You roam the scrapyards endlessly, sifting through rubble and garbage...some of it may even be toxick, hard to tell. You wear a makeshift bio-suit with holes torn throughout the tattered garment as you wander the outskirts of the colonial city in your 2nd rate gas mask looking for parts to tinker with. You scheme and dream of making weaponry and figuring some shit out in a swift act of violence but you don't know exactly what you could craft from all these discarded parts you've collected over the years. One day you spy a small, partially bent copper-coil and some broken casing of a Rodent Industries Dream Gun. You pick it up and feel the vibrations of nanoscaled bio-sentience coating the black, metallic material, it squirms and wiggles a barely noticeable microinch under your thumb. It's cultures of nanomachine life, tuned and programmed against the Great Alarm it's self. Information begins revealing it's self in blinding flashes of bulkdata received in omni-hued lightburst. Transference and a new mission. You snap out of it, placing the coil in your bag and turning to walk home back to your junk heap of parts, your mind racing in all direction equally, thoughts blossom to fruition before you are able to perceive them. A longing swells and throbs in your forehead - you must build the schemata which drew it's self in that blinding light - or else. You arrive home to your dilapidated crashpad greeted by the creeky, unlocked door and look over your dimly lit collection of parts to see what you have to work with. Odds are you're gonna have to modify your design.