The Out Castes waste no time…
“Fight Mode Now Engaged” flashes across your vision in angry red letters.
The first Out Caste materializes from the crowd like a nightmare given form—shadow-blade crackling to life in his grip. But it’s not the weapon that stops your blood cold.
It’s his eyes. Fixed on you with absolute certainty. And his words that follow.
He gives you a long, appraising look—like a predator studying prey that might be worth keeping alive. “Too bad you’re not in the bloodline,” he says, voice carrying an almost respectful tone that chills you more than any threat. “In the future, you’d definitely fall in the line of an Amnesiac. Amnesiacs don’t carry Out Caste blood, but you could be a follower of our ways.”
His shadow-blade shifts, reforming into something resembling an offering gesture.
“I would be honored to teach you personally…”
The words hang in the air like poison. Teaching. Following. Their ways. Every instinct screams that whatever they represent, whatever they offer, leads to something far worse than death.
“Thanks,” you spit, backing away slowly, “but I’ll pass on your little shadow puppet cult.”
His respectful expression melts away like ice in fire. The shadow-blade snaps back into killing position.
“Pity,” he whispers, lunging with inhuman speed.
His blade whistles past your ear as you twist away, missing death by millimeters. Your synesthesia explodes into overdrive—golden threads mapping dodge points while phantom pain spikes like red lightning through your real body.
You grab a vendor’s metal stool nearby, swing it wildly like a club. The impact against his wrist produces a satisfying crack. His shadow-blade dissolves as his concentration breaks.
The second Out Caste circles behind you—predator patterns your borrowed reflexes recognize. You duck low and sweep her legs from under her. She crashes back into a food cart, synthetic noodles exploding in bioluminescent arcs that smell like artificial flowers.
The third Out Caste doesn’t attack. He tries to bait you instead—coordinated movements pushing you toward what you suddenly realize is a carefully orchestrated trap.
“How?” The word escapes before you can stop it. “How do you know?”
The first Out Caste smiles—an expression that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Your soul bleeds through, karmapunk. No matter what body you steal.”
Steal? The word hits like a physical blow.
“I’m not the same person who stumbled blindly into the last trap,” you say—still not quite used to the higher pitch in your voice.
You direct your pattern powers to show escape routes with mathematical precision.
Then you fire up your tether to the ink crate and yank—the massive container rockets toward you like a guided missile. The Out Castes scatter, diving for cover as two tons of antigrav cargo screams through the space where they’d been standing.
You give chase, racing down the nearby alley — the massive crate racing closely behind. Scanning quickly, you spot a massive dumpster-like container. In a flash, you guide the ink crate next to the dumpster, parking it in the shadows of the massive metal structure. You untether and dash back down towards the alley just in time to meet the Out Caste members sprinting your way.
“Nina. The Ink’s secured — for now…”
You spot a maintenance ladder leading up to the next level of the Grid Core. With enhanced agility, you leap upward, fingers closing around rusted rungs that bite into your palms.
The Out Castes follow, but now you’re in Skye’s element now. You can feel it— as if every muscle remembers this landscape. You scramble across a bridge that looks like a repurposed airplane wing, the metal flexing alarmingly under your weight while wind whistles through gaps in the structure.
Behind you, the Out Castes move with coordinated precision, their shadow-weapons flickering in and out of existence as they pursue like digital ghosts.
“Skye! Wait!” Nina screams into your comms.
What you see ahead stops you dead in your tracks.
Three — no, four patrol vehicles—sleek curved Humvee-like machines—converge on your position. Their flashing emergency lights strobe across the Grid Core like angry eyes. Eight or nine officers in glossy black armor deploy with practiced efficiency, their scanners sweeping the area with red targeting beams that paint everything in crimson warnings.
“Multiple violations detected,” booms an amplified voice that echoes off ship hulls. “Unlawful assembly, destruction of property, suspected gang activity.”
You look back, as the Out Castes simply step behind normal citizens, using the crowd and the shadows as perfect camouflage. One moment they’re pursuing you with deadly intent, the next they’re gone—melting into the pixelated-eyed masses like shadows at dawn.
