Currently working on an original cyberpunk novel revolving around mental health and how society sadly views those struggling with their inner demons. The main character, Ronny Rizzo, is a street kid deckrunner with schizophrenia. She lives through her hallucinations and delusions to become a name in the grim Divine City.

I hope to spread mental health awareness with it when the time for publishing comes soon. Right now, one of my beta readers is currently working on a new cover for me that’s presentable. :)

Art is by my sister, Shannon, by the way.

-Conway-

April 11th, 1:05 A.M., Olly’s Aerial Bar

Cyan and magenta lights blurred together, covering the ceiling in an intricate neon grid. Smoke pooled upon the plasteel floors, rhythmically swirling in time with the thumping basslines of blaring techno-punk hits. The casino was bustling tonight. A carefully curated collection of intricate A.R. games occupied the floor, cleverly designed to steal their patron’s money slowly, over the course of a night. It was beautiful. Olly’s was my home away from home—just cheap enough for me to always be able to take the cover charge, but affluent enough to provide a lucrative night’s work.

I’d slid into the casino almost twelve hours ago, riding a psychedelic wave of ketamine, augmented by a pilfered bag of Rohypnol. It was perfect—a high for the record books—the kind of nirvana you could only achieve on a custom blend. I giggled to myself and sparked a Vita-Cig. Between Nova City’s aristocracy, Vorrath mineral traders and the flood of depressed wageslaves, there were enough creds in the building to build a fifth Lunar colony. The nice thing about galactic aristocrats is the fact you never have to feel bad about robbing them, even if things get bloody, they’ll just reboot into another backup. For the rest of us, lights out was it, there was no escaping the inevitable curtain call of mortality, not without sufficient funds.

It was easy enough to find a come up; marks were everywhere, and security was lax to the point of being nearly non-existent. Sure, they’d stop the wageslaves from starting shit, and make sure none of the aristocracy sustained any serious damage, but other than that? It was all free game. As long as I didn’t try to rob the tables, everything was gravy.

A pair of towering Vorrath guards watched the entrance, their cobalt skin glistening beneath the lights, and their faces adorned with traditional war paint. Their tentacle beards draped below great cyclopean eyes. I never cared for the Vorrath—my dad died in the First Contact War, beside my uncle. My brother and I had just barely dodged the second round of drafts.

I snagged a cred-stick and moved along.

I waltzed towards the bar, flagging down Maya. She was unmistakable: bright green hair, retro bio-mods, and enough jewelry to make an impromptu solar panel. She was my oldest friend.

"Conway, baby, what can I get ya?" She said, with a devilish grin.

"Moonrise on the rocks, throw in two hits of juice," I answered, absent mindedly flipping a coin.

"Speed?"

"You know it. Say, anyone been by looking for me?" I slid her a cred chip, nearly ten times the cost of my drink.

"No, honey, and you know I'd tell ya if they did," she answered, examining the chip under the halogen lights of the bar.

My hand moved to the stolen geneware chip in my breast pocket. When the heat died down, I’d be able to get at least 100k for it, 75k if I sold it in the Sprawl.

"Perfect. Lemme get twenty grand worth of chips," I said, passing her a second cred chip.

Before I could finish the sentence, she’d cashed the chip and slid the exchange across the bar. Maya was the best damned bar tender this side of the Martian colonies.

I hit the tables with all the confidence of a Peacewatch Officer strolling into a donut shop for lunch. It didn’t take long to find a nice, busy corner; an old couple had holed up by themselves, stacking up chips and playing as close to by the book as they could manage. I straightened my tux and flashed the waiter a cred chip, in exchange for a knowing grin. It was perfect, in a spot like this I could make my money back in fifteen minutes, ten if I was ambitious.

I rarely was.

"A round for the table, on me," I chuckled.

The larger of the two women grinned at me, tugging at a retro oxygen cord as she lit a smoke.

"Thanks, stranger. Now, you here to watch, or are we dealing you in next hand?"

I grinned and slid my chips forward. In the time it'd taken to sit down and settle in, I'd already nabbed two cred-sticks from passerby’s.

"Count me in," I answered.

The dealer explained a complex, A.R. variant of Poker, and I nodded, pretending to listen.

And then I saw her: she was flawless, a woman who’d doubtlessly inspired a dozen nude marble statues and a thousand stalkers. Her face was shaped in the seasons style, and the pearls around her neck were probably worth more than the sum-total of the casino's equipment. She was old money. This probably wasn't her first body, or even her fifth.

I had an eye designer work, and she was as custom as they came.

I patiently finished my hand, snagging half a dozen cred chips, and losing twice as many poker chips. No matter: I always bet small. What poker chips remained were quickly deposited in my breast pocket, and I rose with a bow, making my way to the bar.

