The gravitational tug yanks you forward with such force that your phantom pain spikes to an unbearable 15 out of 10! Every nerve in your real body screams as dimensions collapse around you, reality folding and unfolding like origami made of pure agony.
Just before the tether completes, the Archivist’s voice cuts through the dimensional static—cold, final, absolute.
“This is your final test,” she announces with the weight of cosmic authority. “Success means graduation from KNOXX 101 and access to everything you need to cure your phantom pain. Failure means being shut off from The Cure found in the Lore Engine. Which means weeks, possibly months of suffering for you…”
Her words hit like physical blows as reality solidifies around you.
“I cannot assist you here. The choice—and the consequences—are entirely yours. I pray all will be well with you…”
Then she’s gone, leaving you alone in what could very well be hell on earth.
When your vision clears, the first thing you notice isn’t the overwhelming city around you—it’s the blessed absence of that knife-edge agony that’s been your constant thorn in your side. Your phantom pain has dropped from a crushing 15 to maybe a 7.5. Your muscles unclench. Your jaw stops grinding. The constant tension in your shoulders melts like ice under flame.
You look down at your borrowed legs and spot it immediately—a medical brace wrapped around the left knee, white gauze stained with old blood visible beneath the synthetic padding. Your fingers probe the area automatically, finding the small rectangular patch adhered to the skin beneath.
“A pain patch?! Thank God,” you whisper, not even caring that you don’t know whose body this is or why they needed pain management. The relief floods through you like warm honey.
And it’s not just the phantom pain that recedes—your synesthesia snaps back into sharp focus like someone just cleaned smudged glasses. Mathematical patterns appear as crisp golden threads instead of fragmented static. The relief is almost overwhelming—you’d forgotten how clearly your enhanced perception could function without pain interference.
But even as you savor this temporary reprieve, you can feel the patch’s effects slowly fading. The phantom fire begins its journey faintly up your nerve pathways. You’ll need more patches—many more—if you’re going to survive whatever this final test demands.
MISSION OBJECTIVES: flashes across your vision in bold white letters.
1. PROTECT SKYE AND THE INK
2. SURVIVE AetherPoint UNTIL DAWN
Well first—who is Skye? And what exactly is “the ink” that you’re supposed to protect?
You’re standing on what appears to have once been the deck of a massive container ship. The surface sways beneath your feet, a gentle rhythm that speaks of water and massive counterweights below. Metal groans against metal in harmonious discord—the sound of a city that breathes with oceanic lungs.
Your UI displays “AETHERPOINT – THE GRID CORE”
Welding scars run like surgical sutures across what should be seamless surfaces. A children’s playground occupies what was clearly once a cruise ship’s swimming pool, the high diving board repurposed as a surveillance platform. Vendors hawk their wares from what appears to be a tanker’s loading bay, the massive opening now framed with colorful awnings.
“Rent’s due to the Tanker Lords next week,” one vendor mutters to another as you pass. “Hopefully this Grid Core expansion brings more easy marks — just like this one passing by.”
You turn toward them, catching their eyes. One vendor immediately switches his expression, plastering on a showman’s grin.
“Fresh synthetic spices! Best neural enhancers in all the seven slums!” he calls out, waving a container of glowing powder. “Special price for our distinguished visitor!”
The air pulses with life—thick with ozone that tastes of lightning, synthetic pheromones that make your borrowed nostrils flare, and something darker that coats your tongue with metallic desperation. Every breath carries the weight of recycled atmosphere. Even the air feels repurposed. Stale. Filtered through too many lungs.
Far off to the north, a massive skyline rises like a gleaming crown. Buildings tower into the artificial sky, their windows blazing with brilliant light, humming with raw energy. The contrast strikes you like a slap—there, prosperity and power beam across the water, while here you stand near in pitch darkness broken only by stark neon highlights and scattered pools of artificial illumination.