The patrol officers’ scanners lock onto you instead, red targeting beams converging on your position.
“You—step into the light,” the voice continues with mechanical authority. “Remain stationary for processing.”
You spot the ink crate, hiding in the shadows levels below, still bobbing innocently like a faithful pet.
“Skye,” Nina’s voice carries new urgency, “I’m tracking patrol reinforcements incoming from three directions. Whatever you’re going to do, do it NOW.”
Your phantom pain spikes again as stress floods your system, but the stolen patch is working—7 out of 10 instead of 9. Your muscles respond. Your breathing steadies. You can think through this with a bit better clarity.
The Grid Core’s architecture offers dozens of possible routes. Your pattern vision shows you something the others miss—a pattern in the patrol deployment. They’re following what appears to be standard containment protocols, but those protocols assume ground-level pursuit.
You’re not on the ground…
Skye’s intimate knowledge of AetherPoint’s vertical landscape flows through your muscles. With her instincts and your synesthesia, the dots connect effortlessly. Without hesitation, you leap from the airplane wing bridge to the rigging of an adjacent converted sailing ship. The synthetic ropes hold your weight as you swing across to a container stack with Tarzan-like grace, then slide down an external fire escape toward the neon cluster of refabricated structures and shacks.
The patrol vehicles can’t follow this route—too narrow, too vertical, too chaotic for their bulky frames.
“NEON ALLEY — AETHERPOINT” appears in your vision.
“Nina,” you gasp as another wave of phantom pain hits like lightning, “I think we’re in serious trouble.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” she replies grimly. “Whiskers is picking up chatter about a reward for your capture. Apparently, you have some serious enemies you haven’t told me about.”
Confused, “A reward from the police?!!” you fire back immediately.
“No, from the streets!” Nina drives her point home…
You reach street level in Neon Alley, shops and stands line this market district — which appears to consist of hull of a massive cruise ship, its corridors lined with vendors selling everything from illegal neural modifications to synthetic street food that glows with bioluminescent proteins. Algae coating the walls provides an eerie blue-green glow that makes everything look underwater, while shadows dance with each flicker of the unstable power grid.
“Skye, I got eyes on the ink—but so does APD,” Nina says carefully. “Maybe it’s time to cut our losses on this one. The ink isn’t worth prison time.”
Your ink crate is in a completely different slum, probably surrounded by patrol officers soon enough — no bueno…
And even though the ink isn’t your problem, it is part of the test. You HAVE TO pass this test.
“We need that ink,” you mutter back, checking your remaining pain patches.
“SKYE! What’s gotten into you?! Live to fight another day — THAT is the AetherPoint way. Have you forgotten?!”
Your hands trembles as you count your remaining patches. Two left. Maybe a few minutes of partial relief if you’re careful. “Every lost vial of ink means another day closer to crime, to desperation, to choices that destroys our lives.” And every missed pain patch means hours of agony that could put you out of commission — which ends in us losing the ink.
Not to far off you spot what looks like a Medical Response team treating someone who appears to have fallen from one of the upper levels. Three paramedics with pixelated eyes scanning medical readouts, a floating medical bay and undoubtedly more pain patches.
“I’m going back for the ink. But first I need to make another stop,” you say.
“Skye, no!” Nina’s voice carries real alarm now. “We need to focus on getting out of here in one piece. Forget the ink. Let’s just g—”
“I can’t forget THE INK Nina!” The words explode from you with more emotion than intended, raw pain bleeding through every syllable. “You don’t understand what I’m dealing with!”
Silence on the comms for a long moment.
“Okay,” Nina says quietly. “I don’t understand. But I trust you. What do you need?”
Your chest tightens. Your throat constricts. Skye’s memories flood through you—Nina patching up wounds after failed heists, sharing rations during lean months, never asking questions when Skye disappeared for days. Your eyes sting with tears that aren’t entirely your own.
The paramedics are completely distracted with their patient. Their medical bay floats nearby, unguarded and gleaming with promise for an easy steal.
You approach casually, pretending to be concerned about the injured worker. “Is he going to be okay?!”
