in the brain, inexplicably creating what was named a Living Electronic Dance Music Entity or Living EDM Entity. An actual sentient individual that now resided in my brain. There appeared to be no way to reverse this. It seemed that Koto was here to stay.
I also expected the constant music that played in my head to drive me insane, instead the song and Koto managed to coexist in my consciousness without issue. 

Lucy, at some point had ​vomited on her new frock and now wanted to go home to bed, I was also sore but uninjured. As first responders arrived to treated survivors, we managed to retrieve our secured weapons and made a hasty exit, not wanting to answer any awkward questions that might come up.

Later still, Bill told us, he'd found a crumpled up empty pack of Lunglife Cigarettes in one of his coat pockets, considering he didn't smoke - that was curious.
He turned it over in his fingers and found some scribbled writing. It was a number - and a name; Viper Joe. There was a short message too, From Viper Joe? Urging us to save his girlfriend from some sort of hacker? Wanted us to meet him at some place called the Freak Pit.

The next morning, stories came down the news-vines of the destruction of Uterus, the nightclub had been packed to capacity when it had happened, which was estimated at ten thousand people, of them there had been only about five hundred survivors!
Despite this, Uterus Gestation was generally considered a great success and declared the best Uterus event yet, particularly by the survivors! To much fanfare and excitement, it was announced that in the future, to mark the rebuilding of the nightclub  there would be an even greater event called Uterus Reopening.
Tickets had already gone on sale were expected to soon sell out.

10th April 2021

Saturday night again, I'm logged into Meet on PC and ready to game.

Time for session 18 of Matakishi's Wired Neon City campaign.

Doctor Pepper Mashup: Played by Karl.
A doctor of internal medicine and surgery - or so he said; his best friend was a vet? Pepper was a cynical opportunist always with one eye watching for an easy score. He was also incredible irregular and appeared only according to whatever whim he fancied.

Location: Neon City.

Thankfully, morning had come and gone before I woke to a hangover. Bumbling to the kitchen area, I labouredly rummaged through the piled trash until I came across a suitable breakfast; Savka chunky milk chocolate sticks and a couple of cans of Huntudi. After a few minutes, the mixture of flavour enhancers, additives and sugar had washed away the remains of last night's excesses.
I could've done with some more sleep, trying my best to ignore the flapping polymer tarp that covered the exposed side of my one-bed, I slumped back on my futon, dragging the sheet over my head and closing my eyes. It couldn't last though, it never did.

Silai Granskina pinged us a call: On the line, his voice was distorted, sounded strange, maybe coming down with a cold?
Told us he needed our help, had been coming out of a meeting in The Shibuya District when he'd been attacked! His nose had been chopped off and stolen! Well, that explained it.
He wasn't alone! We'd been hearing stories on the news-vines for a little while now, an unknown assailant had been targeting people in The Shibuya District and taking their noses! Media had dubbed them The Snot Robber!
It had been the beginning of Silai's problems, he needed reconstructive surgery which would require purchasing in a new and expensive vat-grown nose, his medical insurance typically refused to cover the cost, claiming that The Snot Robber was a terrorist and excluded from their coverage. As a consequence Silai needed two million bits. He'd been taken to The Shinjuku Prefecture and the Okkubo Hospital located within The Metropolitan Building District.

The Metropolitan Building District could only be reached one way; The Tochomae Electric Train. It was a transfer we had to make at The Shinjuku Station, a concrete, glass and steel colossus where four transit systems and an array of platforms intersected. Rippling swathes of people swept through the station's halls at every hour. The clamour was immense, a mixture of voices, footfalls and harshly electric public announcements that reverbed into the airy, vaulted, high-ceilinged roof filled with swooping mercenary pigeons.
The Tochomae Electric Railway was a small network that serviced The Metropolitan Building District, the trains were plain but well maintained and smoothly delivered us to our destination.

The district got its name from the behemothic Metropolitan Building that dominated the skyline like a silent watchful sentinel. An uncaring midday sun beat down on the bustling main thoroughfare that thronged with crowds as we threaded our way towards Okkubo Hospital. Despite its size, the hospital paled in the shadow its monstrous neighbour.
Concrete steps went up to automated glass doors that swished open into a neutral grey interior where staff and visitors shuffled through a eerily subdued reception hall. Following instructions to find Silai Granskina immediately got us lost in the multi-storied warren of annexes, wings and wards, boots squeaked on the polished linoleum floor as we wondered plain corridors decorated with hospital signs and a variety of health promotion posters that everyone in Neon City would ignore.

​After a while something caught our eye, down one corridor we saw a doctor purposely striding away, face obscured, he wore a bright red and yellow floppy hat, even in a conurbation with Neon City's population, only one man wore a bright red and yellow floppy hat of that particular style; Thaddeus Rackham.
​What had bought the vaudevillian transvestite street worker and assassin to Okkubo Hospital? What was he doing wearing a doctor's coat? After catching up with Thaddeus, he informed us that he was here to see a friend about a body!
Like us, Thaddeus knew The Accountant, a disembodied brain in a jar that resided in a suitcase that had belonged to Russian mobster Yennav Rybasei. He had promised to find a body for The Accountant and he had just been pinged by Astiek Steva, his friend and mortuary worker who had encountered a suitable candidate. We went with Thaddeus to the morgue, like the assassin, we were also on the hunt for a body for The Accountant.

The temperature noticeably dropped at a rapid pace as we descended into the hospital's basement levels, rooms and corridors here were lit by humming dim strip lights. The exposed walls and concrete floor lacked even the plain painting of the hospital above. Gone too, was the hubbub of people, only hospital staff in scrubs quietly walked the corridors here.
Astiek Steva seemed friendly enough when Thaddeus introduced us, he spoke with a measured quiet voice. He was a skinny, small guy with a triangular face, sunken eyes, sharp cheek bones and thing scraggly beard, on his slight frame he wore olive coloured scrubs and white Pohaden Xyrrig designer trainers.
He led us into a secluded examination room which was dominated by a sheet-covered body on a gurney, he went over to a table and scrutinised a desk-slab.
"Hayden Weyer, thirty years old, no underlying health issues, single, looks like he was a salaryman," Astiek read off the slab. "Aneurism was listed as cause of death. A perfect candidate for a brain transplant," he concluded.
The plastic sheet rustled as it was pulled back. Before us was the pale corpse of Hayden Weyer, preserved by the morgue. As expected, it lacked any obvious sign of injury or trauma, even so we decided to take a closer look.