When you look down at your hands, they’re stained with black dye under the fingernails, callused from years of precise work your muscles remember but your mind doesn’t.
Intricate tattoo work covers both forearms, lines that seem to writhe in your peripheral vision. Each mark etches deep enough that you can feel the raised texture through the synthetic fabric of your long-sleeved shirt. Embedded connectivity nodes pulse blue along the sleeves, synchronized with your heartbeat.
You’re standing beneath a towering statue carved from what appears to be black obsidian—a faceless figure with arms outstretched toward the crowd below. Bright neon accents trace the statue’s edges in electric blue casting shifting shadows across its smooth, featureless face — a face marked with a strange spiraling pattern that pulses with inner radiance. At the base, blazing letters read “GRID CORE – LEVEL 7”, though the “R” seems to routinely die completely for three seconds before sputtering back to life.
Your UI flickers with contextual information: “Memorial Site: Location where the 2nd An’jel labored alongside us mere mortals of Aetherpoint. This is declared Sacred Ground maintained by city charter.”
Power surges rock this section of the city with mechanical heartbeats, sending ripples of light through the bioluminescent algae coating nearby surfaces. The neon accents on the statue pulse in rhythm with the failing grid, making the faceless figure appear to breathe in the unstable light.
Bass-heavy music pounds from a converted cargo hold nearby, mixing with the multilingual chatter of vendors. To your left, a cybernetics dealer extends her arm—translucent bioware pulses with her heartbeat. The smell of ozone and neural lubricants creates an atmosphere thick enough to taste.
To your right, a food vendor ladles steaming synthetic noodles from a massive pot. The steam carries scents of artificial flowers. You imagine the taste exploding metallic across your tongue—copper and iron with undertones of processed algae.
Children weave between the vendor stalls with fluid grace, playing games that involve juggling holographic objects while their eyes track multiple light sources. But their eyes—every single person you see has the same trait. Pixelated irises. They shimmer like broken digital displays, each pupil like tiny screens showing fragments of data.
“Have you lost your mind! Don’t stare at people’s eyes,” comes a voice through your comms, making you jolt. “You know that’s considered rude.”
“Oh, and sorry I’m late SKYE,” the voice continues—relief and exasperation bleeding through every word. “I didn’t want you to think I’d chickened out.”
“Looks like you’re Skye,” you think to yourself.
Your UI confirms the voice—”Nina”—accompanied by warmth flooding through borrowed memories. Trust. Partnership. Something deeper than friendship.
“Nina?” you ask.
“Who else could it be?” Her tone shifts, concern creeping in. “And why are you fidgeting? You stressed?”
The entire time your fingers have been fidgeting with something in your pocket. You hadn’t even noticed you were doing it until Nina said something. Metal meets your fingertips—sharp, precise, designed for detailed work. You pull it out and examine it closely.
Your UI identifies it when you focus:
“Tattoo Pin – Specialized Needle for Detail Work.”
Your hands shake. Skye’s anxiety bleeds through your borrowed nerve pathways. You test the pin against your skin, adding tiny details to the existing artwork on your forearm.
Each precise prick creates new flourishes in the geometric patterns. The additional minor pain offers curious relief against the constant backdrop of phantom agony. Patterns kick in automatically, transforming the sequences into golden spirals that somehow calm your racing thoughts.
The thought hits you… Nina must be close. “Nina, where are you?! Can you see me?”
“I’m monitoring right here through Whiskers,” she replies.
You look around to see a magnificent black cat lounging atop a massive metal container box twenty yards away. Its fur gleams like polished obsidian, but silver neural implants curve around its ears like jewelry. Tiny red lights blink behind its eyes. It stretches, arches its back, then meows directly at you—a sound that somehow carries electronic undertones.
“We really, really need this ink,” Nina murmurs. “The sign on your building says ‘Ink Godz.’ If we’re out of ink, we’re out of business.”
