Incorporated with DeepSeek
A new Chapter in also The Charters' Industry
or
Hells' not Hell's
The chrome-plated hell of Neo-Seattle didn't sleep, but it did stagger. In the concrete canyon of Sector 7, choked by perpetual rain and the ozone tang of mag-lev trains, *The Iron Lotus* pulsed like a diseased heart. Downstairs, the roar was pure, unadulterated rage: thrash-metal amplified to bone-rattling levels, a mosh pit churning under strobing UV, bodies slick with synth-sweat and cheap synthol. Upstairs, through a haze of incense and the sharp scent of liniment, *The Dojo Above the Storm* held its own rhythm – the *thwack* of fists on heavy bags, the rhythmic *shuff-shuff* of feet on worn mats, the guttural kiai of focused exertion.
For five years, they were kings. Not of the glittering corporate spires, but of *their* concrete jungle. Razor, the grizzled ork who ran the gym and owned the club, was a retired shadowrunner with more scars than teeth and a rep that made gangers cross the street. His fighters, the "Lotus Blades," were local legends – augmented street samurai, adept martial artists, and razor-tongued rockerboys who could drop a man with a chord progression or a spinning kick. They kept the peace. Not the *legal* peace, but *their* peace. Extortion? Handled. Turf disputes? Settled in the ring downstairs. Cops? Mostly Captain Malloy’s crew, corrupt as a rusted datajack, but predictable. You paid your dues (in nuyen or favors), they looked the other way. The Lotus was untouchable.
Then the Storm hit. Not the literal rain, but the corporate purge. A new Mayor, backed by Ares Macrotechnology, decided Sector 7 needed "cleansing." Internal Affairs came down like a hammer. Malloy and his lieutenants vanished – some found floating in the Sound, others just... gone. The replacements weren't corrupt beat cops. They were *Untouchables*.
Not the Eliot Ness kind. These were Ares Firewatch Lite: tactical armor gleaming under the perpetual neon drizzle, mirrored helmets hiding expressionless faces, carrying sleek, military-grade assault rifles instead of stun batons. They moved in squads, synchronized, efficient, utterly devoid of street chatter or local knowledge. They didn't *take* bribes. They didn't *negotiate*. They enforced ordinances with terrifying precision – noise violations, licensing discrepancies, zoning laws nobody knew existed. Businesses that relied on the old "understanding" crumbled overnight.
The Lotus felt the chill first. An Untouchable squad materialized at the club entrance one Tuesday night, silent as ghosts. Their leader, designated "Unit Commander Sigma" by the stenciled text on his chest plate, didn't raise his voice. It cut through the dying chords of *Neural Overdrive* like a vibroblade.
"Decibel levels exceed permitted maximum by 42%. Liquor license exhibits administrative irregularities. Premises will be vacated immediately. Compliance is mandatory."
Razor stepped forward, his tusked jaw set. "Sigma, right? Look, we've been here years. Captain Malloy—"
"Malloy is irrelevant. Compliance is mandatory. You have ninety seconds." Sigma's mirrored visor reflected Razor's snarling face, distorted and monstrous.
The Blades tensed. Kato, Razor's protege and lead guitarist, felt the familiar surge of adrenaline, the pre-fight buzz that usually meant breaking heads. He flexed his cybernetic hand, servos whining softly. But looking at Sigma's squad – their perfect stance, the way their rifles tracked potential threats without seeming to move – a cold dread, alien and unwelcome, washed over him. This wasn't a street brawl. This was a military operation.
They complied. Grudgingly, furiously, but they cleared the club. The Untouchables swept through with sensor wands, issuing citations with chilling efficiency. No threats, no bravado. Just cold, implacable process.
The next week, it was the gym. "Unlicensed cybernetic augmentation detected on premises. Uncertified combat training facility. Cease operations immediately pending audit."
Razor argued, invoked old permits, offered the usual "consideration." Sigma didn't even acknowledge the implied bribe. "Regulations are explicit. Non-compliance will result in asset seizure and detainment."