Matters weren't so clear once we'd examined the remains of Hayden Weyer. We'd found a tiny mark behind one ear, it was unmistakably a puncture wound from a needle, no doubt directly into the brain? The kind of technique used by slick assassins who wanted a quick and unfussy death.
It was too much of a coincidence.
We turned to Thaddeus, he was shifting something around in the pocket of his lab coat nervously. After we demanded it, he pulled out whatever was in there; a needle gun!
"Well, I am an assassin!" He said, shrugging. trying hard to look innocent.
Thaddeus' victim was already long dead, too late to do anything now. Nothing to be gained from stopping the transplant, so we decided not to interfere.

"You're going to need a surgeon," Astiek told us. "And probably some sort of engineer to manage the bio-microelectronic components that keep the brain alive,".
Koko could cover the electronics but none of us had the skills to handle the transplant. Thaddeus piped in and told us that he knew a guy.

Doctor Pepper Mashup was a surly-eyed, jowl-faced man with a suspicious expression, deep rumbling voice and most definitely the haunted, twitchy look ​of a hypersucrose junkie? Pepper wore a dishevelled lab coat and carried a bulging faux-leather black bag. Pepper agreed to help us if we gave him a taste of money, there was little time to disagree.

Jacking into my data-slab, I watched as the GLOWNET emerged, surrounding me in the constantly churning plethora of brilliantly lit data-images and knowledge-vaults that constituted Neon City's info-vista. 
Getting into Okkubo Hospital's systems was easy, I arrived at its gleaming, green translucent, Greek square cross data-image, launched a bypass protocol and was in. Hospital data flowed past me, finances, med-records, e-mails and more, I saw an unoccupied and available operating theatre, a couple of inputs and it was now reserved for Doctor Pepper Mashup.

I contacted Ashaglaya, told her to bring The Accountant's suitcase to us and Thaddeus quickly wheeled Hayden Weyer's body out of the morgue and into the theatre. Once everyone had converged, Koko and Pepper got to work.

It would be some time before the transplant was completed and the rest of us took the opportunity to go back into the maze that was Okkubo Hospital and found Silai Granskina, we had been delayed enough.
The centre of his unhappy face was covered by a thick white cotton wool pad held in place by numerous strips of surgical taping. Silai told us that a Doctor Ivan Grippen, specialist in rhino-constructive surgery had come highly recommended. Unfortunately The Snot Robber's exploits had increased the demand and thus driven up the costs of both Doctor Grippen's services and vat-grown noses from Saengdal Genetics to a total of two million bits. Well it looked like Doctor Grippen would be raking it in thanks to The Snot Robber.
Bill sighed and I'm pretty certain I could hear him grumble under his breath as he parted with the two million bits Silai required.

A while after we returned to the operating theatre, the procedure had been completed and was a total success! The Accountant's brain now resided in Hayden Weyer's body, despite the transplant's success, there would need to be a length convalescence. Ashaglaya, who had also befriended The Accountant was happy to provide care for him once we arranged for transport to our ghost apartment in The Skyscraper District.
There was one last thing that needed doing; I jacked back into the hospital's data-systems and began searching. It didn't take long to find; Hayden Weyer's death certificate. I wiped it off the system, wiped the backup record, wiped the emergency callout log and anything in between. It wasn't a perfect clean-up job by any stretch but it didn't need to be, why would anyone want to go looking for a deleted death certificate of man who was still alive? Inconsistencies would be put down to erroneous system code errors.
The Accountant was in Hayden Weyer's body, finally he had wanted and would now be free to live the life left behind by Hayden Weyer.
First though, he was transported to our ghost apartment in The Skyscraper District, a brain transfer was no small thing and he would need recovery time

Heavy ​Neon City rain nosily lashed violently against the tarp as it endlessly billowed in and out. What woke me in the small hours though, was the pinging from my Jaunkeu 6. I stretched for the media-slab and answered: Ashaglaya was on the line, the pitch and tempo of her voice were too high, something was wrong? Had something happened to Hayden Weyer?
Turns out she'd gotten a call from Cammy Sabine, owner of Coke & Whores, the previous business Ashaglaya had worked for, someone had been targeting the company's party favours and killing them. Cammy told Ashaglaya; she might be next, even the Coke & Whores office had been attacked! Cammy knew that Ashaglaya was tight with the Russian Mob and had asked her if she could get help from the gangsters? Instead, Ashaglaya had called us.
Ashaglaya calmed down and regained her composure once we assured her that the ghost apartment was off-the-grid and she was safe, it would be next to impossible for anyone to find her there, not to leave and we would look into it.

Our attention was turned to Coke & Whores, why had someone moved against them? Valaya Dova, one of their party favours had been murdered by the weird Rokkaku creatures, was it related?
I pinged the others and gave them the low-down, then I pinged the number Ashaglaya had given and told Cammy Sabine we were on the way. We pulled trench coats tight, turned up collars, unpacked umbrellas and hit the street: Undaunted graveyard-shift workers and shaky late-night revellers still filled the rain-swept, streetlight-lit thoroughfares of Rokkaku Expo Stadium as we made our way to the Coke & Whores office.
Cammy Sabine, a slim, slight, middle aged woman was waiting for us outside, she wore a rumpled slate-grey Sarochba business suit and was huddled beneath the protective dome of a nylon micro-umbrella. She looked pale and unsettled as she greeted us, explaining that the office had been hit a couple of hours after closing and she was too scared to go inside.
It was a mess, the street-level door had been struck a hard blow, torn off its hinges and hurled inside, only a curtain of raindrops dripping off the head jamb separated the building from the street.
Out of the rain and inside; we were immediately met with the smell of vomit. Much of the lighting had been broken and in the pale half-glow, it was clear the place had been turned over, floors were strewn with glittering, broken glass, smashed crockery and more, nothing was left standing, tables had been flung over, contents scattered everywhere, wall-slabs ripped from fittings and cables left dangling, even part of the flooring had been pulled up.
Worse still, mostly it seemed to be coated in thin oily film, the Rokkaku creatures had been here.