Wait—ink? Building? You examine your stained fingernails more closely, noticing the precision of the calluses on your hands. The intricate tattoo work covering your forearms suddenly makes sense.
“Is Skye a tattoo artist?” you wonder internally. “Skye is a tattoo artist.”
A wave of understanding washes over you. But a weight of responsibility also settles on your shoulders like a heavy cloak.
The borrowed pain patch is already losing effectiveness—the phantom fire climbing toward 8 out of 10.
“Just… need this to go smoothly,” you say, adding another delicate line to your tattoo.
“Well, The Plug is around the corner with the ink,” Nina says. “In a few minutes we should be back in business!”
“But we have to stay alert,” Nina continues. “This part of Grid Core gets hella territorial after dark, and word on the street is that the Red Serpents have been expanding their territory.”
Elderly residents share stories on improvised benches made from shipping pallets. One group leans close, voices dropping to whispers about rumors of the city’s deep ocean mining expansion. Another group argues with animated gestures about whether the new atmospheric recycling systems will finally fix the power fluctuations. Their pixelated eyes track data streams invisible to normal vision.
A holographic advertisement for “Premium Neural Enhancers” materializes beside you. The female spokesperson’s face glitches as the city’s power grid fluctuates. Her sales pitch switches between three languages before settling on heavily accented English: “Upgrade your mind! Tap into the wisdom of The An’jels! Ask your local enhancement specialist about—”
The projection dies as another power surge rocks this section of the city, sending cascades of sparks from overloaded junction boxes.
Through the crowd, a thin man in a weathered coat approaches, pushing a floating crate that hums with antigrav technology. His pixelated eyes dart left, right, back over his shoulder. His shoulders hunch defensively. His steps are too careful, too measured. His head swivels constantly, scanning for threats.
“The Plug is incoming,” Nina whispers into your comms.
“I see him,” you respond. “But Nina… something’s off.”
Nina pauses before responding, “Yup… And Whiskers is picking up multiple heat signatures converging on your position. I think—”
“You!” A voice snarls from behind you, cutting through Nina’s warning like a serrated knife. “The UNICORN ARTIST??!!”
Every muscle in your borrowed body goes rigid. You turn slowly to face three figures emerging from between vendor stalls. All have the standard pixelated eyes of AetherPoint residents, but their faces twist with months of rage like open wounds.
THE GANG LEADER steps forward—a burly man with a distinctive scar above his eyebrow that pulses angry red. But more importantly, a bright pink unicorn with rainbow sparkles tattooed on his exposed bicep. The artwork is actually well-executed.
Memory fragments flood your mind—not yours, but Skye’s:
The Gang Leader bragging to his friends during the tattoo session about how he planned to stiff Skye for the credits he’d owe for the tattoo. And even his plans to rob her for everything she had in the process. He spoke internally through his comms, but Skye overheard every word. Apparently Skye has a bit of proxy hacking experience in her past. The unicorn was simply her responding with “artistic malice.”
His pixelated eyes blaze with humiliation transformed into rage. His fists clench. His jaw twitches.
“Did you really think let you get away with that?” His voice carries the weight of sleepless nights spent plotting revenge.
Your phantom pain spikes violently as adrenaline floods your system, and immediately your mental pattern calculations begins to deteriorate. The patch struggles against the surge, and you can feel your pattern recognition starting to fray at the edges—golden threads flickering like dying neon. Your vision blurs momentarily. The borrowed patch is failing fast.
“Look,” you say, raising your hands in what you hope appears peaceful, “that was just business. You asked for a unicorn, you got—”
“I wanted a @#%&! RED SERPENT!” he roars, stepping closer. Spittle flies from his lips. His two companions flank him with practiced precision, hands moving to concealed weapons that catch the strobing neon light. “You tried to turn me into a @#$%&! joke!”
That’s when The Plug arrives—terrible timing. The thin man in the weathered coat takes one look at the confrontation. His pixelated eyes widen. His face drains of color like ship hull white.