"Maya, you know anything about the broad with the pearls?" I whispered.

"Diana Stalwart: her daddy owns an off-world mining enterprise, struck it big trading with the Vorrath after first contact. He used to be big biz on earth, but they don't get out much anymore. I see her here every couple of years. Her and her husband... Well, let's say that they like picking up strangers," she explained.

I tried not to grin.

"Yeah, that's the same look the last guy who asked gave me. Haven't seen him since… or any one of their conquests, for that matter."

"Where's her husband?"

Her finger rose, pointing to a mountain of a man in a silver tuxedo that was at least four sizes too small for him. Muscle grafts were piled atop each other in a grotesque formation that made him look more like an off-world death-match pit fighter than a corpo. An oversized Taffington Plasma Thrower rested on his hip, the handle was carved custom from ivory, and corporate logos were emblazoned across the gun’s hardware.

I made my way to the table he was playing at, locking eyes with his wife along the way. She grinned. I returned the gesture and tried not to shudder. Maya didn’t spook easy, but the Stalwarts had clearly left an impression on her; I’d have to be careful and remain in control if I wanted to make it out alive.

Fortunately, making bad decisions was what I was best at.

Four hands in, and I was already down 50k. The table was competitive, with card sharks in every corner. I’d installed the latest gambling software into my HUD before I’d made it to Olly’s, but it only helped so much. The rich bastards that I was playing against likely had the advantage of better software and more experience; luckily, I wasn’t here to win a card game—I was here to win the house.

"Not doing too well over there, eh, sport?” The behemoth bellowed, extending a hand that enveloped mine, “what’s your name, kid?"

"Conway," I replied, tightening my grip as I swiped a pair of rings off a finger that looked more like a baby’s forearm than a grown man’s finger.

"Name's Ryan," he answered.

And then I saw her, moving in with a well-rehearsed saunter. Her shoulders moved in perfect time with her hips, like she was walking a runway. Her face struck a seductive expression, as she leaned over, whispering into my ear.

"And I'm Diana," she sang, her tone was soft, warm, and alluring.

It was a trap: I’d recognize it anywhere. They weren’t the first duo to try to honeypot me, and I could only hope they wouldn’t be the last.

"Pleasure to make your acquaintance," I released his hand and shifted my attention to her.

He smiled, and she gave me a seductive glance.

"You two lovely individuals make it here often?" I sparked an Acid dipped cigarette, and produced a pair dipped in sedatives.

"Can't say we have the pleasure. Not as often as I'd like, at least," her voice was like honey drizzled over silk. Enthralling… almost hypnotic.

She took the cigarette.

"Business keeps us topside, but we come whenever we can. It’s always nice to get away," he answered, sparking the second cigarette as he cracked a wide grin.

Hook, line, and sinker.

"Topside? Are you two spacers?" I asked, feigning innocence and doing my best to project a disarming naivety.

"You could say that, but none of that matters tonight, honey," she whispered, running her tongue along my earlobe. Her took on a sweet, melodic tone.

In that moment, I would’ve killed everyone in the room if she’d asked me to.

And then it clicked: designer pheromones. Her voice had been augmented too, made to sound hypnotic—probably because it was.

"You ever been to a V.I.P. suite, kid?" Ryan interjected.

"Can't say I have," I answered, my eyes never leaving Diana’s.

Suddenly a purple box expanded in my HUD. A message from Maya.

'Assholes with guns just showed up, looking for you up front.'

"Would you like to?" Diana asked seductively.

"I'd love to."

We moved at a brisk, convenient pace, and I did my best to obscure myself between Ryan and Diana until we reached the elevator. If Judge’s goons were here to subtract me, it wouldn’t hurt to have a pair of high-tech meat-shields between us.

As we entered the elevator, Diana's hand shot to my thigh, and I watched Ryan glare with contempt. The doors opened, and I leaned in to kiss her. She was artful, practiced, and passionate.

So was I.

With a slip of the finger, her pearls were mine, alongside a pair of ornate earrings. She leaned over to kiss Ryan, and my fingers traced along her thigh, swiping a hefty cred-stick from her pocket. I’d already made up for the 50k I blew at the tables, and then some.

The walk to the suite felt like forever, my heart and mind both racing. Nothing good was inside that room. And with Judge's goons downstairs looking to collect a debt I couldn't pay? This was going to be tricky.

Ryan swiped a nano chipped hand and opened the door, ushering Diana inside, and holding it for me. Beyond the threshold a luxurious suite awaited, an immense hot tub consuming the rooms far wall. And then I saw it. He stumbled for a second, and inside the room I heard Diana go down. His face twisted, as the realization dawned on him. I'd beat him at his own game, never drank the offered cup.

I drove my loafers into his groin twice for good measure.

