This blog looks at this real world as, if I was sitting in a cyberpunk pub in a Sci-Fi parallel universe with a super skunk ciggy and a sweet bourbon, and this world was the video game. I am a fully independent artist with no management or distribution contracts. Piracy is a crime and harms artists. Report abuse, theft and piracy to the local authorities to help free, independent artists! DeepSeek calls this "digital neo-outsider art"
Is that AI?
The car and girls behave realistically, but still....
#cyberpunkcoltoure #MODInc
PS: The car starts breaking out to the left the moment the real wheels appears to touch base with the road marking. She then steers into the very wrong direction making he Porsche design typical behavior ever worse and her sister reacts as they do, being still alive. But still... I think its AI.
They make out in those spots and don't hit the metal with the pedal. That's their brothers.
Incorporated with DeepSeek
# Episode 1: The Scavenger’s Manifesto
**Île-de-France, village of Voisins-le-Bretonneux — 02:47 AM**
Rain came down like needles on the corrugated roof of the old farm shed. The sound was a constant, tinny drumroll that made the inside of the barn feel like the inside of a broken radio. Jules leaned over a workbench cluttered with salvaged circuit boards, a cracked datapad, and a half-empty bottle of synthetic whiskey that tasted like recycled coolant.
He was forty-two, but the shadows under his eyes made him look fifty. A former propulsion tech for a mid-tier subsidiary of Ares Europe, he’d been downsized, blacklisted, and sentenced to a life of fixing broken scooters in a village that smelled of manure and diesel. His official SIN was flagged, his bank account frozen, his wife gone. All he had left was a plan so stupid it might just work.
On the datapad, a wireframe schematic rotated slowly: a quadcopter built from four Renault Zoe electric motors, four Cessna 152 propellers, a combustion generator scavenged from an industrial diesel genset, and a frame welded from scrap aluminum. The numbers were insane. Nine hundred kilos. Four hundred kilowatts. Zero margin for error. But the math was the math. With those props, it would barely lift. Without helicopter blades—which were locked behind Eurocorp security grids, biometric locks, and armed patrols—it would have to be enough.
Jules took a swig of the whiskey. It burned like betrayal. He wiped his mouth with the back of a grease-stained hand.
*If you want to fly in the shadows, you don’t buy parts. You steal them.*
---
## The Berlingo
The Citroen Berlingo sat under a tarp behind the shed like a dead whale. It was a 2038 model, diesel, painted in three shades of primer and one shade of rust. The registration plates belonged to a man who had died in a corp strike three years ago and whose SIN had never been fully purged. Jules had bought the car from a Roma scrapper for three hundred nuyen and a forged fuel cell stamp.
It started with a cough, always. The glow plug light flickered like a nervous eye. The engine rattled to life, and the smell of half-burned diesel filled the cab. Jules didn’t care. The Berlingo was invisible. It was the kind of vehicle that blended into the background of French rural decay, a ghost among tractors and broken vans.
He had a list. Written in longhand on a scrap of thermal paper, hidden inside the door panel:
1. **Four Renault Zoe electric motors** — 100 kW peak, 11,000 RPM. Water-cooled, compact, stolen from a scrapyard in Trappes.
2. **Four Cessna 152 propellers** — 69 inches, fixed-pitch. Scattered across small airstrips in the Yvelines. Not guarded. Not heavily.
3. **One diesel genset, 500 hp class** — from a construction site in Saint-Quentin-en-Yvelines. Armed with only a night watchman and a dog.
4. **Four reduction gearboxes** — 4.5:1 ratio, custom. Scavenged from a decommissioned Saeder-Krupp mining drone. The hardest part.
5. **Control electronics** — industrial motor controllers, hacked flight boards, a jury-rigged battery buffer.
The plan was insane. The plan was his only way out.
---
## First Stop: The Junkyard
**03:31 AM**
The junkyard in Trappes was a fenced wasteland of mangled chassis and dead electric vehicles. A single halogen light on a pole cast a sickly orange pool near the entrance. The rest was darkness, broken only by the occasional glint of a cracked windshield.