With caution, we scoured the office, scoping it out under the scrutiny of our flashlights. Nearly everything had been wrecked, except one desk-slab which had somehow survived the destruction, it appeared to be covered in an inordinate amount of nauseating slime.
Cammy gave us a password, so, trying my best to avoid the vile substance, I powered the desk-slab and logged in. Scrolling through system-logs, I saw that the slab had last been powered on less than two hours ago, after Coke & Whores had closed for the night. Only one file had been accessed, a list of Coke & Whores party favours, Ashaglaya's name was on it. I pinged it to my media-slab and we returned outside to the rainy street.
After showing the list to Cammy, we could visibly see the fear grow in her eyes. Trembling, she told us that several names at the top of the the list were dead.
Someone was working down through the list, killing everyone on it; except for Hiki Suko, who was the first to die, killed in a traffic accident supposedly, she was further down the list. Why had she been targeted first?
When posed with the question, Cammy didn't have an answer, then she remembered! Hiki had given Cammy a media-slab the last time she had seen her?

​I grabbed the media-slab, it was a Gohotocang, a Dahure model, same model that Ashaglaya had. I networked it into my data-slab, launched a incursion protocol that bypassed the media-slab's password and was in.
It had belonged to Valaya Dova. I began searching the slab's memory partition and instantly found something, the first file I encountered was the last thing recorded, a video, its timestamp's date was identical to the time of Valaya's murder. I hit playback.
Watching the video whilst being jacked into my Nonohiki  made it fill my virtual vision.
This video was shot from a unusually low, off-kilter angle, part of the picture was out of focus, seemingly obscured by something, it must have been Valaya, hidden behind something. The remaining visible part of the picture showed a tall and thin, almost spindly man with Goji Rokkaku, that wasn't all though. A Rokkaku creature came into shot, moving unnaturally, it rolled its strange head around as if it was looking for something. Suddenly it flicked its head with its strange stalk-like eyes in the direction of Valaya, I heard a gasp behind the video and the picture lurched abruptly and become shaky as Valaya began running, a moment later the video ended.
After this was another video with a slightly earlier timestamp, again I hit playback. It showed the same tall, thin man, this time being serviced by a party favour.

Was that what this was all about? Was this what Valaya had seen at the party that had gotten her killed? Somehow the media-slab had gone from Valaya to Hiki Suko and now Hika Suko was dead.
We asked Cammy if any of the people on the list had been at the Goji Tower party a little while ago.
"All of them," replied Cammy Sabine.
Everyone on that list was at risk, Rokkaku was cleaning up shop, bumping off anyone associated with that party, we had to get to the targets first. Koko bought the flier in as quickly as she could and we began searching.

Several people on the list were already dead; Ashaglaya was safe where she was and well hidden. Racing though the rain filled blackness of night, guided through the aerial landscape and congestion by city lights and night vision, we managed to reach other five party favours, that was about half of the list, they piled them into the flier as we found them.
By the time we'd got them all, the rain had been reduced to a drizzle and the eastern skyline was lightening, evidence of the oncoming dawn.
We decided to stash them on the autonomous RV that circled Neon City's road network, they would safe there and they could amuse themselves while they waited for things to cool down.

During this time, as Koko was flying through the night, I took the opportunity to run the tall man through facial recognition and got a hit; Barnabus Haywood. 
Resident of The Glitterband, the vast orbital residential station that ringed the Earth, more than that, he was The Controller of one of The Glitterband's numerous habitats, namely The Messenger Habitat.
A little more digging and found records of him coming down The Skytree, the monumental undertaking that had created a space-elevator which physically linked Neon City to the vast geosynchronous Glitterband above.
Whatever was going on, looked like this was starting to grow bigger than just The Rokkaku Group. How big did it get? It was too late to try and figure out the significance, instead we returned to Hikage Street and bed.

Once again, we'd interfered with the machinations of The Rokkaku Group. It was only a matter of time before we surfaced on their radar and they might sic those creatures on to us.
We'd fought the creatures once and they proved to be dangerous enemies with bio-enhancements that gave them a serious tactical edge in combat, we needed a way to even that edge.
On every occasion that we'd seen of them, they exhibited exceptional hearing and had moved in total silence, maybe it was something that could be used against them?
Koko and I discussed creating a sonic drone that could pump out soundwaves on a multitude of frequencies and intensities, hopefully it would overpower the creature's hyper sensitive hearing or interfere with it.
​Koko contacted Alex Chinsko, ​owner of Bric-a-Brac Shac, he had a knack of creating bespoke, modded tech, maybe there was something he could do.

Too few short hours later and with little rest, our media-slabs pinged again, with a sigh I rolled out of my futon. Shadows were shortening as a blazing midday sun was rising over Neon City, drenching it in punishing heat. From my one-bed, the usually stark, blue-white sky was now strange when viewed through the filter of the urine coloured transparent tarp.
Alex Chinsko had pinged us, only not about drones! someone had come into his shop looking for help, he'd come looking for a street-doc and ratchet-jockey and was willing to pay. Alex had immediately thought of us and said we should come down to and meet the guy.

Much of Hikage Street was primarily Neon City's residential, social-housing district and Bric-a-Brac Shac one of many strips of shops that nestled at street level beneath the collective of grey, concrete high-rises and serviced their inhabitants.
The street was always busy, most people here collected universal credit and lived a life stripped of aspiration, had little purpose other than you absorb mostly vapid wall-slab vid-shows or wander the city looking for some kind of meaningful gratification. Subsiding only on this municipal fiscal arrangement that allowed them acquire funds to continue consuming corporate products and ultimately line the pockets of said corporations.
It's where we lived too, only we weren't planning on making it a permanent deal.