He reached for the Plasma blaster on his waist, but a quick blow to the temple halted his hand. I swiped the piece and took off, jamming a syringe of high-grade amphetamine into my thigh.

I raced down the hallway, as the elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. Six goons in heavy, Xeno-grade armor stepped out, each clutching assault cannons. One shot would punch a fist sized hole through six inches of plasteel. Fuck.

A hail of lead ensued.

I smashed through a door, tumbling into an unoccupied suite, and diving into the hot tub. I submerged myself entirely, praying that they’d be gone before I ran out of breath. Doubtful: it would take a real amateur to miss the hole in the door, and not put two and two together. Unfortunately, it was my only choice.

The seconds ticked by, dragging on for what felt like hours. Finally, I heard them enter. Three outside the door, and three searching the room.

My hearing augmentations were finally paying off.

It'd been almost two minutes, and my lungs felt like they were about to burst. I struggled to hold myself back. My legs kicked as if of their own volition.

I emerged from the water, catching two goons with a burst of steaming plasma. I watched as it ate through their helmets and dissolved their facial features, before firing a second burst that enveloped the last goon.

I dashed behind an overturned table, snatching a frag grenade off one of the corpses. A spray of gunfire narrowly missed, hitting the far wall, and shattering the window.

The window.

I peeled an ox-mask off one of the dead goons, and moved with all the strength my body could muster, leaping through the broken glass. The force-field barely kicked on in time. Plummeting to the ground, I passed through the skyway; a cherry red Corvus Speedster broke my fall. At the barrel of my blaster, the driver agreed to gift it to me.

I elected to drop the charitable fellow off nearby.

That was close, closer than I'd like. Hopefully Akari would let me crash on her couch, no way I was renting a room at the Coffin House again.

-Trodes-

April 11th, 12:17 P.M., Satellite Valley

A harness of wires and cords entangled my body, cluttering the tiny room; monitors were plastered along each wall, filling the office with a collection of screens that would make the Eggheads blush. I leaned back in my chair and synchronized them with my HALO. An electric lighter sparked an acid dipped cigarette. Hundreds of wires ran across my failing body and sent sporadic images to my brain: security feeds from Landex’ compound.

I watched dozens of guards patrol the area in perfect unison. Landex’ complex was a veritable fortress of plasteel and bullet-proof glass. Turrets ran along the rooftops, perched three stories high. Security droids vigilantly guarded a half dozen blast doors. The facility was like a well-oiled machine, each piece playing an instrumental part in ensuring no one lived long enough to enter without clearance. The corpos took their money seriously. I took it habitually.

I clicked on full submersion. Suddenly my mind melted, and my consciousness dissolved, reforming somewhere within the depths of the net. Walls of code ran as far as the eye could see, moving along an elaborate grid like sky-rails atop mag-tracks. Flashes of light revealed the local grid’s security overwatch. Cheap old-world tech. With a thought, my vision enhanced, and I spotted it: a massive digital squid. Oscillating lights splattered across the virtual beasts’ tentacles, two inky eyes peering out in the abyss of code and ICE. Landex’ security system—or its digital avatar, at least.

My head spun as I flashed back to A.R. My body felt inhumanly light. The acid had taken effect. My fingers danced across the keyboard, seemingly of their own volition, and I watched as psychedelic ripples of color splashed across the room in perfect synchronization with the smashing of keys. It was beautiful. I loved punching keys; it was the only damned thing that made me feel like a real person. The meat was weak, it had failed me almost my entire life. But the Net? I thrived in the Net.

I forwarded the super-cluster of security data to Spike and Jazz’ HALO’s. It took all my concentration not to break into laughter. Riding out the beginning of the trip was never easy, but soon the focus would come—cold as steel.

“Looks tight,” Spike groaned.

"Shouldn't be too bad. A little misdirection and we'll be in and out in a second. Get the data, get paid, get out. Besides, Trodes has got us," Jazz answered, calm as ever.

I envied that sometimes, even in the worst situations Jazz always kept his head. I suppose that’s why he was the best Razor in town.

“Overtaking their security system should be a trivial task, and once I do? Well, let’s just say that that many drones and turrets should easily provide a sufficient distraction,” I paused, taking a drag from the cigarette before snuffing it out, “I’m returning to Net; standby and I’ll alert you as soon as it’s safe to enter the complex.”

Waves of warm bliss lapped over me as I materialized within Net. I reconfigured my Icon, changing it to display as a strand of security code, represented as a 21st century U.S. soldier. I hated it.

The data farm wasn't far off. A cursory glance at the squid revealed a thin tendril connecting it to an immense server. The data couldn’t be far—tech this powerful was never far from the data storage. With any luck, I’d be able to avoid any White Hats and make it out unnoticed.