Jules killed the Berlingo’s engine two hundred meters away and coasted into the shadow of a collapsed billboard advertising “Renault: The Future is Electric.” He pulled on a pair of polymer gloves, grabbed a canvas tool bag, and slipped through a hole in the chain-link fence that had been cut years ago by someone else.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of rust, battery acid, and ozone. He knew where the Zoes were: a row of decommissioned city cars, their battery packs ripped out for resale, their motors still bolted to the subframes. Most were stripped, but two were intact—their motors protected by plastic shrouds and decades of grime.
He found the first one. A white Zoe with a shattered rear window and no wheels. He pulled a cordless impact wrench from his bag and went to work on the motor mount bolts. The wrench whirred softly, a whisper against the rain. The bolts were tight, but they gave. Twenty minutes later, the first motor was free—a dense, water-jacketed cylinder the size of a watermelon, weighing sixty kilos.
He carried it to the fence, grunting under the load. His back screamed. The Berlingo’s rear suspension groaned as he slid it inside. He went back for the second. Then the third.
The fourth motor was in a different row, buried under a collapsed roof panel. Jules had to use a crowbar to pry the metal off. The sound echoed in the empty lot like a gunshot. He froze, listening. Only the rain answered.
By 05:00 AM, all four motors were in the back of the Berlingo. The car sat low on its axles, but it drove. He pulled out of the junkyard just as the first grey light of dawn touched the horizon. No one saw him. No drones. No corporate security. Just another ghost in a dying car.
---
## The Airstrip
**Night 2 — 01:15 AM**
The airstrip outside Les Mureaux was a private field used by weekend pilots and the occasional smuggler. It had a single grass runway, a tin hangar, and a row of old planes parked in the open. The security was a chain across the entrance and a hand-painted sign that read: *Propriété privée. Défense d’entrer.*
Jules parked the Berlingo in a copse of poplar trees and walked the last kilometer on foot. The grass was wet; his boots squelched with every step. He carried a small rucksack with a wrench set, a hacksaw, and a bottle of spray lubricant.
The planes were ghosts in the dark. A Jodel, a Piper Cub, two Cessnas. The Cessna 152 sat nearest the fence, its propeller a dull metal cross against the sky. The bolts were torqued to spec, but Jules had done this before. He sprayed each nut with lubricant, waited, then worked them free with a breaker bar.
The propeller came off with a soft sigh. He caught it before it hit the ground. It was light—maybe eight kilos—but awkward. He carried it back to the car, balanced on his shoulder like a soldier carrying a rifle.
He repeated the process for the second Cessna, then a third from a hangar door that wasn’t locked. The fourth propeller was on a plane that had been partially disassembled, its engine removed. The prop was already loose. He almost laughed.
By the time he loaded the last one, the sky was starting to lighten again. He drove back to the farm shed with four propellers sticking out of the Berlingo’s open rear doors, wrapped in moving blankets. The rain had stopped. The world smelled of wet earth and diesel.
---
## The Shed
**04:12 AM**
Jules sat on an overturned bucket in the middle of the shed, surrounded by his stolen goods. The four Zoe motors sat in a row on a pallet, their copper windings gleaming under a bare bulb. The four Cessna props leaned against the wall, their leading edges dull with age. He’d already started sketching a frame on the concrete floor with a piece of chalk.
The generator would be next. He’d scoped out the construction site in Saint-Quentin-en-Yvelines two weeks ago. A 600-horsepower diesel genset, sitting on a trailer behind a temporary fence. One night watchman, an old man with a limp and a German Shepherd that barked at everything. He’d need to deal with the dog. Or the man. Or both.
After that, the gearboxes. That was the real problem. He’d heard of a decommissioned Saeder-Krupp mining drone sitting in a junkyard near Évry, its transmission intact. But that junkyard was wired with motion sensors and had a contract with a private security firm. Breaking in there would be a different kind of game.
He lit a cigarette and watched the smoke curl toward the rafters. The rain started again, a steady hiss on the metal roof.
*The math is the easy part,* he thought. *The math never lies. But the world? The world has teeth.*
He finished the cigarette, stubbed it out on the concrete, and stood up. The plan was insane. But he had four motors and four propellers. That was a start.
Tomorrow, he’d steal a generator. And after that, he’d find a way to make the whole thing fly.
Or die trying.