“Skye?” he says uncertainly, a massive floating crate bobbing nervously behind him like a faithful but terrified pet. “Is this… is this a bad time?”
The Gang Leader’s attention shifts to the crate. His eyes narrow. His tongue runs across his lips.
“What’s in the box?”
“Nothing that concerns you,” you say quickly, but your supplier is already backing away. His loyalty evaporates like mist before flame.
“Actually,” The Gang Leader says, his expression shifting from personal vendetta to business opportunity, “everything in my territory concerns me. Especially expensive-looking floating cargo-thingies.”
One of his cronies—a woman with cybernetic arms that gleam dully in the neon light—grabs The Plug. Her enhanced fingers close around his throat. She slams him against the corrugated wall of a converted shipping container. The impact sends a hollow boom echoing through the Grid Core like a gunshot. His floating crate dips dangerously as its owner loses concentration.
The other gang member grabs you by the throat—thick fingers closing like a vise. The pressure triggers phantom pain in your real neck.
“Fight Mode Now Engaged” flashes across your vision in blazing red letters.
You immediately drive your knee upward into his groin with all the force you can muster. He doubles over with a strangled gasp, cybernetic breathing apparatus wheezing like a broken accordion. The third gang member releases his grip on The Plug and pulls an energy blade that hums with contained lightning, its edge crackling blue-white with barely contained destruction.
The Plug bolts without hesitation, abandoning the crate in his panic. His footsteps echo off metal decking as he disappears into the crowd.
“Ӿ8,000 transferred to [name redacted]” flashes in your UI.
“Attention: Ӿ51 Remaining” fades in under the message in bold red letters.
“Nina. HELP!” you cry out almost instinctively. “Hold on!” Nina’s voice cuts urgently through your comms.
The Gang Leader’s body suddenly jerks unnaturally. His pixelated eyes go blank for a split second. His expression suddenly shifts from rage to confusion to blank compliance—like watching someone’s mind being overwritten by invisible code.
He then turns mechanically toward his own crew, movements as precise and emotionless as a factory robot.
“What the @#!$&!” one manages before The Gang Leader grabs him by the collar and hurls him toward the artificial lagoon that separates this side of Grid Core from the Neon Alley district. The splash echoes off the surrounding ship hulls, followed by colorful cursing in at least three languages.
The woman with cybernetic arms follows quickly. The Gang Leader’s hijacked strength easily overpowers her enhanced limbs like they’re made of paper. Then, as if following a silent command, The Gang Leader walks calmly to the edge, right next to the WARNING: SWIMMING PROHIBITED — EXTREMELY HAZARDOUS DEBRIS” sign, and throws himself in the lagoon after them.
Around you, vendors continue hawking their wares without missing a beat. Children keep playing their holographic games. No one cares…
Just another night in AetherPoint you figure.
“Nina, what just happened?!” you ask through the comms.
“Proxy jacking,” Nina explains with satisfaction. “The same old trick you taught me. Now’s a good time to probably move!”
“The ink allows us to stay in business,” Nina mutters, your gaze fixed on the abandoned crate levitating off the ground like it’s made of pure gold. “Without it, we’re back to jacking old sugar daddies and pulling heists in the Etherverse. Right?”
“Yeah, the ink…” you say to calm her — still adding up more and more about this Skye you’re tethered to.
You quickly link to the floating container with a tether. Its weight registers in your mind as you take control. Heavy. Cumbersome. But apparently invaluable—this must represent your entire inventory for the next few months or even longer.
But even as you secure it, part of your mind operates on a different frequency with one priority in mind — PAIN PATCHES. The borrowed patch is failing fast, phantom pain climbing toward a crushing 8.5 out of 10.