They were being strangled. Slowly, methodically, with rules instead of bullets. Their usual tools – reputation, muscle, street smarts, even nuyen – were useless. You couldn't intimidate a machine. You couldn't bribe an algorithm. You couldn't outfight a doctrine.
The breaking point came when a young Blade, "Jinx," a hot-headed adept with a talent for parkour, tried to "reason" with a lone Untouchable patrol harassing one of their regular noodle vendors. Jinx vaulted over a food stall, landing lightly, hands raised in a placating gesture he'd used a hundred times with Malloy's boys. "Hey chrome-dome, ease up! Old man Chen's legit—"
The Untouchable didn't hesitate. A taser-prong shot out, embedding itself in Jinx's shoulder. Fifty thousand volts slammed him to the wet pavement, muscles locked in agony. Before Razor or Kato could react, two more Untouchables materialized from side alleys. Not running. *Appearing*. Jinx was zip-tied, hauled into an unmarked armored van, and gone before his spasms stopped.
No warning. No discussion. Just enforcement.
That night, The Iron Lotus was silent. The mats upstairs were empty. The Blades gathered in the gloom, the only light the garish neon sign bleeding through the boarded-up windows. The air crackled with helpless rage.
"They ain't cops," Razor growled, his voice thick with a fury Kato had never heard. "They're corporate janitors. Sweeping us away 'cause we're messy. 'Cause we *live* here."
Kato stared at his chrome hand, clenching and unclenching it. The familiar whine was now a grim reminder of their vulnerability. "We're outgunned, Razor. Not just in firepower. In... everything. They play a different game. On a different grid."
A young decker, Sparks, hunched over a jury-rigged cyberdeck, her face illuminated by scrolling glyphs. "They're networked. Tight. Military-grade encryption, constant comms. They don't *have* weaknesses like people. Just protocols."
"So what?" snarled "Brick," a massive troll with hydraulic fists. "We roll over? Let them turn the Lotus into another damn Stuffer Shack?"
"No," Razor said, the word dropping like a stone. "We adapt. Or we die." He looked around the room, meeting each Blade's eyes. "We were kings of the shadows. But the storm blew the shadows away. Now we're standing naked in the lightning." He slammed a fist on the scarred table. "We learn *their* game. Sparks, you find a crack in that ice wall of theirs. Kato, you scout. Find out where they hole up, where Jinx is. Brick, you prep the heavy hardware – the stuff we swore we'd never need inside the Sector." A grim, feral smile spread across his tusked face, devoid of humor. "They think rules make 'em untouchable? Fine. We stop playing by *anyone's* rules. Welcome to the real shadows, Blades. Where the only law is survival, and the storm eats kings for breakfast."
The silence that followed wasn't defeat. It was the terrifying, electric hum of a circuit closing, of a desperate plan forming in the dark. The comfortable chaos of their kingdom was gone, replaced by the sterile, lethal chaos of corporate warfare. The Lotus Blades were no longer kings protecting their turf. They were survivors, outgunned and exposed, staring into the blinding, impersonal storm, and realizing the only way through was to become something colder, sharper, and far more dangerous than they'd ever been. The first part of their reign was over. The desperate fight for existence had just begun. The storm didn't care who was king. It only cared who was left standing.
---
The rain in Frankfurt wasn't like Seattle's acidic drizzle. It was a cold, relentless *schmuddelwetter* – grey sleet mixed with exhaust fumes and the lingering scent of burnt magic from the Rhine Ruhr Megaplex sprawl. Kreuzberg, once a vibrant anarchist haven, now bore the fresh scars of the same corporate purge that had shattered the Iron Lotus.
Here, they were **Die Nachtfalken** – The Night Falcons. Their heart wasn't a gym, but a warren of interconnected clubs, girl bars, and discreet brothels nestled near the skeletal remains of the old U-Bahn tunnels. Their leader was Silber, a wiry elf with eyes like chips of glacier ice and a network of informants as dense as the Frankfurt Hauptbahnhof dataflow. Like Razor, they were kings of their Kreuzberg shadows, navigating the intricate dance with corrupt KE officers and local syndicates.