---
**END OF EPISODE 1**
# Episode 2: The Weight of Dead Metal
**Île-de-France, Saint-Quentin-en-Yvelines — 02:12 AM**
The construction site was a wound in the earth. A half-built residential block rose like a broken tooth against the sodium-orange sky. Rain had turned the ground into a slurry of mud and cement dust. Jules lay in a drainage ditch two hundred meters from the perimeter fence, watching the night watchman make his rounds.
The genset sat on a trailer near the site office: a yellow-painted industrial diesel generator, the size of a small car, rated at 600 horsepower. It had a fuel tank half full, a control panel with a cracked screen, and a thick steel lock securing it to the trailer hitch. Heavy, but movable with a winch and a ramp.
The watchman was an old Algerian named Farid, known to the village as a man who talked to his dog more than people. The dog was a German Shepherd with a grizzled muzzle and the bark of a dying engine. Jules had watched the site for three nights. Farid took a smoke break at 02:30, sat on a plastic chair under a tarp, and fed the dog bits of stale bread. Then he walked the fence line, clockwise, every hour.
Jules had a plan. It was ugly, but it was a plan.
He pulled a small case from his rucksack. Inside: a compact crossbow, three darts filled with a veterinary tranquilizer—xylazine, stolen from a farm supply in Rambouillet. The darts were not for the dog. They were for Farid. The dog would be easier: a slab of raw beef laced with a sedative, thrown over the fence.
At 02:31, Jules threw the meat. The dog caught it mid-air, swallowed, and lay down within minutes. Farid stood up, frowning, calling the dog’s name. *Bachir.* The dog didn’t move. Farid knelt, shaking the animal. That was when the dart hit him in the shoulder.
He slapped at his neck like he’d been stung. Ten seconds later, he slumped against the fence, snoring.
Jules moved fast. He cut a hole in the chain-link with bolt cutters, dragged Farid’s body inside the site office and propped him in a chair, leaving a half-empty bottle of cheap wine on the table. The dog slept outside, breathing slowly. The illusion of a drunk watchman and his sleepy dog might buy him an hour.
The genset was heavier than it looked. Jules attached a portable winch to the trailer hitch and used the Berlingo’s tow bar to drag it out through the gap in the fence. The car’s diesel engine screamed in protest, but the mud and rain swallowed the sound. He loaded the generator onto a wooden ramp he’d built the week before, then covered it with a torn tarp and tied it down with cargo straps.
By the time he drove away, the first grey light was bleeding through the clouds. Farid would wake with a headache and a lot of questions. The dog would be fine. Jules didn’t look back.
---
## The Saeder-Krupp Junkyard
**Night 4 — 01:05 AM**
The junkyard near Évry was not a junkyard. It was a fortress. A twelve-foot concrete wall topped with razor wire, motion sensors every ten meters, and a private security drone that patrolled the perimeter every eight minutes. Inside were the remains of Saeder-Krupp industrial equipment: mining drones, conveyor systems, hydraulic presses. And somewhere in that maze of dead machinery was a set of four reduction gearboxes from a decommissioned autonomous haul truck.
Jules had scouted the place for two weeks. He’d mapped the drone’s patrol route, the blind spots behind the old incinerator, and the weak point in the wall where a sewage pipe ran underneath. The pipe was narrow—barely wide enough for a man to crawl through—but it bypassed the motion sensors and the razor wire.
He wore a black neoprene suit, a respirator, and a headlamp with a red filter. The smell inside the pipe was a cocktail of rot and industrial waste. He crawled for thirty meters, pushing his tool bag ahead of him, until he emerged into a drainage channel inside the yard.
The mining drone was a collapsed behemoth: a twelve-wheeled monster with a shattered cab and a rusted ore bucket. The gearboxes were mounted on the rear axle, four compact planetary units, each the size of a car battery. They were heavy—maybe forty kilos apiece—but they were exactly what he needed. A 4.5:1 reduction, rated for 500 horsepower each. Perfect.
He worked in silence, using a cordless impact wrench and a can of penetrating oil. The bolts were fused with rust, but they gave with enough force. The sound echoed in the hollow shell of the drone, but the rain was falling hard now, masking the noise.