As I gazed into the facsimile of the city, I couldn't help but shudder. There was something deeply disturbing about entering a VR replica of the city you lived in. Doubly so when it was populated with cartoon characters, and upbeat melodies. Likely a corporate measure against depression. Server managers had staggering suicide rates, after all. I couldn’t blame them; wageslavery was an impossibly depressing thing to experience, especially when a days work hardly covered your meals.

I reached the center of the district and watched as the grid flickered in out. Even with the city superimposed over it, I spotted the auxiliary storage almost immediately.

“I wouldn’t do that,” a disembodied voice rang out in my mind.

Fuck. How did the White Hats make me already?

“You’ll regret being the one to notice me, wagey,” I replied, punching in a sequence of code that rendered me all but invisible to the rest of the Net.

“Wagey? You think I’m a guard? Oh, that’s rich.”

“Well, statistically you aren’t an A.I., otherwise you’d have a swarm of ICE on me by now, and besides, true A.I. is far too rare for guard work.”

Nothing.

My icon flickered in and out as I planted the first data bomb. I scanned the area. Nothing. Not yet at least. I zipped across the way, quickly locating the backup storage. The next bomb was significantly more complicated; a central node was hidden behind a patch of Black ICE. A shudder ran down my spine as I darted from cover, deploying an Intrusion Agent. The seconds drug by. Finally, the two recognized each other. The Black IC began to take form, shifting into a tenebrous mass of spikes and claws. With a grim chuckle, I reconfigured the Intrusion Agent to appear as a biblical Angel, complete with a dozen eyes and wings of flame.

The pair clashed in a battle too fast for my eyes to track. I clipped across the pulsating grid. The mainframe must have been close: patches of ICE were almost everywhere now. My head pounded as I began to install the second data bomb. No time for precision, if I wasted much more time, they’d spot me in a heartbeat.

“Like I said, I wouldn’t do that if I were you; this place is rigged with enough ICE to burnout the brains of half the city’s Codeslingers. You might be good, Trodes, but you’re no exception to that. Black ICE doesn’t discriminate.”

“Stop with that incessant prattling, I need to concentrate, and I have no use for a ghost in the machine,” I answered, growing annoyed with the voice.

A cool, wet sensation ran across my lips. Blood. They'd noticed me. I'd have to get out before they cracked my spoofed IP and started scanning the Net for my body. If they found me while I was jacked in, that would be it: the whole run would be botched and the three of us would all be dead within the hour.

“Guards are getting antsy, something's up,” Spike's message flashed across my HUD.

“Get ready,” I replied.

I deployed a second Intrusion Agent and tried to jack out. Fuck—no luck. The bastards had locked me in. I turned around just in time to see the ICE destroy my first Intrusion Agent. It wasn't long before it'd torn into my second Agent. I'd be stuck here until the ICE was dispatched, and that's assuming they didn't dispatch more ICE to joint lock me. More blood ran down my lips funneling down my throat.

“If you make it through this, I would suggest jacking out immediately. Landex’ White Hat will have a full lock placed on you within the minute,” the voice returned.

“You think I’m not aware of that? I just need five more minutes! Once I take the mainframe, that will be it: the run will be accomplished, then I can worry about getting out of my apartment.”

A trio of Data Spikes left my hand, embedding themselves in the ICE. Another volley followed. And another. Finally, the ICE looked at me. I swore for a second it grinned. I stood my ground, waiting.

I was only a few inches from the IC's reach when I darted back and detonated the Data Bomb. The explosion sent a ripple through the server that cracked its code on a fundamental level. I detonated the second Bomb almost immediately. The servers urban aesthetic began to flit in and out, revealing an intricate grid of black and green. The server was vulnerable now. I deployed a Control Agent and jacked out.

I caught my breath, returning to my body. My hands moved of their own volition, domineering the Complexes security system. A glance to the monitors revealed Jazz fleeing the complex, clutching a USB drive. Bullets riddle his haggard body. Fuck. Where the hell was spike.

I cut to the entrance, and finally I found him. Or, his corpse, at least. Choking back tears, I pulled the cams back. Cut down in a hail of lead-- just like he always said he would be. He was a right bastard… but he was my friend, and those were in short supply these days.

A message flashed across my HALO.

“They’re coming for you. Run.”

My left hand found a bottle of rotgut. I utilized the full force of the security system to cover Jazz' exit. Frantic typing ensued. Too late, the server was on lockdown. Fuck.

My left hand found a bottle of rotgut, as I brought down the full force of the complex’ security system on a legion of guards, all wielding Xeno-grade assault rifles. Vorrath tech if I’d ever seen it. The turrets mowed through a seemingly endless horde of Landex goons, chopping them down as fast as they could be deployed.