Then the Storm hit Frankfurt. Harder. Faster. Ares Firewatch didn't send Lite versions; they sent **Hammer Teams**. Armored personnel carriers crushed barricades. Magical suppression fields flickered over entire blocks. KE officers who hadn't fled were publicly "processed" in sterile corporate feeds, their corruption paraded as justification for the iron fist.
The Nachtfalken fought. They knew the tunnels, the back alleys, the hidden passages. They used molotovs, snipers, awakened muscle. But against coordinated Firewatch squads backed by drone swarms and corporate mages? It was like throwing pebbles at a Panzer. Their safehouses were breached. Their runners were cornered, neutralized with terrifying efficiency, or vanished into Ares "re-education" facilities. The brutal calculus became undeniable: resistance meant annihilation.
Silber saw the writing on the grimy, blood-smeared wall. While Razor chose defiance in the storm's eye, Silber chose… adaptation. Survival through assimilation. And the offer came, not through official channels, but through whispers in the sterile corridors of the newly erected Ares Frankfurt HQ. It came from a figure known only as **Procurator Voss**.
The terms weren't generous; they were predatory. But they were *predictable*.
* **The Girl Venues:** "**Elysium**" wasn't just rebranded; it was rebuilt. Silber's intimate, chaotic clubs became sleek, soundproofed VIP lounges. The familiar faces serving drinks were replaced by tailored androids and discreet, augmented hostesses. Here, Ares middle managers met shadowrunners for deniable ops. Saeder-Krupp procurement officers negotiated illicit deals with smuggler captains. The music was low, ambient synth. The security was invisible but omnipresent – Firewatch operatives in sharp suits scanning for threats. The Nachtfalken provided the venue, the discretion, the illusion of underworld access the corporates craved. Silber took a hefty cut, laundering it through shell companies Voss provided. His old patrons, the street-level supporters? They were relegated to the overflow bars, paying premium prices for watered-down synthol, gazing longingly at the velvet ropes.
* **The Brothels & The New Drug:** "**Die Blüte**" (The Bloom) underwent the starkest transformation. Voss provided the formula: **"Sensoria."** Not a combat stim, not a hallucinogen, but a hyper-targeted euphoric. It amplified tactile sensation, emotional connection, and… performance. Tailored to individual neurochem, it was the ultimate luxury drug for the jaded elite. Die Blüte became its exclusive Frankfurt distributor. The old brothel structure remained, but partitioned. Upstairs: soundproofed suites where Sensoria-enhanced companions provided experiences bordering on the transcendent to corporate clients and high-end runners. Downstairs, in the warren of side rooms and the damp alley entrance nicknamed **"Endstation"** (Terminus): the junkies. Silber's people still sold cheap novacoke, deepweed, and BTL chips to the desperate remnants of Kreuzberg. It was a deliberate, brutal segregation. Sensoria funded the empire; Endstation dealt with the liabilities, the lost causes Silber couldn't or wouldn't save. Loyalty was maintained by letting the old supporters *believe* they still had access, even if it was only to the gutter. The message was clear: step up, be useful, maybe you earn a glimpse of Elysium or a discount on Sensoria. Fall too far? Endstation awaits.
* **The New Lords:** Ares, through Procurator Voss, was undeniably more powerful, more brutal, and infinitely better equipped than the old corrupt KE captains. Voss demanded absolute control over territory, enforced by his own network of silent enforcers who made the old syndicate muscle look like amateurs. Disappearances were common. Mistakes weren't tolerated. But crucially, Voss was *predictable*. His demands were clear: profit, order, deniability. He adhered to the cold logic of the spreadsheet and the corporate directive. There were no shifting loyalties, no drunken promises, no messy personal vendettas (unless they impacted the bottom line). For Silber, navigating this sterile, ruthless hierarchy was paradoxically *simpler* than the chaotic corruption of old. The rules were written in blood, yes, but they *were* written.
Silber stood on the balcony overlooking the newly renovated Elysium entrance, watching a sleek, armored limo disgorge a Saeder-Krupp exec and two heavily augmented bodyguards. Below, in the rain-slicked street near Endstation, a scrawny ork kid he recognized from the old days was arguing with a bouncer over the price of a BTL chip. The contrast was jarring, a physical manifestation of the chasm he'd created.