He loaded the first two gearboxes into a canvas sling and dragged them back through the pipe. Then he went back for the third and fourth. By the time he finished, his hands were raw, his knees were bleeding, and the sky was starting to lighten. He drove back to the farm shed, the Berlingo’s suspension groaning under the weight of the generator and the gearboxes.
---
## The Shed, Three Weeks Later
The shed had become a workshop. The floor was covered in metal shavings, oil stains, and the chalk outlines of a machine that had not yet been born. Jules had built a frame from salvaged aluminum beams, welded together with a second-hand MIG welder that spat and stuttered like an old man with a cough. The four Zoe motors were mounted at the ends of four arms, each arm three meters long, angled slightly outward to clear the propellers. The Cessna 152 props were bolted to the motors via the stolen reduction gearboxes, their blades sanded and repainted flat black.
The generator sat in the center of the frame, its diesel engine rebuilt by hand, its control panel rewired to feed power to a bank of industrial motor controllers. There was no battery pack—just a small supercapacitor buffer to smooth out the load. The whole thing was a Frankenstein’s monster of scavenged parts, held together by hope and zip ties.
The first test was a disaster.
Jules connected the power, flipped the main switch, and the motors spun up. The props bit into the air, kicking up dust and debris. The frame shuddered. One of the arms twisted under the torque. A prop struck the ground, shattering a blade and sending a piece of carbon fiber ricocheting off the wall. Jules dove behind a workbench, his ears ringing.
He spent the next two days reinforcing the frame, adding cross-bracing and vibration dampeners. He replaced the broken prop with a spare he’d stolen from a fourth Cessna. The second test was better. The motors hummed, the props spun, and the machine lifted a few centimeters off the ground before he cut the power. It was heavy, sluggish, but it held together.
The third test was at night, in a flooded field behind the farm. The Seine had overflowed its banks three years ago, turning the low-lying farmland into a permanent marsh. The water was shallow, maybe half a meter, but it stretched for kilometers, cutting off the village from the main road. The only way across was by boat or by air.
Jules had built this machine for a reason. Not to fly high, not to fight, but to cross the water. The flooded zone was a no-man’s-land, patrolled by corp drones and the occasional Eurocorp patrol boat. But the water was shallow enough that a low-flying machine could skim over it, below radar, below the tree line.
He sat in the pilot seat—a scavenged bucket seat from a wrecked Peugeot—and throttled up. The four props roared, churning the air into a hurricane. The machine lifted off the ground, wobbling like a drunk trying to stand. He pushed forward on the control stick, and it tilted, lurching toward the water. The skids touched the surface, sent up a spray, then lifted again. He was flying. Barely.
It was not graceful. It was not fast. But it hovered, and it crossed the flooded field, and it landed on the other side with a thud that rattled his teeth.
Jules sat there for a long moment, listening to the props spin down. The rain had stopped. The sky was a bruised purple, and the first stars were beginning to show. He wiped the sweat from his eyes and laughed—a sound that was half sob, half triumph.
*It hovers,* he thought. *It hovers, and it can cross all the flooded areas.*
And that was enough for now.
---
**END OF EPISODE 2**
# The Mud Lands
**The Changed World — 2045**
The maps still showed blue where the water was supposed to be, but the truth was brown.
What had once been the lowlands of Europe—the ragged coastline of the Netherlands, the estuaries of Belgium, the marshy fringes of the French Atlantic coast—had become a vast, meandering scar of semi-liquid earth. The old cartographers called it the *Sillon Brun*, the Brown Furrow. The people who lived in its shadow called it the **Mud Lands**.
It began in the north, where the remnants of the Dutch sea walls still jutted from the silt like the ribs of drowned giants. The great storm of '38 had finished what a century of rising seas had started. Rotterdam was a memory, its towers leaning at impossible angles, their lower floors swallowed by a sludge that never dried. Amsterdam was an archipelago of rooftops in a sea of grey-brown ooze.
From there, the Mud Lands snaked south and west, following the old river valleys and the low-lying polders. It bent through what had been Zeeland, cut across the Belgian border, and spilled into the French coastal plains. By the time it reached the Gascogne, it was no longer a flood, but a permanent condition—a thousand-kilometer ribbon of land that was neither water nor earth, but something in between.