“Standard impact injuries,” one paramedic responds without looking up. Her pixelated eyes focus on scanner readings that flicker across her irises. “We see three or four of these every hour. City’s too unstable for its own good.”
While she talks, you discretely scan their medical bay. Rows of supplies gleam like a pirate’s treasure, including advanced pain management systems. But these aren’t simple patches—they’re neural interface units that require proper installation, something you or Skye lack any experience with.
Still, you eye two backup pain patches in a box labeled “Proxy Patches.” You palm them with practiced sleight of hand, adding to your small collection of hope.
“Hey!” One paramedic finally looks up, suspicion dawning in her pixelated eyes like digital sunrise. “You’re not supposed to—”
You’re already moving, slipping back into the crowd before she can finish her sentence. The stolen patches burn in your pocket like promises of relief.
“Stop her! Thief!” the paramedic yells.
Amazingly, no one reacts or even bats an eye. You take advantage and slip into the crowd—back towards your ink…
“Oh no…” you think to yourself as you round the ally where you stashed the ink crate…
Your ink crate sits in the middle of what appears to be a three-way standoff between AetherPoint Patrol, local gang members with their pixelated eyes — red geometric patterns points out at least two of the strange figures lingering in the shadows — Out Castes.
Someone must have found your stash. And they all knew you’d be back looking for it…
You try tethering remotely—no dice. Your UI flashes: “Signal Interference Detected — Remote Connection Blocked.” A second later: “Manual Tether Required – Physical Contact Necessary.”
Whiskers perches next to your feet — “Um Skye,” Nina’s voice crackles with static, “you’re now officially wanted by AetherPoint PD. They got you on camera “stealing proxy patches.” What’s going on?!”
“Just great,” you mutter, applying your second pain patch. Relief flows through you—phantom pain dropping to a manageable 6 out of 10 like a weight being lifted from your soul. The fresh patch doesn’t just dull the pain—it clears the static from your enhanced perception like wiping fog from a windshield. Mathematical patterns reassemble with crystalline precision, showing you tactical advantages you’d missed in the haze of agony.
“My knee! It’s worse than I may have explained,” you think off the cuff. “I need to get back to the ink. Any suggestions?!”
“This is insane,” Nina’s voice carries through the chaos. “Even for AetherPoint, this is completely insane. What did you do to make this many enemies?”
“Apparently, all I did was scan a random QR code,” you think to yourself…
But you don’t answer her. You can’t explain about the Temple, about the explosion, about the cosmic consequences of your previous choices. Instead, you focus on the patterns you see — those golden threads of possibility weaving through the chaos.
There—a window of opportunity. If you time it perfectly, you can maybe use the standoff to your advantage and create just enough chaos.
“Skye, don’t!” Nina urges through comms. “Whatever you’re thinking, don’t do it!” Too late…
You grab a vendor’s cart full of synthetic fruit and send it rolling toward the patrol officers with all your strength. The brightly colored spheres scatter everywhere, each one bursting with aromatic juice on impact—an unexpected bonus. Within seconds, the area smells like a perfume factory exploded while rainbow-colored liquid creates a slippery obstacle course.
In the confusion, you sprint toward your crate. But you’re not the only one moving—the Out Castes surge forward simultaneously, shadow-blades materializing as they close distance like hunting wolves.
The first one reaches you just as your fingers touch the crate’s surface. His blade whispers past your ear, close enough that you can feel the energy discharge raising the hair on your neck like static electricity.
The manual tethering process begins—you can feel it connecting, slowly, like a digital handshake taking forever to complete.
The Out Caste swings his shadow-blade in a vicious arc. You duck, maintaining contact with one fingertip. A gang member with a crowbar joins the fight, swinging at your head. You roll left, palm flat against the crate’s surface.
“Manual Tether: 15% Complete” flashes in your vision.
The second Out Caste materializes from nowhere, shadow-spear forming in her hands. She thrusts at your chest. You twist away, but the movement breaks your contact with the crate.
“Manual Tether: Paused”
You dive back, slapping both hands against the crate’s surface just as the gang member’s crowbar crashes where your head was a split second before.