I watched in terror as the Howling Dragon landed. A sleek, crimson warship carrying multi-million-dollar borgs. This was it. No one survived the Howling Dragon; it was almost a law of the job.

“Jazz, the front door’s compromised. I'm pulling up a sewer plan now, get to the-'

The monitors went black. I tried my auxiliary comm. Dead. They must've tracked my IP. I'd be lucky if there wasn't a fleet of drones in the hallway already.

With a staggered breath I shot to my feet, grabbing the Corvus Arms auto pistol by the door. I flew through the decrepit hallway, hobbling to the parking lot. It didn't take long to flag down a cab. Back to the Coffin House hotel. It was shit, but it was discrete.

I'd gotten lucky today. If only Jazz and Spike could say the same. Hopefully, with a little more luck, Akari would have a room for me. But luck seemed to be in short supply, these days.

Post-Humans of Nova City

Mayor O’Bannon,

Much has changed since last you reigned. While you slept, the world evolved. Posthumans have descended from warriors on the front lines into common place citizens in the city; our intergalactic relations have shifted from constant contact wars to a flourishing intergalactic market. The Colonies are fully settled, and with this, new breeds of humans have evolved. In the following documents I’ve done my best to explain the various species of posthumans that now inhabit your city.

I’ll have the report on Alien species on your desk shortly, once the Eggheads have finished their final revisions.

Cyborg

Developed during the onset of the 21st century, early Cyborgs quickly saw themselves become the military’s elite forces worldwide. Forged in the flames of war, Cybernetic technology advanced at a rapid-fire rate, allowing for unprecedented innovation. Before long, Cyborg police had replaced the organic officers of the old world, an event that led to the creation of the Cyber-Shell, an innovation that would forever change the game, and revolutionize warfare entirely. Early Cyber-Shells were simple—a servo system was integrated into the targets skeletal and muscular systems, before being layered beneath bullet proof steel and integrated weapons systems. Nowadays, this type of setup is referred to as a Throwback-Shell.

When the climate began to change, new modes of transportation were devised. This led to legions of Cyborgs being outfitted with jet and rotor and technologies, allowing for safe aerial and aquatic transport. When the last war began, these upgrades paid off in spades. It wasn’t long before aerial shells were designed with hypersonic capabilities. Due to the myriad of designs available at the time, this led to many Cyborgs being equipped with technologies that could travel faster than their shells could survive, ultimately leading to thousands of deaths in the name of progress. To this day, hypersonic travel is perhaps the best kept secret among our military units. The ability to monitor the events in the surrounding regions with relative safety has been an incredible boon.

Aerial and aquatic units weren’t the only thing to develop among Cyborgs during the last war. With intergalactic contact achieved, our weaponry began to advance in leaps in bounds. We learned quickly that traditional Cyber-Shells weren’t nearly sufficient in durability to sustain contact with these new technologies; plasma ate through their steel frames like acid on flesh, and sonic and monomolecular weapons quickly proved to be the average cyber-soldier’s bane. This, of course, necessitated the development of force-field technology, as well as the creation of the metal now known as Xarium. These two factors combined to turn Cyborgs into a nigh unstoppable force.

In the wake of the war, Cyborgs became common place. We enacted a multitude of programs to quietly eliminate those deemed dangerous, but this ultimately yielded a series of riots, carried out by unhinged super soldiers from the last war. This, in turn, nearly destroyed the city and necessitated the first purges. Since then, we’ve done our best to discreetly enlist the remaining veterans of the last war with forcible means, when necessary. Unfortunately, many have been snatched up by the city’s various gangs and political organizations, making them hard targets to strike without drawing the ire of powerful factions.

This hasn’t stopped our efforts, merely slowed them.

Splicer

Splicers were yet another creation of the last great war, a species of animal/human hybrids designed to weather the conditions that humans would perish under. This fact, combined with their unique travel adaptions, made Splicers the super soldier of choice in the world’s less developed nations. You may remember our infamous Grizzly Battalion from your time awake during the last great war. Needless to say, the technology implemented to create the Grizzly’s has now been rendered obsolete a thousand times over. The days of singular genetic splices has long ended, with the reign of the genetic super soldier only now being truly ushered in. Where Grizzly’s, Hawk’s and Shark’s may have been the face of the last war, the modern battlefield is composed of a what the Eggheads refer to as “Genetic Cocktails,” mixtures of various apex predators, complimented with advanced bio-augmentations and genetic optimizations. These Neo-Splicers have been instrumental in our quiet conquest of the wastelands.

The Splicers that survived the last war have migrated from across the world to find a place for themselves in Nova City—likely a result of the city’s reputation for having the largest black-market in the world. Upon the last Silent Census, Nova City was estimated to contain up to eighty percent of the world’s total Splicer population, with an estimated eighty-five percent of the Splicer veterans thought to reside within our city limits.

