The sudden surge of endorphins like sharp terror cutting silence. He vomits cruel alphabet of space time huddle over in a dingy ill-lit corner. "Too Many Constant Agent Battle, Remote Integrate Babbel Circuit, Cutty Shadow Lightmark frame shift work Eloptical circuit glitch at contact point with psionic residue, miscalculated implant extract nanite swarm cluster-consciousness crystalline rotate oscillators blade fan trajectory against backdrop of god time .manifest broken shards restored Icli-locating radar active inficon amethyst tuned circle clockwise repeating signal call carrier intent fictive merge stream course data light eye show." Glitched mission guidance of fragmented robot voices echo somewhere in his distant interface. "Become more physical than physical" answers a familiar voice from his multimemetic patchbay implant, but even it too is far gone from this place. In the distance the hollow echo of underworld sprawl of the city of Masak Mvadil resounds, beckoning to it's endless streets leading no where. The Black Uncertainty calls him. Unprogrammed mass, potential for a new 11th dimensional structure. He looks to his sides in the blackness, visions of the distant worlds which lay further into this place fade from vision. He notices his immediate landscape of living fleshy plants on broken concrete walls building dim shadows in this illusionary forest.
In a corner, sitting on a tarp, a six armed lady cuts meat out of a large genetically engineered trilobyte beetle's underside with a sharp set of knives, carefully placing the contents on a stone grill. Snakey prostitutes with purple hair approach him, attempting to seduce him with silent siren calls and piercing glares. He stumbles away from the advances towards shifting mecha city and dark woodland hollow. Unable to move with every nerve white-hot with fire at it's tip, he drops to his knees. The eyes of serpentine flesh traders glisten with the vampiric delight of feast. Shells consuming his core in these desolate rusted copper emerald sewers stained with grotesque rot. Looming shadow's presence with fierce red particle drift, cast in a silhouette, towers above him. He looks up and sees the mad, glassy tweaker eyes of a bald man wearing the shifting astral garbs of a black furred Lichen. He extends our agent a callused and rough left hand, no pinky present. Our agent takes it, in this haze not noticing the R.S.o.Z. sigil adorning the etheric fleshsuit of his newly found companion. He fights to get back to his feet, vision blurring back into sharp focus, rain ceaselessly falling at multple angles and wind howling. Time moves differently here, inert cutups of Fotemacus' spectrogram. Blunt Metal Clanging in orchestra of discord shrieks into the score demanding room amongst the dissonant symphony of this underground world comprised of a network of tunnels and pseudo-spaces. Geomagnetic hits black then people turn off through lost private crazyness, the soundtrack with this name's sonic cigarettes. "Fixing the god is good?" "get the head" a hanged one swears in a vent. Rates, silence, rare sparks for bandwidths, talking all geometry for themselves interfacing up to mass light, a trap in and of itself.
He looks the man in the eye trying to be friendly despite knowing not to trust the fuckers in these underworlds. A glimmer in the corner of the glass, feedback loop attempts at hack-leech pipelines. Agent 943.5 loses it, grabbing the lichen by the throat and punching his lower jaw, a tooth bounces off the back of his throat. The Lupine daemon shifts into a full form primal hunter with shrieks and haste, shredding razor claw at 943.5's arm. He drops the beast and a mutual distaste lingers in kinetic impulse fields, a deep seeded hatred echoes down these false-sky corridors. A horrible sinister cackle echoes from the werewolves trembling jaw and a sense of vague recognition is triggered in our agent. Psigenic appall for this consciousness echoes in his double-helix processors. The number "712" begins to vibrates in his mind, glitchy neural synapatic patterns carved on soft grey matter attempt to fire in recollection of this foe. He attempts to locate a silver-RF charged knife in his front jacket pocket, but it is not there. "Too bad" he thinks "those can really come in handy when dealing with these RSoZ cronies." No sooner than these words cross mind than a rickety car pulls up and four men wearing those same RSoZ astral garbs step out of it. The initial werewolf looks at them "Put 'em in the fucking trunk!" We'll spare the gorier details in this report, suffice it to say Agent 943.5 took a long ride in that fucking trunk. Time spent bloody and fading in and out of consciousness along bumpy non-roads of black haunted woods to the Asmodian Manor.
712 had tried to pull the plug on an official OSK Transmissions Dept. Omni-Bandwidth relay, and had damn near succeeded if not for the violent retroprojective nanotransceiver broadcast Orbital Control had begun disbatching to agents to employ on their environments. Such Inkeftions flipped the polarity of his inertia and his meat became food for a hungry Typhon. But as for now, he was a fucking shell walking in thinly ripped lupine skin. It's Decay hung about his aethyr in an artificially sterilized cesspool.