A Squirrel foot solider quietly runs data somewhere along a fenceline between the irreal borders and OSK fronts in the form of wetware shops just outside the colonial cities. Infict Prism Clusters and shards thereof demand top dollar in the grey zones. Dust of psychotronic data diggers blows in the unheard winds which surround him. An Ayin-Mem Gang Member smashes the tin-teeth of a time-travel mafia hitman with a thick lead pipe and laughs at the thought of "Clang-Bang" to describe it's sound. The Squirrel continues his travel, unseen, and clutching to his stolen tech, down lightshafts and etheric corridors. He hands a prism over to an Orbital Control contact, it shatters with a chime of "ehli" - silver-liquid reflection pool spilling off the sides in wake of a pure iridescent hue. "We shall use this to make our key..." says a familiar, remote, mulltitimbral voice echoing through the focal point of this contact. He scoops the silver liquid into a vial. "712 of your ranks is no more. You should carry this message back to the masters of Black-Phi. Tell them a Sacrifice was demanded." bellows the monotonous standard issue audio-interface chip for OC Police-"OSK must always orbit at frequency 1041." A 3rd Party disengages their Harpocrates Cloaking tech, possibly from solar interference. Agent 105 emerges from the time-shadows wearing a troll mask with gnarly sabertooth fangs. A second stout, muscular gangster, bald and barring a threefold triangle eloptic-tattoo on his arm disengages his cloaking device also. A slimy, grotesque display of power bringing this many agents to a meeting. Thugs from the regions of Malibu-Nam, contracting for unknown sources. They smile a sinister grin and brandish Shuggoth-weaponry built into their nervous system. Standing behind the OSK representative they issue a dark look in the Squirrel's direction letting him know it's time for him to bail on the situation.
Cabzoo, AKA David Majors, AKA Major, is a half-active agent of D-IV & Ayin-Mem. Despite not being there in the days of the submarine wars, he carries in his genetics a code from Mr. Fingley's Double-helix data-makeup. It's youth-inducing elixir wetware is partially responsible for his carefree attitude. He's smoking a joint (or is a meth pipe?) lazily eyeing the target of the mission - Ol' Bruce's, an alcohol warehouse somewhere halfway between the Colonial Cities and the Thantifaxath Black Market, an outlet mall peddling liquid despair, if you will. He looks over at nine-cubed "What time we go in?" he ask. "Depends when he starts drinking." nine-cubed spits to his left, a sizzle of tiny subatomic shoggoth born into microgalaxies. "He never stops. He breaks bottles over his face." smiles the Owl King behind opaque glasses. "His resolve was difficult to break." they agree upon leaving the store. "I dunno, he sure did cry alot when we smashed up all his fucking booze with big 'Breakers' hammers." 9cubed remarks upon second thought. "Look at these nice pictures I took." he hands some photos to the Owl King. Smashed teeth next to a bloody hammer and broken booze bottle shards. The owl king eye's the photo closely "Yep, Crazy Bruce's broken teeth. Did you keep them?" "Nah, got the photo as radionic specimen for witness wells. No need for unclean teeth when you can just take pictures of shit." says 9Cubed. "Never trust a photo to do right though." a hollow echo from the Owl King as another scene fades into the Black Mothers nightfall embrace.
Windows we first sent out to monopolize submarine wars. 11 aliens in a Nameless rite seek results, a catalyst for keeping a psychotronic ninja in the shell's signal. But we Have the Werewolve's skulls controller to Asmoedeus. "Fork over all your sparks, quick-like." says 9cubed. Twiddles the knob on his Psionic Qabbalah Circuit and twist the silver key starting the hyperengines built into the fabric of the DigiYesod.
Back at the diner,"The Shells are like our broken dreams. They were not balanced to hold the force and were shattered. It is longing that remains, the broken deranged desire that could not bear up in manifestation. The Magickian is to take an inverse perception. It is observation and non-action vs. action & projection. The magickian is an inverted phallus- is a dip stick. Turned upside down and immersed in the dark to take a reading. To then process this info into forward motion is crucial to avoid possession, the way a broken dream will possess you. Is it the collective broken dream?" his Fortune Cookie reds "It doesn't Matter, who is without flaw?" - "Connect 'Night-Side' to 'Day-Side' through the INTENT & WILL of the magickian. Without the honest understanding of the limits we can near engineer real change. If our motive is derived from the broken shells of old intention." he continues to his younger associate. The residue of Edom lines the shadow-walls' psionic data absorption. Low N-Zone modulations exude from this DOR generator.