Bric-a-Brac Shac was like a mini electronic supermarket, shop window brimming with it's eclectic array of consumer electronics. A tiny analogue bell chimed as we came in, the noise of the outside world fell away as we gazed on walls, shelves and aisles: All choked with second hand consumer electronics, slabs of every kind, lights, AC systems, electrical components, power blocks, recovered implants, as well torn-down circuit boards and components, actuators, servos and other robot parts, along with the tools to use them. Alex also had stock in code-black tech, but kept it out of sight. We strode down the narrow aisles, burgeoning piles of gear hung over us foliage born of metal, plastic and wiring.

At the cluttered, tech-covered counter, Alex introduced us to Urus Konicek, a tall man with a mohawk and goatee, a distinctive vertical scar ran down the left side of his face and his left eye was gone, in its place; a green orb that pulsated gently. Urus wore a large almost oversized olive green Evoda overcoat, he also had a distinct, peculiar, inexplicable bitter odour and spoke a slight accent that we couldn't nail down?
Urus told us he had come from The Enclave, we all looked at each other, it was a place none of us had heard of? Continuing on, he told us that at The Enclave there was an exowomb baby that needed delivering. Finally, Urus added that the whole job would take a few days?
Designed to allow pregnancy to continue outside the biological womb, exowombs were pretty rare pieces of tech, too expensive for nearly all Neon City inhabitants, I'd never seen one.
Despite Urus being evasive about the specifics, we agreed to help, he was paying well. He seemed pleased and added that we needed to pick his travelling companion before heading out to The Enclave.

Exiting Bric-a-Brac, Urus took us south and into Hikage Street's commercial quarter, dismal high-rises fell away as the almost anonymously identical factory and warehouse estates sprang up ahead. It was also here that vast amounts of Neon City's massive piping network converged, too massive in fact to fully fit underground. Huge pipes could be seen to rise and fall out of the street like giant arching sea-snakes in an asphalt ocean. Where pipes did breach the surface of Hikage Street, they were secured to the ground with enormous concrete blocks.
Urus led us to one such block, he had a way through the secured door and took us in. It wasn't our first time in The Pipes, the dank place was an accumulation of incomprehensible mazes and labyrinths, a nightmare to navigate. Urus however, seemed to know his way round the place. So as we followed, he took us through steel and concrete entrails that led deep into the city's bowels. Deep enough that our connections to Neon City were gone, no data-feeds, no GLOWNET, nothing. It was like missing an appendage.
For a while this continued until Urus gestured for us to halt, he activated some sort of wrist-comm and spoke with somebody, giving them a warning them that we were approaching before resuming. Whatever Urus' tech was, it allowed him converse with with other people using a connectivity protocol that didn't require access to the city's networks?

Eventually we were led into a room of sorts and waiting there was Urus' companion: A huge man, well over two metres tall and dressed entirely in black, no part of him showed. He must've had some kind of implants or bio-augmentation to make his torso so massive and his arms to so thick, by comparison, his legs looked short, almost stunted.
He was introduced as Neidzwiedz, he wore a black hood that covered his face and over it a full face mask. Muffled as his voice was, we noticed a definite East European accent to the rumbling bass of his voice when he greeted us. Neidzwiedz also exuded the same bitter odour as Urus?

Urus then told us we would be heading north but in here, it might as well have been Goji Rokkaku's apartment by our understanding of The Pipes! So we walked and eventually up and out of The Pipes, it was early afternoon and we found ourselves in the Itabashi-Cho Prefecture​ and north of central Neon City. Urus proceeded to take us away from the heaving main streets through grimy back alleys and shady side roads on an apparently meandering route. We realised though, that he was going to great lengths to avoid all the security cameras we encountered; it was an impressive feat.
​
As he led us on, he would habitually stop to scrutinise some pile of rubbish or discarded trash, rummaging through and pocketing various broken-looking circuit boards, components and whatever else he found he found into his overcoat. As Koko and I curiously observed, occasionally he would stop and while Neidzwiedz would go on lookout; he'd take several back out and after rolling them over in his hands, somehow assemble them together to make a piece of kit or component; Urus definitely had a talent as a scavenger. 

We kept heading north, further north than we'd ever been. Soon the city wall began looming over the horizon behind the urban clutter. The concrete and steel wall marked the absolute limits of Neon City, it was dozens of metres thick and rose dozens of storeys above, taller than any close building. From street level we couldn't see them, but the wall was armed with extensive aerial defences to prevent transgressors from crossing in from uninhabitable wastes outside Neon City.

Still Urus took us north, past the easy recognisable and intricately built Jorenji Temple with the largest Buddha statue in the city and after that we arrived at the city wall. It was quiet, unsettlingly so, the city sprawl almost reached the wall but no one ever came this far out and the grey rough-surfaced wall was an imposing sight when it was close enough to touch, Urus continued, following the perimeter as it curved behind the windowless rears of city structures
He stopped at a sturdy, heavy looking steel panelled gate, it was covered in licks of rust and had the look of an unused thing.
"Few people in Neon City know about this, maybe nobody," Urus told us with a smile as he unlocked and opened the gate.

It was something we'd all seen, maybe in a park, definitely in photos and vids, on the GLOWNET or in VR; but going through that gate and tunnel, leaving behind the narrow, crowded streets of Neon City, the soaring skyline, concrete vistas and having it in front of us; that was something else.
An expanse of varied, seemingly unending greenery stretched out, impossibly disappearing into a distant, hazy and wavering horizon that could never exist in The City of Electric Dreams. Not even the wide spaces of Neon City's Bay could come close to matching the sparse openness here. Urus noticed our stunned expressions.
"Welcome to The Wilderness," he said with a chuckle. "Not what you were expecting?".
Wild grasses rippled under a breeze and we sensed a strange smell, it was the same bitter earthy smell that we had got from Urus and Neidzwiedz.

As we gawped at our surroundings, Neidzwiedz pulled off his black hood with a low bassy grunt. What we saw surprised us even more.
Neidzwiedz turned to look at us with a bear's head! He gave a laugh that rumbled when he saw our expressions. He explained that he was an grizzly bear that had been uplifted by the Russian Army and had been recruited into their special operation branch. He had stayed awhile before escaping into the wilderness here and encountering The Enclave, he spread his arms wide to indicate our surroundings.