“Manual Tether: Resuming… 23% Complete”
The fight becomes a deadly dance. You block, weave, and strike while keeping some part of your body touching the crate. The Out Caste’s blade slices across your shoulder, drawing blood. You drive your elbow into his ribs while maintaining palm contact with the metal surface.
“Manual Tether: 47% Complete”
A gang member grabs your ankle, trying to drag you away from the crate. You kick him in the face with your free leg while clinging to the tether point with both hands.
“Manual Tether: 68% Complete”
The second Out Caste’s spear punches through the crate’s housing, shattering dozens of ink vials. Precious ink sprays everywhere, months of work evaporating in seconds. You ignore the loss, focusing on maintaining contact.
“Manual Tether: 91% Complete”
Patrol officers finally organize their response. “Freeze! Everyone freeze!” Energy weapons charge up with distinctive whining sounds that cut through the chaos. “This is AetherPoint Patrol! You are all under arrest!”
The remaining gang members scatter immediately—they know when to cut losses and run for their lives. But the Out Castes don’t retreat. Instead, they position themselves between you and any escape route, shadow-weapons shifting and reforming with deadly precision.
“Tether Enabled” flashes across your vision.
You swing the crate like a weapon, its antigrav systems whining in protest. The impact sends the first Out Caste stumbling backward, but several ink vials shatter against his chest—blue, crimson, and deep purple spreading like abstract art across his dark clothing.
“Got it!” you shout to Nina, but your victory is short-lived.
You spot two figures lurking in a shadowed doorway. Their eyes glow faintly in the dim light like predatory cats. They spot you and the valuable cargo.
“Um Skye, don’t panic just yet, but you got Jackers on your radar…” Nina discloses to you…
“Jackers?!” You say out loud on accident.
“Yup — you need to ditch the ink and run…”
Hungry grins spread across their faces like cracks in concrete. The phantom pain threatens to break your concentration, causing your proxy’s movements to falter noticeably.
“Easy score,” one whispers, loud enough for you to hear.
The jackers create a distraction—one pulls out a small device and hurls it toward the patrol officers. It explodes in a shower of sparks and blinding light, temporarily overloading their sensors. The other jacker fires some kind of smoke grenade that fills the area with thick, choking neon fog.
The first jacker lunges with blinding speed, cybernetic muscles propelling him forward like a missile. You swing the massive crate like a battering ram, its antigrav systems whining in protest. The impact sends him sprawling, more ink vials shattering against his face and chest. Blue, crimson, and deep purple spread across his features like war paint.
The second jacker hesitates—fatal error. You don’t. You tilt the crate deliberately, causing more vials to roll to the edge like ammunition. With your elbow, you smash them in sequence. Ink sprays in a directed arc that catches the jacker’s eyes. He claws at his face, howling like a wounded animal.
Everything around you becomes a weapon. Everything becomes fair game.
“Nina,” you say quietly, “I really need some help—now.”
“Working on it,” she responds, but her voice carries new tension. “Whiskers is showing me patrol reinforcements from four directions. They’re bringing containment fields, neural scramblers… the works. You need to find a safe zone — fast!”
“Safe zone?! What’s a — ” you catch yourself before blurting the rest of the sentence out loud for Nina to hear.
“What is a Safe Zone” you ask internally to your comms…
The following augments over your vision:
safe zones
/seɪf zoʊnz/ – noun
Safe Zones are designated green lit zones (literally green lit) throughout AetherPoint where there is a zero-tolerance policy for crime or violence of any sort.For this reason, schools and orphanages are strategically built within or nearby Safe Zones. Families tend to move and live closest to Safe Zones to for this exact reason.
The criminal syndicates and hacker collectives that control AetherPoint uphold Safe Zones — many nestling their own homes and families within Safe Zones for their own protection.
The only places you’ll normally find AetherPoint Police actively patrolling is —
Suddenly, your phantom pain spikes violently before you could read the rest. Even with the patches, it climbs back toward 8 out of 10. The borrowed adrenal response mixing with your own neural chaos creates a feedback loop that makes thinking difficult.