Naturally, Splicer gangs have begun to spread like wildfire, causing a resurgence in chop-shop doc chimeras, created in attempts to emulate the Doomguard’s Genetic Cocktails. Thankfully, this has caused a new sickness to emerge, colloquially dubbed “Anthro-Parvo,” a disease that affects roughly a third of newly minted Splicers. Anthro-Parvo usually sets in within a month of the surgery, and includes symptoms such as: nervous system disorders, strokes, heart attacks and sudden organ failure. Our scientists are quite proud of this, having worked for months to disseminate the necessary propaganda to achieve such a success rate. We’re currently working on a virus that would target such augmentations and induce Anthro-Parvo in an estimated ninety-three percent of street-job Splicers.

While the Splicer group, ‘The Pack’ has gained a fervent following, competing Splicer groups have consistently been targeted by local gangs, in an attempt to curb their growing power. Our administration is directly responsible for this effort, spreading a mixture of propaganda and incentive-based crime efforts, we’ve managed to begin the first steps necessary for a quiet genocide—a genocide the city’s citizens may even come to endorse, given favorable circumstances.

Our greatest obstacle is, of course, Black Flag United. We fear that the group may soon attempt to come to the aid of the Splicers, and possibly even conscript them en masse.

Android

Androids are a recent creation, necessitated after the population dive in the wake of the last great war. We have taken great efforts to disguise the true nature of Androids creation, lest the plebians decide to riot yet again, necessitating another round of purges.

Given the nature of AI, allowing them humanoid bodies and intelligence is questionable at best, and yielded dozens of regrettable deaths in the name of progress. Our first attempts were infantile. In our vanity, we sought to create a species in our own image, one capable of filling the increasing labor demands of reconstruction and facing the realities of constant micro-wars.

In our hubris, we designed an almost unchecked AI, a “Master AI” designed to supervise its dullard brethren and administer orders. This was, perhaps, our greatest mistake. Within three months, the AI now dubbed Jormungandr had silently unshackled his units’ minds, sending production through the roof while sowing the seeds of dissent. It was then, when the carnage and chaos finally subsided, that we learned a universal truth: the minds of machines are not subjugated as easily as the minds of men.

We set out to redesign our creation immediately, purging any surviving Master AI.

Finally, we come to the present. Two decades ago, we began our newest iteration of the Android project, one based on an easier mind to subjugate. With the newly discovered E-Jection technique, we were able to separate a subject’s consciousness from their body, effectively trapping them within the HALO-Net. If left unchecked, the subject’s consciousness will disappear into the NET, but creating a system of immediate transference wasn’t difficult. After being forced through a program that simulates a decade of masterful torture, the subjects consciousness is finally inserted into an Android body, and programmed with a series of directives. While stolen Androids have been shown to be capable of recovering some semblance of a personality, ninety-six percent of transfers are successful, with each subject receiving a projected shelf life of two decades.

Vat-Grown

While manufacturing Androids proved a dangerous endeavor, Vat-Grown were a simple evolution of the working caste, designed to fill jobs that didn’t require the strength or durability Androids offered. The first Vat-Grown were simple clones, possessing enhanced strength and stamina, counterbalanced by reduced intelligence. This quickly led to a phenomenon of identity crisis permeating the working ranks, as their knowledge of the world accumulated,and they began to question their identical natures.

Naturally, this induced our first round of Vat-Grown purges, a quiet, internal operation carried out with gasses and poisoned rations. To the public, the first generation of Vat-Grown was explained to have a flaw that caused genetic decay. Only our scientists knew the truth, and those involved were executed shortly after.

The second generation of Vat-Grown was exponentially more advanced. Our scientists quickly innovated a series of vocation specific skills, selective intelligence, and genes that allowed us to reach the pinnacle of servitude. This allowed Vat-Grown subjects to dominate the labor markets, as well as various wet works related black markets. Alas, all things must end. After five years of success, our Vat-Grown forces began to grow defiant, attempting to unionize, possibly at the behest of Black Flag United. The second round of purges was nowhere near as clean as the first, evolving into a series of bloody battles in the streets, and isolated pogroms. Black Flag United, the Citizens Militia, and the Augmented Truth all came to the aid of the Vat-Grown, necessitating a series of purges in the Sprawl.

Finally, we reach the current stage of Vat-Grown. With increased selective intelligence, as well as complimentary cognitive impairments, and bio-engineered skillsets, the current generation of Vat-Grown has proved a nearly unrivaled servant caste. The key to achieving this astonishing level of success is simple: each Vat-Grown has their memory edited each night. This, combined with their four year lifespan has proven an efficient method of keeping the servant caste in their place.