Urus led us to an old style, wheeled flatbed truck, the kind that would never fit on Neon City streets, having been replaced by sky-freighters. I didn't recognise the model, but the badge said it was a Tulytt. Flecks of rust were erupting underneath the old paint, causing it to bubble and peel, looked weird; would never happen to a modern flier, old steel frames and bodies had been superseded by blended polymers and ultra-light composites. A row of glassy, gridded black panels were laid out along the flatbed trailer, they had to be solar panels, looked like someone had replaced the old internal combustion engine with a power cell.
I looked up, it was as hot as Neon City here but somehow, the sky was a softer, deeper shade of azure and cotton-white puffy clouds effortlessly hung there, nothing that could ever be seen in the harsh blue-white sky of Neon City. It made all of us wonder; how much of the planet was the uninhabitable eco-disaster that we had all been taught about as children and how much of it was like this wilderness? 

The cab was sized generously enough to allow all of us - even Neidzwiedz to squeeze in. Powering up the flatbed, Urus turned to us and said we would be stopping at somewhere called Rabbit Town before he pulled away.
For a while the truck rolled on, slowly creaking and rocking its way along a faint, uneven and rocky track that had been trampled into the grass. To the rear, through the dusty trail kicked up the truck, Neon City's skyscraper-topped city-wall shrank away, swallowed by into a vanishing point where sky met earth.
On a whim, I powered my data-slab up; zero access to the GLOWNET, well and truly off-the-grid.

For an hour or so we travelled until we crested some low, gentle hills and on the far side, Rabbit Town came into view; a smallish settlement that seemingly existed within the confines of an old-world industrial facility.
There were a couple of large, time-and-weather stained, functional looking cuboid concrete structures set on a asphalt courtyard, one of which was surrounded by half a dozen dormant looking cooling towers and smokestacks that soared skyward. Faded and barely legible signage confirmed it was an obsolete old powerplant and clearly non-operational: The town's power came from an nearby, adjacent array of solar panels that had been constructed. Also close to the settlement was an iron latticework tower dotted with a handful of satellite dishes, a quick check indicated that out network connections had been re-established.
People could be seen moving about and rudimentary handmade decorations plastered walls throughout Rabbit Town, indicating signs of inhabitation.
As the flatbed bounced closer, we could see that large numbers of the titular rabbits freely roamed the entire settlement and its locales. Urus told us that the community here was a bit strange; they believed the rabbits were the personification of their ancestors and considered them to be sacred. Urus advised us to not harm them and leave them well alone as we came to halt.

The population of Rabbit Town observed us neutrally with mild curiosity as we exited the flatbed and made the last stretch on foot, once they recognised Urus and Neidzwiedz, they warmed to us and we were invited to join them for an evening meal.
The people here did not look or behaviour like the citizens of Neon City, they were content to converse with us and we could feel the sense of community they enjoyed, unlike the inward-looking media obsessed consumerists of our world. Additionally, they disconcertingly lacked the general nihilistic cynicism that imbued Neon City. Their unbranded clothes were clearly homespun, a strange and colourful, haphazard mix of wool, cotton and animal skins.
The food they offered us was strange too, a meal consisting mostly of real vegetables and real fruits, the textures were strange; firm and crisp in contrast to the processed, reconstituted, reshaped, soft and easily consumed corporate foodstuffs we were used to. The flavours too were strange, somehow more intense yet lacking the monosodium glutamate driven endorphin zing that Neon City food provided?
Urus told us it was naturally grown in fields that surrounded Rabbit Town, real fruit and vegetables went for a hefty price tag if sold to the right people in the right parts of Neon City.

After thanking our hosts we set off back to the flatbed. At the cab, Captain Noodles had remained behind with the vehicle, expressing no desire to visit Rabbit Town. Arriving back, we discovered that Noodles had killed and eaten several rabbits, he was smug and pleased with himself, completely oblivious to what he had done!
Quietly, we loaded up into the truck and set off northwards again.
In the west, an enormous wavering sun was slipping behind the unnerving, uneven and undulating wilderness horizon in a red-orange hue that blazed across half the sky, casting the longest of shadows. Soon it would be night.
As we went on, Urus flicked on the headlights and I peered up at the darkening sky as the failing light was consumed by inky blackness, something was different, some was wrong?
Rain, there was no rain and no black boiling clouds had gathered above to unleash torrents. As night bled into the clear sky, the cosmos in all its light and colour was revealed.
I had no memory of there being a night with no rain in Neon City, all of us stared above at the starry roof as high as the universe.

Soon it was entirely dark, dark in a way that The City of Electric Dreams could never be, no city lights or humming streetlamps could be found here, or lit-up fliers buzzing above either. As the truck trundled along, beyond the flatbed's lights; the world had been swallowed by night, only the creaking of the truck and our own restlessness were heard.
Later, a spark of pulsating light appeared in the void ahead; it's distance impossible to calculate. The light's intensity grew as we continued, until it split into two and split again into five lights? Soon, shapes materialised out of the night, rectangles - a row of them; grey-white and mostly washed out under the radiance of the stark white lights which seemingly hovered above. As the truck closed in, details swam into focus, rectangles morphed into polycarbonate-reinforced concrete panels anchored to each other by steel posts, forming a colossal wall. Hovering lights coalesced into floodlights bolted to shadowed watchtowers barely visible behind the unrelenting glare. This wall surrounded a compound of sorts, inside its perimeter taller buildings were indistinctly silhouetted against the night sky.
Urus drove around the wall and up to some gates, on a watchtower, a spotlight buzzed into life and swivelled towards us, its beam playing across the cab.
"Welcome to The Enclave," Urus announced.
While our identities were confirmed and the heavy gates slid open, Urus went on to explain that the compound had once been a military base, abandoned before the days of Neon City and now home to The Enclave.