One of his lieutenants, Mara, a former street sam with faded circuit tattoos, joined him. "Profit margins are up 35% this quarter, Silber. Voss is pleased." Her voice was flat.
Silber didn't look away from the street. "And Jinx? The kid Kaito used to run with from Seattle? Any word?"
Mara hesitated. "Picked up in a Firewatch sweep near Endstation last week. Probably processed. Endstation fodder now."
Silber closed his glacier-chip eyes for a second. The predictable brutality had a cost. The loyalty he traded on felt thinner, colder. They weren't kings anymore. They were facilitators. Lubricant for the vast, grinding machine of the new corporate order.
"Ensure the Sensoria shipment for the S-K exec is flawless, Mara," Silber said, his voice devoid of inflection. "And double the patrols near Endstation. Keep the trash from spilling onto the main street. We have an image to maintain for our new lords."
He turned his back on the rain, on the kid arguing in the gutter, and stepped into the warm, perfumed, and utterly controlled chaos of Elysium. Survival in Frankfurt meant embracing the gilded cage. The war wasn't fought with guns here; it was fought with ledgers, luxury, and the cold, predictable calculus of profit. The Storm hadn't passed; they had simply learned to build shelters within its eye, paid for by the very thing eroding their soul. The positions hadn't just faded; they had been sold, piece by piece, for a predictable, brutal survival.
----
The transition was complete. Silber’s Nachtfalken weren’t just surviving in Frankfurt’s new order; they were *curating* it. The chrome fist of Ares had shattered the old shadows, but in its place grew a labyrinth of gilded cages and velvet ropes. Silber understood: survival meant becoming indispensable, not through brute force, but through impeccable, sterile service. They shed the overt muscle, the noisy deckers, the conspicuous riggers. Instead, they cultivated **Concierges**.
**Elysium** became the model. Silber’s people weren't bouncers; they were **Access Arbiters**. Impeccably dressed in tailored synth-silk, earpieces whispering encrypted streams, they possessed an encyclopedic knowledge of corporate hierarchies, personal vices, and unspoken protocols. They could source a pre-Crash vintage Bordeaux, arrange a discrete meeting with a Tir Tairngire shadow broker, or have a troublesome paparazzo drone vanish – all with a smile that never reached their cold, calculating eyes. They were the human (and meta-human) interface between the sterile power of the corps and the carefully managed chaos the elite craved.
The real power, however, lay in catering to the *next* generation. The bored, thrill-seeking scions of Ares execs, Saeder-Krupp heirs, and Renraku princelings. They didn’t want the sanitized corporate galas; they craved the *idea* of the edge, the *myth* of the underground, without any of the actual risk of Endstation. Silber provided **"The Velvet Dive."**
Held in discreet, rotating locations – a converted bank vault shielded by white noise generators, a sealed-off wing of the Hauptbahnhof’s abandoned levels, even a refurbished sewage treatment plant artfully disguised as a "retro-industrial lounge" – these parties were masterpieces of controlled rebellion.
* **The Illusion of Edge:** The music was brutal, cutting-edge underground Berlin neurogrind or neo-anarchist punk, sourced from black-Matrix channels and played on million-nuyen sound systems. The visuals were immersive AR, projecting hyper-realistic scenes of Kowloon riots or Amazonian jungle warfare onto the walls. The décor was *deliberately* distressed chrome and flickering neon, mimicking the Kreuzberg alleys they were safely insulated from.
* **The Reality of Safety:** Every guest was bio-scanned and vetted by Voss's people before Silber's Arbiters even saw them. Every drink was prepared by monitored androids, screened for toxins. The "street food" was gourmet molecular cuisine served on disposable plates designed to look like greasy cardboard. Hidden Firewatch teams in chameleon suits patrolled the perimeter, and the entire venue was encased in a Faraday cage and magical dampening field. No actual weapons, no real BTLs, no contact with the *actual* underground.