“PATROL INBOUND!” Nina’s voice cuts through your comms. Three officers in glossy black armor appear at the intersection ahead. Their scanners sweep the area with mechanical precision. Red targeting beams catch your face. Alarms blare with ear-splitting intensity.
You veer into an alley—dead end. The walls close in like a trap. Turn back. An officer blocks the exit, his enhanced arm extending to grab your shoulder. The grip crushes with hydraulic force. Bones and tendons creak under the pressure. You scream and slam your forehead into his nose with desperate force. Blood sprays across his visor like crimson paint. His grip loosens just enough for you to twist free.
The ink crate proves unwieldy in the tight space. You direct it upward with frantic concentration, barely clearing a fire escape. The officer’s hand snags one corner. Ink vials rattle precariously. You twist the crate hard. The motion pops three more vials. Green ink splatters the officer’s armor like toxic blood.
You leap onto a nearby trash compactor, then up to the fire escape. The metal groans under your weight while echoing through the alley like thunder. The crate follows, leaving a trail of ink droplets that catch the neon light. The officer attempts the same, but misses by a mile and falls hard a level or two below…
From your elevated position, you scan for an exit. THERE—you spot a bayou cutting through the next block like a liquid highway. You quickly calculate the waterways, golden threads triangulating to show which channel leads toward your destination marked by a waypoint on your UI—“Ink Godz Headquarters” your UI says.
“Nina, I’m going to have to ditch the ink, again,” you pant into your comms, your voice breaking as a particularly intense surge of phantom pain makes your real limbs spasm.
“SKYE make up your mind!” Nina protests. “That’s our whole shipment!”
“I’ll track it,” you assure her, sizing up the current’s flow patterns. “Just be ready to intercept downstream.”
Out the corner of your eye you spot a group of old people on a nearby balcony eyeballing you. All have pixelated eyes tracking your movement like surveillance cameras. Then one notices the pursuing officers and draw their own conclusions.
“Thief!” she shouts. Another pulls out what looks like a modified automatic firearm — like a supe-dup uzi—bullets spray from the barrel in rapid succession. The sound is deafening, ear-piercing bursts that echo off the surrounding buildings. The old man can barely control the weapon, its recoil sending him stumbling backward as shots go wild.
Bullets spark off metal surfaces around you. One sizzles past your ear, close enough to singe hair. The smell of charred flesh fills your nostrils. The sensation of being burned triggers an overwhelming surge in your phantom pain, momentarily blinding you and causing your proxy to stumble dangerously close to the edge.
You duck behind the ink crate for cover, ink vials exploding around you.
You listen for the old guy to reload. The instant you hear his gun “CLICK” you leap to the next building with desperate grace—the crate floats a few feet behind you. Their shots follow like angry hornets. One hits the crate directly—vials shatter in a spray of yellow and black ink that mixes in the air like a momentary rainbow before gravity claims it.
Two more patrol officers appear on the rooftop across from you. They draw weapons with lightning speed. Energy crackling between their fingers. No time for hesitation.
You calculate a path to scale a level down—until you hear howling below. Three stray dogs round the corner on the street. Metal teeth gleam like chrome razors, reinforced limbs spark when they hit concrete, sensor arrays glow red in their modified skulls like demonic eyes. They sense the commotion, look up, and spot you. Their howl is half-animal, half-machine—a sound that vibrates through your bones and makes your teeth ache.
Making a split-second decision, you change course and lean hard into the crate with all your might. With running pace, you shove the crate hard, sending it over the edge toward the bayou below. It crashes into the murky water with a tremendous splash, immediately caught in the current like a message in a bottle.
“WARNING: BAYOU SWIMMING PROHIBITED” flashes across your UI in urgent orange text. “SUBMERGED DEBRIS – EXTREME HAZARD – FATALITIES REPORTED”
“The ink is headed downstream!” you shout to Nina. “Heading to intercept point.”
“On it,” Nina responds. “Just get yourself to the nearest safe zone in one piece.”
“Deal,” you shout back.