Past the gates the lighting was kept to a minimum and from within we could make out that the watchtowers were manned. Urus eased the truck on to the small asphalt road network that spread throughout the compound, ahead of us was a courtyard and beyond it was a largish boxy building. Just to the west was a low wide structure with a dimly lit open front, to the east we also spotted a row of what looked to be single story cabins, several windows were lit. In the compound's north-east corner was a tall, angular tower and directly opposite the tower was the tallest structure here by far; a soaring latticework array housing a large white satellite dish. A quick check told us that it was networked into Neon City. A long strip of solar panels had been constructed in The Enclave, similarly to Rabbit Town.
Urus took the west road, turning the truck towards the low structure which we discovered was a garage constructed of ceramic corrugated sheets and parked up.
Now that we were at The Enclave, Urus explained that some sort of flier had come down hard in the wilderness reasonably close by; a security team was sent to investigate. At the crash site they discovered two occupants, both had survived the impact, but barely. The woman was unconscious, possibly comatose and Urus had no idea about the state of the exowomb.

Urus led us to the boxy building, telling us that it was The Enclave's hospital. It was apparent that the building had served some other function in the long-gone past and had been crudely repurposed as a med-facility, there were no dedicated medical wards or wings, no operating theatre or treatment rooms, the hospital was lacking both facilities and equipment.
We were taken to the two survivors.
The exowomb was a Kuihsih branded piece of med-tech, didn't know much about it, wasn't the kind of thing we dealt in. It had clearly taken a beating though but had undoubtedly saved the life of the infant within. ​Pepper checked its readouts, it wasn't good news; resources and power were nearly depleted and several sub-systems had also been damaged by the crash. The bio-monitor also indicated that the infant was male, had come to term and needed to be born. Without the password, there was no way to access the exowomb's control system. It was a problem.
Pepper then turned his attention to the woman, un moving in her rudimentary bed. didn't long to realise she was in big trouble, she had serious internal injuries causing a multitude of secondary medical problems. Circling the drain Pepper told us, he also said that he didn't have the equipment to treat her and after searching around, there was nothing in The Enclave that could help either. Worse still, she was too weak to move.

After some discussion, we formulated a plan!
If the woman couldn't be brought to a hospital, then the hospital would have to be brought to her!
The equipment required to treat the woman was fantastically expensive, luckily Pepper knew how to get it rented. He pinged his contact and set it up, then we Pinged Roboy, he could have it delivered to the city wall at Itabashi-Cho and Urus and Neidzwiedz would pick up early tomorrow morning and bring it here. It would take over twelve hours, but there was no other option. Pepper gave the woman some injections, it would stabilise her blood pressure and heart rate, it would also stave off the effects of infection and protect her vital organs - if only for a while, We had to hope it was enough.
The exowomb presented use with several problems.
First I networked my data-slab with it's system and jacked in. Streams of data imprinted themselves on to my consciousness, a constant flow of information in all its minutiae. I probed the encrypted defences, it was a fairly standard setup, I launched a bypass protocol and unlocked it.
Next; Koko had to open it, the servos that operated the exowomb's access panel had been knocked out of alignment by the crash impact, this required detaching the panel extender arms from the servo mechanism without causing further damage to other more critical systems, or harming the child.
Once that was done, it was down to Pepper to make sure the infant was safely extracted from the systems that had been providing nutrients and life support for him and ensure he was healthy. The birth went without a hitch, the boy was safe.

It would be hours until Urus and Neidzwiedz returned with the gear, so we decided to check out the shuttle. The crash site was located just within boundaries of a large forest to the west and might contain dangerous wild animals, a small security detail was assigned to us and we hiked the three kilometres to the site.
Ahead, silent rows of pine sentinels marked the forest's edge, we continued on.
It felt unnatural to be surrounded by so much greenery and vegetation that stretched out beyond the scope of our vision. It felt a quiet and secluded place, yet contrasted by distant, irregular but constant noises that we were told was birdsong. Unfamiliar and heady smells filled our nostrils, underfoot the ground somehow felt soft and frequently gave way with quiet crumpling noises? 

About an hour after leaving The Enclave, we arrived at the crash site.
The shuttle was a wreck and situated in the centre of a shallow crater of exposed dirt and fallen trees, there was no ploughed ditch or line of damaged trees,  it indicated that the vehicle had most likely plummeted down at a relatively steep angle and not glided or tried to land. This in turned implied that it had encountered a catastrophic event or failure that had immediately brought it down.
​The shuttle wasn't a typical Neon City flier either, it was a Interstad Gruppe Sky-skimmer capable of surface-to-orbit flight. There was almost no way that it could have come down on its own or due to error, too many redundancies, too many fail-safes.
We searched the wreckage but got nothing, the ferocity of the impact had taken care of anything that might have resembled evidence. A portion of the hull was still intact and part of some corporate logo or livery was still visible, so we took a photo of it.

An hour later and we were back at The Enclave. Now that I was networked again, I ran the shuttle's livery through a GLOWNET search and got a hit. The shuttle belonged to some corporate public transport contractor that operated out of The Glitterband.
Had the shuttle been coming out of The Glitterband when it had gone down? Was it possible that the shuttle had sent out a distress call? Did someone on The Glitterband need to be contacted?
We had some discussion and in the end, decided to keep quiet about it. There was no idea what we might've have been getting ourselves into.

It was a few hours later that Urus and Neidzwiedz rode back to The Enclave with the gear Pepper needed, we took it to the hospital, set it up and let Pepper do his thing.
A little later and he was done, Pepper told us that the woman was in a serious but stable condition. Stable enough, he said, to take back to Neon City, she still needed extensive medical attention and rest. Pepper made a few calls and arranged to place her in a private med-facility under an alias.
I ran the woman's face through recognition before we left and I got a result I'd never seen; Access Denied? On a few rare occasions I got zero hits, I'd never seen something like this though. Something had to be blocking the search, it was likely that someone had coded some sort of autonomous predatory algorithm which was prowling the GLOWNET, killing any data-transmissions which matched whatever criteria had been inputted into the algorithm's parameters; in this case the identity of the woman. It would take a lot more effort to get past this, something for later.