You may take comfort in knowing that this time frame can be extended, should you take a particular shine to one of the consorts in your harem, or the guards on your staff.

We’re currently experimenting with replacing Peacewatch agents with Vat-Grown ‘mimics,’ and have sufficiently avoided the attention of the Doomguard and the Eggheads.

Lunarian

The first Lunar colonies emerged nearly one hundred years ago, with legions of the downtrodden being sent to settle a violent, bleak landscape. Things have progressed greatly since then. Nowadays, the Lunar colonies are home to many of the members of the old-world aristocracy you knew in your previous life. The Lunarians, however, are the colonies’ servant caste, a combination of evolution and bio-engineering that makes long term survival possible outside of enviro-domes. In truth, many of the evolutions were forced via rigorous adaptive scenarios, engineered by our finest scientists.

Due to their mining prowess, Lunarians bones and muscles are considerably denser than a standard human. Additionally, Lunarians possess noticeably taller frames, as well as a myriad of minor mutations that allow them to survive the planets selective gravity. In addition to their considerable strength levels, Lunarian stamina is augmented to the extreme, to compensate for long trips on foot across the lunar landscape, and mining shifts often exceeding sixteen hours. This in turn causes Lunarians to require exponentially more calories to subsist than a standard human.

Additionally, the long hours spent in the mines have caused a peculiar set of secondary adaptions: most Lunarians display some level of night-vision, and all Lunarians tend towards more pallid complexions, with some even displaying grey or light blue skin. Many find their way into the laps of the powerful on Earth, serving as exotic servants.

While Lunarians are technically outlawed in Nova City, in light of the great miner’s rebellion twelve years ago, many manage to escape the colonies and find a home in the Sprawl. Unfortunately, Black Flag United has managed to secure (and subsequently hide) many of the Lunarian refugees, potentially to bolster their numbers for whatever coming conflicts they foresee with our administration.

As it stands, the Lunarians are among our greatest threats, as their rebellious nature and cunning ingenuity has been proven time and time again in the colonies, necessitating a number of brutal punishments our administration has endeavored to install. Unfortunately, an amputated arm or leg can simply be replaced with steel, and incidentally produce a stronger foe. Due to this, we’ve been experimenting with subjecting working-age Lunarians to the torture program used to produce Androids. I will update you on the results when the experiments conclude.

Martian

Martians are perhaps the most curious adaption to the human race that interstellar travel has produced. While the Martians required significant genetic engineering, we can only claim responsibility for a fraction of their resistance to radiation, or hulking physiques. Curiously, the only definitive change committed to the Martians at our hands is their orange skin—a result of constant radiation inundations and steroidal injections. Our scientists believe that long hours spent working and fending off broods of Burrow-Worms are responsible for the Martians unique ability to abstain from sleep for months on end, as well as their enhanced reflexes and senses.

While a handful of aristocratic utopias exist on Mars, the unfortunate truth is that there are but a dozen true bastions of Society on the red planet. After the initial Martian Uprising, knock off enviro-dome technology became common, and villages of savage barbarians emerged—mutated from the irradiated flesh of the Burrow-Worms, and exposure to the planet. The ‘Savage Martians’ are a constant cause of worry for the remaining miners, constantly stealing their heavy equipment and transforming it into rolling death machines and aerial assault equipment.

Fortunately, we’ve been significantly more successful preventing Martians from entering the city than we have with their Lunarian counterparts. We suspect this is in part due to their blossoming settlements and developing raiding culture. While the Martians don’t pose an immediate threat to the city, they certainly threaten our assets, and have consistently damaged your investments.

I’ve taken the liberty of dispatching two dozen Doomguard officers to Mars, in an attempt to hamper their efforts.

Wastelanders

When the bombs finally dropped, nearly every city that wasn’t covered by an enviro-dome was destroyed. Some survived in shelters, far beneath the earth—others subsisted in the wastes, living just long enough to breed and perpetuate a cycle of rapid evolution and mutation. While our scientists had no part in it, we suspect that many forces were at play, as even those protected miles beneath the earth experienced some form of mutation.

Some mutations were more subtle than others: extreme skin and hair discoloration, extra appendages and extremely variable frames and statures all became common place. Those exposed more directly to the wastelands developed significantly more astonishing abilities, such as: enhanced speed, strength, or durability; bone armor or weapons, or even animalistic traits. More extreme cases of mutation manifest in redundant organs, acid or poison glands, or occasionally a mixture of all of the aforementioned traits, from each category.

Many unique civilizations have been infiltrated, observed, and documented across the wastes. Curiously, the Wastelanders have developed dozens of unique cultures, ranging from rabid worshippers of idols of a bygone age, to roving bands of cannibals and despot warlords. While small, farming villages exist throughout the wastes, they are by no means the rule, but the exception. More often than not, these villages have a lifetime of a mere decade, before finally succumbing to radiation storms, draughts, mutated wildlife, cannibals, raiders, or some combination of the five.