You launch across rooftops. Your feet barely touch each surface before launching to the next, momentum carrying you across gaps that should be impossible. This mix of parkour, freerunning, and base jumping, Adepted perfectly to AetherPoint’s unique architecture.
A jump that shouldn’t be possible—Skye’s legs propel you across a fifteen-foot gap with explosive power. You land hard, roll with the impact, phantom pain sending shockwaves through your real body like aftershocks from an earthquake.
You glance towards the bayou, the ink crate bobbles its way along as you planned…
WHOA!
You slam on your brakes as you approach the next roof cliff. Metal scrapes against concrete below. Three sets of claws—chrome razors extending from modified paws—dig into the building’s facade inches from your feet. Sparks shower down as the biomechanical canines climb, their reinforced limbs finding purchase on surfaces never meant to be scaled. The lead dog’s sensor array glows red as it locks onto you, mechanical joints whirring with each upward movement. It lunges over the edge at you—jaws snapping, metal teeth grazing your calf. You kick it square in its sensor array. Sparks fly as it lands hard on the ground feet below.
You immediately streak across the roof to the adjacent building, parkouring to the roof 10 or so feet higher. The other two dogs give chase but chicken out at the edge of the roof — seeing no way to reach you at the higher ground.
Spending little time more on the canines you turn to continue your sprint, when — CRACK!
Something strikes you in your shin. A electric pain shoots up the side of your body. You stumble and roll into a fall. You instantly grab the throbbing shin as if holding the pain would grant you immediate relief. Looking up, you see the culprit — a gang member with pixelated eyes stands over you, weapon drawn. You waste no time — pushing through the pain, you leap to your feet, and drive your shoulder into his chest with bone-jarring force. The impact sends him through a holographic billboard advertising proxy upgrades, his scream howls through the slum as he falls. The advertisement’s LED fabric wraps around him like a digital shroud.
Sirens wail like banshees behind you. Patrol drone spotlights blind you momentarily, but your pattern recognition cuts through the disorientation with mathematical precision. A patrol drone hovers overhead, its rotors churning the air.
You leap from the rooftop, aiming for a passing cargo transport below. You miss by inches, crashing through a vendor’s awning instead. Synthetic fabric tears like paper. You land hard on a stall selling synthetic fruits, the impact releasing engineered aromas that overwhelm your senses—artificial strawberry mixed with cleaning chemicals and something that tastes like copper when you breathe it.
The vendor screams in a language your comms can’t translate, but his anger is universal. You stagger up, phantom pain making every movement an exercise in willpower.
You spot the crate downstream, bobbing in the rushing current like a cork. You quickly do the math impossible for even a rocket scientist in such a instant…
The patterns say you can make it…
With a running start, you leap, then sprint, then leap again, sprint, leap from roof to roof towards the bayou. You make your final leap towards the water, landing atop the floating container. It rocks precariously under your weight, antigrav systems fighting to compensate for the additional load.
“WARNING: BAYOU SWIMMING PROHIBITED” flashes across your UI — again. “SUBMERGED DEBRIS – EXTREME HAZARD – FATALITIES REPORTED”
“I’m back with the ink!” you shout to Nina as you climb to your feet. “Track my—”
A dense wet thud quakes behind you as the ink crate rocks wildy, throwing you back to your knees. Then heavy footsteps inch towards you. You turn to see a familiar sight—THE UNICORN TATTOO. Water drips from The Gang Leader’s soaked clothing. His pixelated eyes blaze with renewed fury.
“You think you can embarrass me and just walk away?” he snarls, pulling out a machete like blade that hums with deadly energy.
He swings the blade in a vicious arc. You duck, but the motion sends you off-balance. He drives his knee into your ribs. Your breath explodes from your lungs. Stars burst across your vision.
At that moment, the container hits a submerged obstacle, spinning wildly. You both nearly tumble off, clinging to opposite edges like shipwreck survivors. The Gang Leader loses the machete to the bayou. He regains his balance and then draws an energy blade that crackles ominously, its light reflecting off the churning water.
The crate accelerates toward rapids ahead, the sound of rushing water thundering louder.