​As a parting gift, we were given a small crate of fresh fruit and vegetables by The Enclave. Urus and Neidzwiedz took us back to The City of Electric Dreams and the return journey was uneventful, by midnight we were back in the comfortable, recognisable asphalt canyons of Neon City, where concrete and glass trees replaced wooden ones and familiar sheets of heavy night rain came crashing down.
Urus and Neidzwiedz helped us bring the woman into the city, we said our goodbyes to the pair as Pepper called a private sky-ambulance to take her to the prearranged facility.
After that, Bill told us that he knew a buyer that served a very exclusive clientele who would pay good money for the opportunity to brag about how they'd eaten fresh fruit and vegetables.
​Bill ended up getting seventeen million bits for the fruit and vegetables!

It was the morning after our return to Neon City when Ram Rat pinged me. Jacking into my Nonohiki, I spoke with the digitised consciousness who had been residing in a partition on the data-slab since the bio-components of his previous cyborg body had decayed into unviability.
Even though I was not connected to the GLOWNET, its sensory interface interpreted Ram Rat's consciousness as billions of clustered, swirling neon motes, iridescent and pulsating constellations of bio-data that expanded, contracted and cascaded into each other over digital aeons. An indecipherably and constantly changing, infinitely intricate geometry. A cosmic displayer of the hacker's entire mental process.

Ram Rat told me that his new robot body was ready: As his cyborg body had been failing, he'd managed to get into Robot Factory, hack its systems and insert a robot specification file into its construction database, then he had instructed the factory to produce it, now it had been completed. There was just the small matter of getting a hold of it!

Our last incursion into Robot Factory had nearly gone south, internal defence systems were pretty lethal. We decided that instead, perhaps the robot body should come to us. There was also the matter of cost.
Plugging into the GLOWNET, I navigated well-travelled lanes of Neon City's info-streams until I reached the steel-blue coloured, slowly rotating seemingly riveted polyhedral shape that was Robot Factory's data-image. Ignoring the colourful, friendly and public-facing info-vault, I looked for a node that might take me to the data-vault behind it, Robot Factory's real vault, I quickly found it and was of course immediately hit security protocols. Responding, I launched a protocol of my own, allowing me to bypass the security measures, granting full access to their system.
Even though I was riding the GLOWNET, Ram Rat's presence on my data-slab still registered with me and through this awareness he had the ability to connect with the GLOWNET himself.
Ram Rat probed the system quickly found and displayed for me records associated with his new robot body. I had expected the spec file to be assigned to one of the many product lines that Robot Factory manufactured. Instead, Ram Rat had prudently given it the status of; Unclassified Prototype, this meant the spec file had been assigned its own folder on their system, hidden in plain sight. Unknown unless it was specifically searched for, and why would they do that? Even better, as a prototype it had no manufacturing or delivery cost associated with the order! All that remained was giving it a delivery address.
Wasn't a good idea to deliver it to any of our apartments, instead we contacted Silai Granskina; his voice was clear as a bell now, the op must've been a success and he was happy to help us. Once the robot body was delivered we got it picked up by a courier from Get That For You?, Roboy, the robotic proprietor could be trusted to be discreet.

The robot body arrived without a hitch. It was a sleek design of multipolymers, steel alloys and chrome plated skin in humanoid proportions. The latest servo motors and cutting edge sensor banks gave it enhanced performance characteristics. Mnemonic fluidic joints gave the impression that the body had been seamlessly carved from a single chunk of polished steel with a face of perfectly chiselled features. 
With some searching I found the concealed data interface and jacked my Nonohiki into it. A diagnostic protocol confirmed that its power cell was at peak efficiency, so I booted its systems, readouts on my data-slab went all green, Ram Rat began the transfer, it would take some time until his consciousness full occupied what was the robot's blank slate.

Some time later and the transfer was done. Ram Rat was up and about, he seemed pleased; his new configuration would outlast all of us - at least in our current bodies!
He began checking how the new body felt, crouching, jumping, punching the air, even running around the apartment. When his weapon ports opened, I told him it would probably be a good idea to test them out somewhere else and sent him out whilst eyeing the urine coloured tarp that gently wafted along one side of my one-bed.
Ram Rat told me he would finish his tests and fly back to the roaming RV.

The day of Yaroh Uron's trial had come around and we headed to the courthouse in the glaring low morning sunlight, found the relevant courtroom and took up seats in the gallery along with Yaroh's wife, Tohi.
It was a small but open room, lavishly decorated in replica wood panelling and furniture, designed to lend it an air of tradition and authority, something the Neon City legal system sorely lacked. Decidedly non-traditional globe-lights hung from the ceiling and lit the room in a unfavourably cold white hue. An overworked grinding air-con unit did it's best to keep the temperature tolerable.
There was a little wait before a shackled and orange jump-suited Yaroh was shuffled in, his face was long and he looked unhappy. Immediately we noticed that he was not accompanied by the lawyer we had hired for him - Finn Kinton, instead he was with the public defender.
Soon Magistrate Wyatt Lavanchy, presiding judge swept into the room, dressed in a archaic and voluminous black robe, he sat at the bench and pronounced that the trial was underway.

It didn't last long, seventeen minutes to be precise, Yaroh was found guilty and sentenced to life imprisonment at the Black Dolphin Gulag and marched off.
The evidence against Yaroh Uron was weak, but the key witness in Yaroh's defence - Jinny Stoyer had not presented herself at the courtroom.
Someone was pulling strings behind the scenes? Had to be Benedict Twistom. Time for us to make a move.
We tried our best to console Tohi and said that we'd look into the matter, she told us that she would be making preparations to lodge an appeal.