The storms had not stopped. Each winter, another atmospheric river rolled in from the Atlantic, dumping rain for weeks. The rivers overflowed. The drainage systems failed. The ground, already saturated, turned to soup. And then the summers came, baking the surface into a crust that looked solid but cracked like old bread under the slightest weight.
That was the trap. That was the horror of it. The water table sat just below the surface, hidden by a skin of dried mud. A man could walk across it if he moved fast and light. But stop for a moment, and you'd begin to sink. A vehicle? Forget it. The weight would punch through the crust, and the mud would swallow it whole—slowly, inevitably, like a beast digesting its prey.
Boats were useless. The water was rarely more than half a meter deep, but the mud below it was six, ten, twenty meters thick. A hull would drag, stick, and hold. Rotors could clear it, but fuel was scarce, and the corp drones that patrolled the skies shot first and asked for salvage rights later.
The main roads were the only lifelines. Elevated causeways, built by the Eurocorps before the collapse, still connected the major cities. They were guarded, tolled, and choked with traffic. But they were solid. They were safe. And they were the only way for the rich to move from Paris to Bordeaux, from Brussels to the sea.
The villages between the causeways were not so lucky. They had been cut off, isolated, abandoned. Their people had either fled to the cities or stayed behind to scratch out a living from the mud. The old stone farmhouses still stood, their walls thick enough to resist the damp, their roofs patched with plastic sheets and corrugated iron. They were islands in a sea of brown, connected only by paths that changed with every storm.
Those who remained were a different breed. They knew the mud like sailors knew the sea. They moved at dawn and dusk, when the crust was hardest. They used long poles to test the ground, and flat-bottomed sledges to drag their goods. They traded in salvage, in old machine parts, in information. And they kept their secrets close.
---
## The Shed
Jules stood at the edge of the flooded field, looking out at the brown expanse that stretched to the horizon. The water—if you could call it that—was the color of weak coffee, broken by patches of green algae and the occasional skeletal tree. In the distance, a line of dead poplars marked the route of an old farm track, now barely visible beneath the surface.
His machine sat behind him, its four rotors still ticking as they cooled. The propellers were a compromise—too small for real hover efficiency, too large to ignore. The math had been clear from the start: it would lift, but barely. It would fly, but only just above the ground. It would cross the Mud Lands, but it would not soar over them.
That was enough.
The flooded field was not a field anymore. It was the edge of the Sillon Brun, the Brown Furrow, the great scar that cut through the heart of what had once been France. From here, the Mud Lands stretched north, bending toward the dead cities of the Netherlands, and south, toward the salt marshes of the Gascogne. It was a world within a world, a hidden corridor that the corps had forgotten.
The main roads ran parallel to the Mud Lands, but never through them. The causeways were elevated, sterile, patrolled. The mud itself was a no-man's-land—too wet for vehicles, too dry for boats, too dangerous for foot patrols. It was a void, and voids were useful.
Jules pulled a cracked tablet from his jacket and unfolded a map he'd stitched together from old satellite images and local rumors. The map showed the Sillon Brun as a serpentine line, winding through the countryside like a vein of brown ink. He'd marked the locations of a dozen abandoned villages, their names fading from memory: *Saint-Julien-de-la-Cré, Les Moutiers-en-Boue, La Fosse-Tournante, Belle-Épine-sur-Vase.*
These were the places the corps didn't care about. The places where the old world still slept, buried in mud and silence. And in those places, Jules knew, there were things worth finding.
---
## The First Crossing
The first real crossing was a test of both machine and nerve.
Jules set out before dawn, the sky a pale grey smear behind the clouds. The Berlingo was parked in the shed, its tank half full, its seats stripped out to make room for spare parts and fuel cans. The flying machine—he'd started calling it *La Chose*, The Thing—sat on its skids, loaded with a small generator, a coil of rope, and a canvas bag of tools.
He climbed into the pilot seat, pulled on a pair of scratched goggles, and throttled up. The four props roared, churning the air into a hurricane of dust and dead leaves. The Thing lifted off the ground, wobbling like a newborn calf, then settled into a hover a meter above the dirt.
He pushed the stick forward, and the machine lurched toward the water. The skids dipped, touched the surface, then lifted again. The mud below churned in the rotor wash, sending up a spray of brown droplets that spattered against the canopy.