* **The Product:** Exclusivity. The kids paid astronomical sums for the illusion. They could brag about attending "that insane, totally illegal rave under the Hauptbahnhof," conveniently omitting the biometric scanners and the Ares kill-team on standby. Silber sold them **manufactured street cred**, packaged as mp3s of unreleased music, limited-edition simsense recordings of the party (heavily edited), and bespoke "underground" fashion produced in corporate clean-rooms. They touched the *idea* of the shadow, never the grime.
This shift attracted a different kind of shadow. Not the gangers or the desperate runners, but entities that had always existed, deeper and colder.
* **The Chrysalis Group:** Contact came via a single-use, quantum-encrypted data chip delivered by a drone shaped like a chrome dragonfly. It contained only an access code and coordinates for a private, ephemeral Matrix chat room hosted on a server Silber couldn't trace. Inside the room, represented only by shifting, abstract icons of light (a prism, a fractal bloom, a coiled serpent), entities spoke. Their language was precise, devoid of slang or emotion, referencing markets and assets Silber barely understood. They weren't interested in parties. They wanted **secure transit** for biological packages (unregistered, untraceable meta-humans in stasis?), **discreet energy shielding** for clandestine meetings in the Black Forest, and **absolute data hygiene** for transactions involving technologies that made Silber's decker, Sparks (now retrained as a "Digital Sommelier"), physically ill to contemplate. Payment was in untraceable crypto or favors owed by corporations Silber hadn't known were involved. They weren't clients; they were forces of nature, operating on a level where Silber was merely a useful, temporary cog. Procurator Voss, Silber noted grimly, became *remarkably* accommodating whenever the Chrysalis Group made a request.
* **The Suited:** They appeared rarely, always at the periphery of Velvet Dives or during high-stakes Elysium negotiations. Meta-humans, possibly, but encased in sleek, anonymous combat suits of matte-black alloys and reactive polymers that absorbed light. No insignia, no visible weapons, but radiating an aura of lethality that made even Brick instinctively step back. They didn't speak. They observed. Sometimes, they delivered a sealed case to an Arbiter or escorted a Chrysalis Group "representative" – a pale, androgynous figure in a simple grey bodysuit who moved with uncanny stillness. They were ghosts with weight, reminders that the food chain extended far above Ares, far above the gilded cage Silber had built.
Silber stood in the control room overlooking the latest Velvet Dive – a "post-apocalyptic bunker" theme in the reinforced sub-basement of a luxury hotel. Screens showed laughing, beautifully dressed teenagers dancing under projected images of nuclear fire, sipping synth-champagne. Another screen showed the silent Suited, a statue in the darkest corner. A third displayed the real-time feed from Endstation, three blocks away: a KE patrol drone dispersing a group of hungry-looking trolls with sonic bursts.
Mara entered, holding a delicate data-slate. "The Chrysalis Group request confirmation for the Zurich transfer window. They’ve deposited the fee. Voss… suggests we accommodate them promptly."
Silber didn't turn. "And the Saeder-Krupp heir? The one who wanted to 'meet real shadowrunners'?"
Mara allowed a ghost of a smile. "Handled. Two of our former street-sams, scrubbed, chromed to look edgier, briefed to talk only about pre-approved 'missions.' They met him in a staged 'safehouse' above Endstation. He loved it. Paid triple for the 'authentic experience.' His bodyguard detail was, of course, Firewatch in street clothes."
Silber nodded. They were middlemen again. Powerful, wealthy middlemen, yes. But middlemen nonetheless. The fear of the street samurai’s bullet was gone, replaced by the colder, deeper fear of failing the Chrysalis Group, of disappointing Voss, of the Suited deciding they were no longer useful. The unpredictability of old corruption was replaced by the terrifying predictability of absolute, impersonal power. They had no need to watch their backs for knives in the dark; they existed *within* the belly of the beast now, polishing its teeth and hoping it didn't decide to digest them.