He lunges with the blade. You roll left, the weapon slicing through empty water where your head was a split second before. You grab his wrist, trying to control the weapon. He drives his elbow into your face. Blood explodes from your nose, hot and copper-tasting.
Your phantom pain spikes to unbearable levels. You slap on one of your remaining pain patches, but the water immediately soaks through the adhesive. The patch shorts out, useless and waterlogged.
He kicks you in the wounded knee. You scream, nearly losing your grip on the crate. The movement triggers overwhelming phantom pain that feels like it nearly breaks your tether connection entirely—your vision fragments, reality flickers…
There’s no way you can win this fight…
You realize this only as he towers over Skye’s small frame. You see no way to out fight him, he’s too strong. Too fast. Too everything…
Golden threads suddenly light up your blurred vision.
That’s when a smile creeps over your face. He’s also too tall — for the low-hanging bridge looming behind him. You drop flat to the floor, grabbing the crate’s edge for dear life as concrete rushes overhead close enough to scrape your back.
The Gang Leader doesn’t see the tunnel wall approaching behind him—the impact is immediate and brutal, a solid wet thud that echoes through the tunnel. His unconscious form disappears into the churning water while the crate continues its journey.
“Almost to the intercept point,” Nina calls urgently.
The crate bounces through churning water as you struggle to maintain balance. ZAP! Electric pops crack left and right of you. You can still feel the voltage from the charges even though they miss you. On an overhead walkway, seven patrol officers appear, weapons firing and tracking your movement.
Energy bolts rain down like meteoric fire. One strikes near your feet, the impact nearly sending you into the water.
But your other hand claws desperately at the crate’s ridge, fingernails scraping against metal. You swing your opposite arm over, muscles screaming as you haul yourself up to grab the top edge—
SLAM.
Something massive crashes into your ankle like a steel trap. You glance down in horror to see The Gang Leader’s bloodied face glaring up at you from the churning water, his grip iron-tight around your leg.
“If I’m going down,” he snarls through broken teeth, “you’re coming with me.”
His other hand shoots up, seizing your waist. Two — no, three hundred pounds of furious muscle trying to pull you toward the depths. Your fingers begin slip on wet metal, knuckles white with strain.
The weight doubles. Triples. Your grip finally fails.
You plummet into the bayou’s murky embrace.
Water explodes around you in a symphony of bubbles and synthetic chemicals. But before you can orient yourself, brutal hands wrap around your throat like a vise. The Gang Leader’s face materializes inches from yours beneath the surface—eyes wild with drowning rage, mouth twisted in a death-grin.
“If we drown,” he gurgles through the water rushing between his lips, “you’ll be the first to go — Unicorn Artist…”
His thumbs find your windpipe. Press deep. Your borrowed lungs burn as precious air escapes in silver streams. The bayou’s artificial current tumbles you both deeper, spinning like ragdolls caught in a washing machine.
You claw at his face, but he’s beyond pain now—beyond reason. Just pure killing intent wrapped around your throat. Black spots dance at the edge of your vision. Your phantom pain spikes to impossible levels as oxygen starvation triggers every nerve ending.
Then—THUNK.
His grip loosens instantly. His eyes roll back, showing only whites. Blood clouds the water around his skull in crimson ribbons.
A massive piece of debris—twisted metal — maybe from some long-forgotten wreck— who knows…
It bobs away in the current, spinning wildly just before it rockets back directly toward your head. You duck just as the jagged edges slice through the space missing your skull by inches, the razor-sharp metal whistling past close enough to count the rivets on it as they blur past.
The bayou’s hidden dangers nearly claiming you as another victim.
The Gang Leader’s unconscious form sinks into the murky depths like a stone until it disappears completely.
You kick frantically toward the surface, lungs screaming for air.
Synthetic water fills your mouth, nose, ears—bitter with chemicals and the taste of near-death.
When you finally break through, gasping and choking, the current has already swept you far from both the crate and your rendezvous point.
“Nina! It’s over…” you sputter into comms once you find an air pocket.
“The ink is lost!” You choke on bayou water as you force out more commands…
“I repeat… The ink — is lost…”