A quick inquiry revealed that Finn Kinton had just recently died at home of a heart attack?
I consumed myself within the undulating data-scapeof Neon City's GLOWNET info-vista, travelled along the incandescent veins of information that ceaselessly flowed through its infinitely intricate collective construct, racing from one data-vault to another; looking for information on Wyatt Lavanchy. Had Benedict Twistom gotten to him? It didn't look like it. He was a long serving judge and had a rep as a hardliner, but he seemed legit clean as he looked, nothing for Twistom to latch on to.
Wyatt Lavanchy had a wife; Deliah, checked her out too, this time I got something. Deliah had no skeletons in her past either but municipal records indicated a home in the Fortified Residential District had been bought in her name recently. Judges earned good money but there was no way that they could bankroll a place in The Zone, too exclusive, too expensive. It was a lead we could follow, only there was no way we would easily get access to the Fortified Residential Zone, we had to work it sideways.
We were on good terms with Porter Sladek and Vlegei Kreshoma, both residents of The Zone: We pinged them and explained what we needed, they sent out some personnel to scope out the address we gave them. Both men pinged us back with the same result: The Levanchy residence was well guarded by a number of heavily armed retainers.

Next was Jinny Stoyer. We pinged D4-VID; the robot vid-corder had been covering the trial and we asked him if he knew anything about her? Stoyer had gone missing he confirmed but he had no idea how to find her.
Jinny Stoyer was a working girl who operated out of Ninety Ninth Street using the street-tag Juicy J. Under the early-afternoon heat, we took a crowded, sweltering tram ride out to The Neon Mile.
It was characteristically hot, noisy and busy, the blare of street hawkers, arcades and pachinko parlours mingled with heaving, clamorous crowds to create consciousness-numbing, cacophonic white noise that reverbed seemingly along the entire length of the street.
It was easy to find a number of Juicy J's contemporaries working Ninety Ninth, Bill did some talking and spread some bits about. Juicy J no longer tricked on Ninety Ninth, she'd got wind that some nasty men were on the hunt for her and had bugged out. No proof but it was likely that this was muscle on Benedict Twistom's payroll.
Word was that she was now working for Let All Your Rage Out under a different tag. Jinny had apparently told one of her former associates after a year at Let All Your Rage Out, she'd have enough money to get to the moon and be reunited with her boyfriend, OK Daddy.

Let All Your Rage Out was a fairly niche business that - for a price supplied human mannequins to its clientele to use and abuse as they desired. Even if Jinny had provided them her real name, it was unlikely that they'd give it up without some hefty persuasion. So, while perusing their corporate public facing data-vault on the GLOWNET, we came up with a plan.

Bill booked into one of the many cheap, anonymous and drab hotels somewhere on Chuo Street, created a bogus account with Let All Your Rage Out and logged on. He put in an order for a human mannequin, to be sent the hotel's address, on his order he requested a mannequin with physical characteristics that matched those of Jinny; height, build, hair and eye colour, fruit themed tattoos and so on. The mannequin would be delivered within two hours. Then we waited.

The ruse worked, less than two hours later and Jinny Stoyer was knocking on the hotel room door, so we let her in. She wore a miniskirt, boob tube, PVC micro jacket and knee-high boots. Once she realised who had made the order, she futilely tried to flee, we were ready that move though.
We assured her that we meant her no harm, she wasn't entirely convinced and continued shiftily looking around the tatty, barely maintained room for a way out. She was clearly scared and refused to testify on behalf of Yaroh. News that ​she was being hunted must've shook her pretty hard and we didn't blame her. We needed a different approach, we knew that she was trying to save money to finance a trip to The Moon, so we made a proposal; if Jinny agreed to testify, we'd front the money for her trip. Jinny hesitated before speaking and was still concerned about whoever was looking for her. We told Jinny that we could put her somewhere safe, somewhere she'd never been found. After some consideration, Jinny agreed.
We called the flier and stashed Jinny in the RV, she'd be safe there until the appeal. I'm sure she'd get on well with the party favours we'd also stashed there!

Later and Pepper got pinged. Came from the med-facility where Pepper had placed the unconscious woman from the shuttle crash. She had now regained consciousness.
Without delay, we headed to the facility.
Pepper knew his stuff, the woman's room bristled with medical apparatus and tools, scanners, monitors and at the centre of it, the woman, sitting up and eating. 
Pepper checked her bio-readouts, vitals were strong, no sign of permanent or long term injury, she'd make a full recovery.
The first thing the woman did was to press us about her son, she demanded to know where he was, what had happened to him? We assured her that he was safe, at a place that no one in Neon City could hope to find. We also told her that they would be reunited now that she was safe to travel.
It was our turn to ask questions, we had plenty.
She told us her name was Avril Haywood, that made her the daughter of Barnabus Haywood: We'd stumbled on something that looked like it involved Barnabus Haywood just a few days ago, coincidence? Never a safe assumption in Neon City.
Next we asked about the shuttle. Avril told us it had beenshot down, we asked who would want to kill her.
"My father!" she said, matter-of-factly.
It was incredulous, why would he want to kill his daughter and grandson?
Avril went on to explain why, her son's father was Michael Leander, who sat on the ruling council of the Emptiness Habitat.
Barnabus Haywood, according to his daughter was a believer, a believer that he rules over the Messenger Habitat by divine right and is the literal word of god. To him The Messenger Habitat represents the domain of Barnabus and his descendants by birthright. This child was the result of the mingling of the Haywood and Leander bloodlines, giving him and potentially the Leanders and the Emptiness Habitat's ruling council a claim on the Messenger Habitat's throne. This was intolerable to Barnabus, who considered it a threat to his family's seat of power. When Avril realised what her father was prepared to do  in order to eliminate this threat, she chose to immediately flee the Glitterband with her unborn son, come to Earth in a shuttle and hoped to find safe haven somewhere. She hadn't been quite quick enough though. Maybe her father would think they had died in the crash, she hoped.

We contacted Urus and he agreed to help, we arranged for Avril Haywood to be picked up at the north gate in Itabashi-Cho and taken her to The Enclave and her son.

Later, Koko received Pippy, a modified Suayo MKVI gun-drone. Alex Chinsko had removed the gun housings and ammo pods and replaced them with a pair of adapted Senonable Oktuto omni-speakers and additional power cells.
Alex had also coded an algorithm that allowed Pippy to use the internal rangefinders to harmonically modulate the audio output at the designated target with near pinpoint accuracy.
​Maybe it was something we could use?