He picked up a glass of chilled vodka, untouched. The music from below vibrated through the floor, a manufactured storm. "Ensure the Chrysalis transfer is flawless, Mara," he said, his voice as smooth and cold as the glass in his hand. "And send a case of the 'vintage' synth-champagne to the Saeder-Krupp boy. Compliments of the house. Let him remember his *adventure*." He finally took a sip. The illusion was the product. The safety was the premium. And the real shadows, the ones that mattered now, were colder and deeper than Kreuzberg's alleys had ever been. They weren't kings. They were the impeccably dressed janitors of the new world order, sweeping its dirt under gilded rugs.
---
The title felt hollow now, this new "aristocracy." Silber didn’t rule; he facilitated. He curated danger for bored heirs and laundered nightmares for entities like the Chrysalis Group. His power was a gilded leash, its pull tightening with every Velvet Dive and discreet transfer. The sterile predictability of Frankfurt, of Voss’s cold calculus, had become its own prison. He needed air. Real air. Even if it was poisoned.
The Rhön Dead Zone wasn't Frankfurt. It was a scar on the map, a region where the Crash had bitten deep, leaving mutated flora, unstable mana currents, and settlements clinging to life like lichen on irradiated rock. Flying merchants in rickety, radiation-shielded dirigibles braved the toxic skies, trading rare bioluminescent fungi, mutated insect honey, and hand-forged scrap-tech for essentials from the outside world. Silber’s armored Phoenix Global sedan, sleek and black as a hearse, looked obscenely out of place crunching over the cracked asphalt leading to the ramshackle settlement of *Dusthaven*.
He’d heard whispers. Whispers not on the corporate feeds, not in Chrysalis Group’s sterile chatrooms, but in the coded slang of runners who vanished into the Zone and sometimes, miraculously, came back. Whispers of a pilot, a rigger known only as **"Rigger,"** who navigated the Dead Zone’s lethal skies and hidden valleys with the uncanny grace of a desert hawk. Someone off-grid, untraceable, *unpredictable*. Someone Silber’s usual network of polished Arbiters and corporate fixers wouldn't, couldn't, touch. He needed an outsider for a job Voss couldn't know about. A job that required… discretion beyond deniability.
Stepping out of the sedan’s filtered air into Dusthaven was like stepping into another century, or perhaps another planet. The air tasted metallic, thick with ozone and dust. Ramshackle buildings, patched with scrap metal and salvaged solar panels, leaned precariously. The people moved with a wary economy, eyes sharp and assessing. Silber, in his immaculate charcoal-grey synth-wool overcoat and polished boots, was an anomaly. A target. He kept his glacier-chip eyes forward, projecting an aura of calm purpose, but his hand rested lightly near the concealed hold-out pistol beneath his coat.
He found the garage – more a collapsing barn reinforced with corrugated iron – because of the noise. Not engines, but the rhythmic *clack-clack-clack* of polyurethane on warped concrete. Inside, under the harsh glare of flickering work lights, a group of kids were skating. Not decked-out urban tricksters, but farm boys and girls on battered, functional boards. They wove around rusting engine blocks, ollied over oil stains, their movements pragmatic, born of boredom and limited space, not corporate-sponsored extreme sports. Their clothes were patched, faces smudged with grease, but there was a startling vitality to them, an absence of the jaded cynicism that coated Frankfurt.
No hard drugs here, Silber noted clinically. Just the adrenaline of the ride and the sharp focus needed to avoid broken concrete and jagged metal. The entry level. The periphery. Exactly where someone truly hidden might leave a footprint too insignificant for corporate scans, too mundane for ganger notice.
Silber stepped into the cavernous space, the sudden silence as the skaters stopped and stared was almost physical. A dozen pairs of eyes, wary and curious, fixed on the ghost from another world. He didn’t offer a corporate gesture, a coded sign. He simply stood, hands visible, and spoke, his voice cutting through the dusty quiet with its usual precise Frankfurt cadence, yet stripped of its usual layers of implication.
"Hello. I come in peace." The phrase felt absurd, archaic, yet utterly necessary here. "I am looking for the Rebellion."
A beat. Then, a snort from a lanky troll boy leaning against a stripped-down hoverbike frame. "Rebellion? Lady, the only rebellion here is against gravity, and we lose that fight plenty." A few nervous chuckles.