He flew low, skimming the surface, never more than two meters above the mud. The ground below was a patchwork of crust and liquid, broken by the skeletal remains of fences and the occasional rusted hulk of a tractor. The dead trees reached up like the hands of drowned men, their branches clawing at the sky.
The first village appeared out of the mist: a cluster of stone buildings on a slight rise, their roofs sagging, their windows dark. A church tower stood at the center, its spire broken, its bell long gone. The mud had risen to the level of the lower windows, sealing the doors and turning the streets into canals of thick, brown sludge.
Jules circled once, scanning for signs of life. There were none. No lights, no movement, no smoke. The village was dead, swallowed by the Mud Lands. But the buildings were still there, their upper floors above the mud, their contents preserved by the cool, wet darkness.
He landed on the roof of the old schoolhouse, the skids crunching against the tiles. The building groaned under the weight, but held. He killed the rotors and listened. The silence was absolute, broken only by the slow drip of water and the distant cry of a marsh bird.
He was alone. He was in the heart of the Sillon Brun, a hundred kilometers from the nearest paved road, and he had a machine that could take him anywhere the mud could not swallow.
For the first time in years, Jules smiled.
*This is the way,* he thought. *This is the door.*
And beyond that door lay the old world, waiting to be opened.
---
**END OF EXPOSITION**
# Episode 3: The Scout
**The Mud Lands — 2046**
The machine became a legend before it had a name.
At first, Jules flew alone. He mapped the drowned villages, the collapsed barns, the old stone manors that rose from the mud like the backs of sleeping beasts. He learned to read the surface—the dark patches that meant deep water, the pale crust that would hold a man but not a machine, the green veins of algae that marked the safest channels. He carried a long pole, a coil of rope, and a machete. He moved at dawn and dusk, when the light was low and the corp drones were blindest.
The first followers came from his own village.
It was an old man named Marcel who approached him first. Marcel had been a farmer, before the mud came. He'd lost two sons to the evacuation convoys—one to a Eurocorp labor camp, the other to a drowning that was never officially recorded. He'd stayed behind because he had nowhere else to go. Now he stood at the edge of the flooded field, leaning on a cane, watching Jules land.
"Where do you go?" Marcel asked.
Jules hesitated. "Everywhere the roads don't."
"Take me."
It was not a question. It was a demand, born of decades of endurance and a lifetime of watching the world take everything from him. Jules looked at the old man's hands—gnarled, calloused, still strong despite the years—and nodded.
They flew together the next dawn. Marcel sat behind the pilot seat, clutching the cargo straps, his eyes wide but unafraid. They crossed the brown water in silence, the only sound the roar of the rotors and the occasional shriek of a startled bird. When they landed on the roof of a half-sunken farmhouse, Marcel climbed down onto the tiles and stood looking at the horizon for a long moment.
"There's a village," he said. "Three kilometers north. Saint-Julien-de-la-Cré. The church has a bell made of bronze. It's been ringing for two hundred years. If it's still there, it's worth something."
Jules flew them there. The bell was still there, hanging in the tower like a dead man's promise. They cut it down with a hacksaw and hauled it back to the shed. Marcel sold it to a salvager from the main road for enough nuyen to buy fuel for a month.
After that, the old man came every week.
---
## The Others
Word spread through the villages along the edge of the Mud Lands. There was no formal announcement, no advertisement. But the people who had been left behind had their own ways of communicating—a whisper at a market stall, a note hidden under a stone, a man with a boat who owed a favor to a man with a secret.
By the end of the first year, Jules was not flying alone.
There was Anouk, a former veterinary technician from a village near the Belgian border. She'd lost her clinic to the mud and her license to a corp audit that labeled her "unproductive." She had a calm voice, a steady hand, and a knowledge of animal behavior that proved invaluable in the Mud Lands, where wild boars and feral dogs had become the new apex predators.
There was Tomasz, a Polish mechanic who had worked on the Eurocorp causeway crews before a crush injury left him with a permanent limp and a deep hatred of corporate safety regulations. He had a gift for engines, a love of improvised repairs, and a network of contacts in the black-market parts trade that stretched from the Baltic to the Garonne.