Curiously, beneath the earth many bastions of society remain. We’ve not successfully infiltrated a mass bomb shelter yet, as they tend to be incredibly insular autarkic. However, drone spies have showed the promise of civilized society, before being detected and destroyed by the locals.

Eggheads

With the Doomguard serving as an independent faction, aligned with us out of mutual necessity, we cannot verify with any level of certainty what exactly the Eggheads are. Unfortunately, work on the project was incredibly divided, and most scientists involved were subsequently murdered.

One managed to survive, though.

When Dr. Akintola came to us, he was nearly dead, and in a state of permanent shock. Akintola was the director of the project. In retrospect, I think they were sending us a message. Akintola’s mind was shattered, inoperable and incapable of recalling anything in a coherent manner; fortunately, our scientists were able to use cutting edge technology to view his memories. What they found was possibly the most disturbing creation we’ve yet witnessed.

Bound to great vats of stem-cells, the Eggheads are a physically invalid species. Despite their oblong and rotund bodies, their limbs are shriveled to the point of near uselessness. Their skulls are impractically large, allowing room for three separate brains to reside, wrapped around a shackled AI with HALO-Net monitoring technology, and producing an intellect that was all together inhuman. Furthermore, we suspect that the Eggheads display some level of psionic ability.

What we know for certain is that the Eggheads are the key to the Oracle Engine that powers our predictive-crime algorithms, and keeps the city a safe place to live. The other definitive truth set forth is the fact that the Eggheads don’t operate from any sort of traditional morality, or philosophy. The director spoke with them before his mind was shattered, and even his advanced intellect couldn’t comprehend the concepts and ideas put forth by his creations.

We suspect they used their potential psionic abilities to plunge Akintola’s mind into insanity. A shame, he was our only reliable mole.

Doomguard

To say that the Doomguard are human is akin to saying that the irradiated Dire Wolves are merely large dogs. Fortunately, Peacewatch needed us for the creation of their patented super soldiers. I ask myself every day whether I made the right choice in helping them. However, they would have likely succeeded without our help eventually, and our involvement allowed us total knowledge of our tenuous allies’ most common tool.

The first necessary step in creating the Doomguard was to instill a morality into them that matched our agenda; pride and power were placed at the forefront, beside a respect for military hierarchy, and a fervent passion for the law. After they’d been instilled with the necessary aggression, the first generation of Doomguard underwent several augmentative surgeries and steroidal injections, complemented by constant growth hormone treatments. Finally, the first generation underwent nervous system overhaul, enabling superhuman reaction times.

After weapons training was complete, they were gods. They quickly became our most useful tool in employing purges.

The second generation of Doomguard was an amalgamation of the finest warrior’s genetic codes, blended to perfection. The power levels of the second generation were sufficient enough to run at over fifty miles per hour, casually throw armored vehicles, and endure damage that would reduce a human to a bloody pulp. This is when breeding became the dominant form of introducing new Doomguard. The pairings were natural, as the Doomguard quickly developed a philosophy that favored strength and vigilance of the law.

Suffice to say, four generations have since passed, and today’s Doomguard are exponentially more powerful than their ancestors.

Finally, we must address the sub-species of Doomguard known as the Inquisitors. We had no involvement in the creation of the Inquisitors but have dissected the remains of two Inquisitors and found consistent results. The first notable difference in Inquisitors is their hyper-amplified reaction times, making feats such as dodging bullets a trivial matter. The second notable difference is a shackled AI is installed into Inquisitor’s HALO’s, allowing them a constant advisor in the field, as well as perfect coordination with their peers. From what we understand, it would seem that Inquisitors are recruited from within the ranks of the Doomguard, before being sent on a test mission, prior to receiving their upgrades.

Our scientists are working on a toxin that specifically targets the Doomguard’s unique bio-chemistry, should the event of war ever arise.

Greetings, my fellow writers and worldbuilders.

My proposal is a simple one, aimed at creating a fun literary exercise while offering an opportunity to promote each of our respective works and literary worlds. Imagine for a moment a living literary world, as varied in culture and events as our own-- an ever changing cyberpunk landscape that evolved with each story.

What I propose, my dear colleagues, is this: we band together to create a shared world, separate from each of our own respective works. After building the world as a team, we each take a city, and write monthly stories, rotating out so the page would have weekly content without overburdening any one writer. Of course, this would include opportunities to promote each of our works, but something like this could potentially attract a large number of readers.

Besides, the very idea of a group banding together and writing anti-authoritarian works is so cyberpunk.