The crowd flows around you like a river—vendors hawking synthetic delicacies that taste like every flavor imaginable — at least that’s what the sign says…
A holographic dragon advertisement wraps around you momentarily, its digital scales pressing against your skin with tingling warmth that feels almost real. The sensation triggers geometric patterns exploding in your vision, showing you safe paths through the crowd, potential threats, and something else…
Medical supplies!
Two blocks ahead, partially hidden behind what looks to be some sort of converted cruise ship’s promenade deck, you spot the distinctive blue and white striping of an AetherPoint Patrol medical van. Emergency lights blink violently in the night like electronic heartbeats.
“Nina,” you say carefully, “Watch my back. I need to make a quick detour.”
“What kind of detour?” Her voice carries immediate suspicion. “Skye, we need to stay focused. The ink—”
“—will still be ink in five minutes,” you interrupt, already altering course. “Trust me.”
The patrol van sits unattended outside what appears to be a small medical clinic built into the lower decks of a cruise ship. Emergency lights flash lazily, but no officers in sight. Your phantom pain provides all the motivation you need—each pulse a reminder that relief is just meters away.
You approach cautiously, untethering the ink crate to wait behind a cluster of modified food trucks. The smell of synthetic spices and recycled proteins fills your nostrils. The van’s rear doors are secured with standard magnetic locks. You instinctively know how to pick it open using the back end of your tattoo pen and a long nail you find nearby on the ground—no doubt knowledge flowing through Skye.
Inside, rows of medical supplies gleam like treasure, including a whole section devoted to proxy pain management. You grab three patches quickly. Each small rectangular package promises relief from neural pains.
You quickly examine the first patch closely.
The cover reads:
“NeuroKalm Pro – For Phantom Pain, Neural Interference, Tether Shock, and Proxy Transition Sickness.”
On the back, directions scroll in tiny print:
“Apply to clean skin. Effects begin within 30 seconds. Duration: 5-20 minutes maximum. WARNING: Do not exceed 10 patches per 24-hour period. Patches are only water resistant. Do not submerge in water.”
The first patch goes on immediately, adhering to the skin beneath your collar. Relief floods through you—phantom pain dropping from 8.5 to maybe 7.5. Your muscles unclench. Your breathing steadies a bit.
“What are you doing?!” Nina’s voice crackles with growing concern.
“Getting what I need,” you reply, pocketing the remaining patches like they’re made of compressed hope.
Heavy boots pound metal decking, approaching fast.
“Hey!” A patrol officer rounds the corner of the medical van, hand moving to his weapon. “Hands up—”
You don’t wait for him to finish. You grab the nearest medical supply box—heavy, metal, full of equipment—and hurl it at his chest. The impact sends him staggering backward, arms windmilling for balance, giving you just enough time to break into a sprint and disappear into the nearby crowd.
But as you round the corner back toward your crate, ice floods your veins.
Three figures stand around your floating ink supply. Their eyes—completely normal, human—burn like wounds in a sea of pixelated faces. That wrongness screams danger louder than any alarm.
More shadows shift behind you. Footsteps whisper on metal decking. Twelve in total emerge from the darkness, flowing like liquid night between shipping containers and vendor stalls.
Dark clothing clings to their forms, drinking light, rejecting reflection. Across their hands and necks, tattoos writhe and pulse—symbols that shift like living things, patterns that make your eyes water when you try to focus on them. Your pattern recognition shrieks warnings in colors that have no names.
You’ve seen this before—although your mind fears to admit form where…
“Confirmed—that Karmapunk flunkie is here. We have him in our sights,” one speaks into a radio-like device. His accent carries echoes of Old English. The tattoos on his hands race across his skin, transforming with eerie excitement, geometric patterns becoming organic, then geometric again.
Your stomach drops into free fall.
Of all the predators stalking AetherPoint’s shadows. Of all the killers, criminals and cutthroats you could have encountered tonight. Of all the nightmares lurking in the most violent city on the planet…
Out Castes…
Tonight may have just became impossible…