There was Imani, a young woman from the Gascogne who had grown up in the salt marshes and knew the old songs of the fishermen. She could navigate by the stars, predict the weather by the color of the sky, and walk across a mud flat that would swallow a grown man. Her father had been a boatbuilder; her mother had been a midwife. She had lost both to the last great storm, and she carried their memory in a leather pouch around her neck.
And there were others—a dozen, then two dozen, then more. They came from the edge villages, from the refugee camps, from the shadows of the causeways. They came with skills and fears, with tools and debts, with children and old parents. They came because the old world had no place for them, and the Mud Lands offered something the cities could not: space, silence, and a chance to build something new.
Jules became their scout.
---
## The Search
They spent months looking for the right place.
The Mud Lands were vast, but not all of it was habitable. Some areas were too deep, too unstable, too exposed. The corp drones flew regular patrols along the main causeways, scanning for movement. The bandits—the *Bouilleurs*, they called them, after the old brandy makers of the region—roamed the edges of the flood zones in small, fast boats and modified off-road vehicles, preying on anyone who tried to cross.
The Bouilleurs were the descendants of the original refugees, the ones who had refused to leave when the corps had pulled out. They had adapted to the Mud Lands in their own way, becoming semi-nomadic raiders who moved with the seasons, looting abandoned buildings and ambushing supply convoys. They were not organized, not unified, but they were dangerous—a loose network of families and gangs who knew the terrain as well as Jules did.
Jules and his followers avoided them. They moved at night, flew low, and never stayed in one place for more than a day. But they needed a permanent base, a place where they could grow food, store supplies, and raise children. A place that was safe from the drones, the bandits, and the storms.
They found it in the spring of 2047.
---
## The Abbey
It was an old Cistercian abbey, built in the twelfth century on a small hill above what had once been a river valley. The river had changed course centuries ago, but the hill remained, rising out of the mud like the crown of a buried king. The walls were thick, built of limestone and oak, and they had survived the floods because the monks had known how to build for the ages.
The lower floors were submerged, but the upper levels were intact. The refectory, the dormitory, the chapter house—all above the water, accessible by wooden walkways that the monks had built centuries ago. The chapel still had its roof, though the stained glass was cracked and the altar had been looted long ago.
There was a spring in the center of the cloister, clear and cold, still flowing despite the chaos. There was a walled garden, raised above the flood line, where wild herbs and vegetables had gone feral. There was a bell tower, now silent, but sturdy enough to serve as a watchtower.
And best of all, the abbey was invisible. The corps had no interest in a ruined monastery in the middle of a swamp. The drones didn't patrol this far from the causeways. The bandits avoided the area because the channels were too shallow for their boats and the mud was too deep for their vehicles. The only way to reach it was by air—or by foot, moving slowly and carefully across the crust.
Jules landed in the cloister one evening, the last light of the sun painting the stone walls gold. He climbed out of the pilot seat and stood in the silence, listening. The air smelled of wet stone and wild thyme. A heron stood in the flooded garden, watching him with one dark eye.
Marcel stood beside him, leaning on his cane. "This is it," the old man said.
Jules nodded.
It was perfect.
---
## The Connection
But they did not cut themselves off from the world entirely.
The old homes, the edge villages, the markets along the causeways—these were still their lifelines. They needed fuel for the generator, parts for the machine, medicine for the children, seeds for the garden. And they needed information: news of the corp wars, the weather patterns, the movements of the bandits.
So they maintained a connection. A few of them—Marcel, Anouk, Tomasz—would fly back to the edge villages every week, trading salvaged goods for supplies. They used the old farm shed as a staging point, a hidden depot where they stored fuel and tools. The Berlingo still sat there, rusting but functional, its registration plates still belonging to a dead man.
The rest stayed at the abbey, building a new life. They cleared the rooms, patched the roofs, planted the garden. They fished in the deeper channels, trapped birds in the reed beds, and bartered with the occasional friendly boatman who passed through on his way to the sea.
They were not a commune. Not a cult. Not a revolution. They were a village, the only kind of village that could survive in the Mud Lands: a floating, flying, half-hidden thing, held together by necessity and a shared belief that the old world had failed them, and the new world was theirs to make.
Jules flew back to the abbey one evening, the machine settling onto the cloister walkway with a sigh of cooling metal. He climbed out, pulled off his goggles, and looked around. The evening fire was burning in the old refectory. Voices carried through the stone halls, soft with exhaustion and something like hope.
