943.5 enters the Parafaxitas Lounge wearing a Dr. C. mask, he looks over two gents in the corner, notices they are shadowed by X's electric binary projection through his datashades. A Mr. Fingley and Hall are slamming back drinks in a daze. There are two other strange wanders chilling with them. Along with Mr. Fingley, these two partners in crime appear not a day over 17 - "But then how'd they manage to get in? Or even get this far into the Tunnels?" wonders 943.5 - their age is illusionary, they partake of the vital elixir manufactured in OSK, of which, Hate Syrup is a by-product. The left-over remnants of the deathhead cast in hues of angst. 943.5 walks to the restroom. Mr. Hall spots him through the keyhole when trying to gain access, sees the Dr. C. mask and boils inside. He's been out for revenge for investigations into his activities on Dr. C.'s part. Some freelance assignment. Hall storms back to his chair grabbing his rusty shotgun and loading it with nano-shrapnel armor piercing rounds. A nexus or pivot-point is about to be created in an act of violent glitchery.
One of their youthful looking accomplices appears to be Cabzoo, he steps outside the Parafaxitas Lounge to escape the 110+ degree temperature and bums a cigarette along the corridors of Thantifaxath. The air outside seems blurry, contrasted by fog. His mind is feeling equally hazy as he searches the street for the party he arrived with. Did he come with P-47 or was he waiting on Op2 and 9cubed? He wanders around in a dim haze for a while but the night sky seems orange and aflame to his eyes regardless of the fog.
Agent Milkman, decked in full Disco Samurai disguise, complete with afro, selects a place to sit two booths down. An overhead lamps sways from a bump of his wig. He adjust himself then begins to pantomime circuit music in rhythm to a 2nd invisible party at his table. This is to encode his communications so on-lookers have no idea of the conversations going on between these two foragers into the tunnels who designed the harsh, cruel game and installed it into Yesodic overlay-Protocols.
The older cyberpunk slams the lid to a red box, sealing it with key: "I know they were associates of yours but they were trying to use 712's channel as a springboard beyond our dimension." The younger gangster nods, noticing the new patron in the dive-bar/diner. "Must still be hearing the musick in his fucking head, eh?"
"Dr. C., this place is strange. It takes desire to create and sustain this world but to live in it... with the random flux of dice and limited outcomes amidst seemingly endless paths and outcomes. It boggles my mind." "Theron! My old friend! It is best to relax and enjoy the sudden clash... as when the pins and the ball meet in a perfect strike." Dr. C. smiles and hands him a VatMeat-Flavored Carbonated Beverage.
"There is no .god on the Borderlands." says the Owl King, dragging a menthol cigarette behind a cloud of blue smoke. "Work With dot To Guard Your Mind." replies 105 with a programmed Mantra as they load egg-cargo with Op2 at the underwater castle-station. "X guided the unseen hand whom wrote the all." the workers chant.