Imani met him at the door. "You found it," she said. It was not a question.
He nodded. "We found it."
She looked at the machine, at the mud caked on its skids, at the patches on the propellers. "It's ugly," she said.
"It flies."
She smiled. "Then it's beautiful."
They walked inside together, into the warmth and the light. The door closed behind them, leaving the machine alone in the cloister, silhouetted against the stars.
---
**END OF EPISODE 3**
Germany was defeated in two world wars, but under hard own losses. Napoleon defeated them under heavy sacrifices and I am telling you they also have had lost 70/71 to then undermine Prussia declaring it their own - to have won those wars.
They are made for dying on the battlefield, but keep securing their leaders continuity.
So, they wonder what their ex-Protege does.
The CIA is notoriously known for notoriously trying to fool the American Government. No one else has a in any respect comparable track record of bluntly lying in Senate and Congress.
No one.
They are also pretty overconfident on U.S. soil and that everywhere. From Woodland Dakota, to L.A. "Ghettos" and deep into the Louisiana Swamps they no matter their own losses push their agenda forward.
The Confederate States covered as the United States.
Russia gives a shit. Just as Polizei facing a quite different reality out of their office being into my face after having knocked on my door a CIA Crew will act much different being off U.S. soil and standing in Russia surrounded by FSB, Russian Military and Diplomats.
The Red Phone still exists. The Security Council is still operational. All that would be legal, if it was reality.
So, what you think? Just like I was tried to be Black Mailed by a Crew of Nazi Junkies with Badges, did Trump stare into a Delta Crew facing the same attitude by that infamous Secret Service Agency?
#cyberpunkcoltoure
Since my main encounter with BKA trying to Black Mail me with a Hells Angels to giving into having a Poverty Oath and therefore signed over my Copy Rights entirely with no return... I understand that SS men building any Law Enforcement Agency has predictable results.
These guys help to maintain the spirit of the most dangerous criminal organization in Europe.
A major part of their trash talk about the police very own male prostitute junkies is the Filthy Few patch. Officially, towards the journalist it is given to those hanging onto the bar to the last moment which does support the unprotected anal sex theory I have, but then... they murderer so many in Denmark and Scandinavia they now have a Frontline patch, too.
Doctor Google AI:
The confidence about the murder thing is striking. The same BKA Crew responsible for that very KZ they run to record my angel voice to have Hells Angels organized concert tours in order to distribute drugs world wide also harbours and recruited the Bloody Sunday shooters. These are long term grown structures dating back to the very first days when direct ex-SS men build Germany. Historically, they are of the Hessians or Totenkopf SS heritage, just dressing as respectable Law Enforcement of a Parliamentarian Republic.
Since recently they are out of the drug business and their Turff is run by Mexicans now.
We also know about tight connections to Apartheid Secret Service and deep involvement into the Blood Diamond Trade.
What if that MurderInc Patch is mainly earned for attacks against the most vulnerable and defenseless, which is much more fitting their character profile than any Western Urban Assassin operation? They are those hitting African and Latin American Villages.
You want that covered, Homeland? Hit up The Shotcaller in the Feds system. He'll find out for a fine price. Nothing scarier to a U.S. Rocker then a Prison Gang.
#provos #undergroundwars
Remember when I stated we Spartans would not stand above, but next to humans, so we can see who dropped out and off them?
Who's above? The Angels.
Any chance we keep getting these shit shows, because being above humans means...
Fucking Hell.
#cyberpunkcoltoure
 |
| kneeling will be hard for me |
So, he is into the German Street Game. Small timer Hustler level. They push a brick powder, they sweat and if it goes down clean, they fly Stratosphere high.
None of them is long term Industry partner material.
What ever happened, the other Crew landed in Hospital. No gunfight, just a brawl. So than it happens that one of those has "Arabic Clan" affiliations. Ignorance is Bliss based, as soon as walking again that guy calls up the guy from the Vid to order him into their "restaurant."
That's no Jersey Italian place, no Boston Southy Bar, L.A. BBQ Joint. It is a temporary shit whole with some Shisha pipes awaiting to be closed by hygiene violations.
So, what you do?