Silber didn’t smile. He held the gaze of a wiry human girl, maybe sixteen, who hadn’t looked away since he entered. Her eyes held a sharp intelligence that belied her grease-streaked face. "Not *a* rebellion," he clarified, his voice low. "The Rebellion. A place. Or perhaps, a person who knows places."
The girl tilted her head, studying him like a complex piece of machinery. She glanced at the others, a silent communication passing between them. Finally, she jerked her chin towards the gaping garage door, out into the ochre haze of the late afternoon. "Try *Bleakwater*. Down the old Route 7. Follow the buzzards. Ask for the woman who talks to the sky." She paused, then added with a hint of challenge, "Tell her Dust sent you. And lady? Drive careful. The road bites back."
Bleakwater. Silber committed the name, the directions, the cryptic message to memory. "Thank you," he said, the formality feeling alien. He turned to leave, the skaters already resuming their clatter, the moment of intrusion already fading into the rhythm of their harsh, simple world. As he slid back into the filtered silence of the sedan, the smell of dust and ozone clinging to his coat, he felt a strange lightness. He was Silber, Concierge to the Damned, Aristocrat of the Gilded Cage… and here, he was just an outsider asking directions. It was terrifying. It was… vacation.
The drive to Bleakwater was a descent. Route 7 was less a road, more a suggestion etched into the blasted landscape by countless tires. The sedan’s suspension groaned. Strange, twisted trees clawed at the sky. A distant, low hum vibrated through the chassis – not machinery, but the land itself. He saw the buzzards, circling high over a cluster of low, bunker-like structures built into the side of a crumbling hill. Bleakwater.
He parked outside what looked like a communal well, its water a suspiciously iridescent green. Eyes watched from shadowed doorways. The air thrummed. Following instinct honed in far more treacherous social jungles, he walked towards the largest structure, a hangar door partially open. Inside, the hum was louder, resolving into the complex symphony of engines, whirring tools, and the faint, melodic chatter of… birds?
Stepping inside was like entering a mechanical aviary. The space was dominated by a vehicle unlike any corporate sleekness. It was a patchwork masterpiece – a fusion of a heavy-duty cargo lifter chassis, stripped-down Ares assault VTOL engines, and scavenged plating that looked like it came from a dozen different wrecks. Wires snaked like exposed veins; hydraulic lines pulsed. Perched on struts, wings, and workbenches were dozens of small, brightly-feathered birds – real birds, miraculously thriving in the toxic air. They chirped and flitted, seemingly undisturbed by the mechanical chaos.
And there, suspended in a custom rigger cocoon beneath the belly of the beast, was **Rigger**. Not a grizzled veteran, but a woman perhaps Silber’s age, her lean frame clad in practical, oil-stained fatigues. Her hair was shaved close on one side, long and braided on the other, streaked with vibrant blues and greens. Cybereyes glowed a warm amber as they focused on him, detached from the complex schematics projected onto her AR display. One hand manipulated virtual controls; the other absently scratched the head of a large, iridescent raven perched on her shoulder.
"Lost, suit?" Her voice was a dry rasp, like stones grinding together, yet held an unexpected warmth. The raven tilted its head, fixing Silber with a beady, intelligent eye.
Silber stopped, keeping a respectful distance from the humming, bird-adorned monstrosity. He remembered the girl’s words. "Dust sent me. Said to ask for the woman who talks to the sky." He gestured vaguely upwards, towards the hangar roof and the toxic expanse beyond.
Rigger’s lips quirked. She disengaged from the cocoon, landing lightly on the concrete floor. The raven hopped to a nearby workbench. "Dust, huh? Good kid. Sharp." She wiped grease from her hands onto her pants, her cybereyes appraising him with unnerving directness. "So. Concierge. What brings Frankfurt’s best-dressed janitor to the ass-end of the world? Looking to book a scenic toxic sunset tour? Maybe a picnic in a rad-bloom field?"
Silber met her gaze, the glacier-chip cold meeting the warm amber glow. Here, amidst the grease, the birdsong, and the thrumming power of the salvaged VTOL, the polished lies of Elysium felt like ash in his mouth. He needed this freak who outperformed toxins and talked to birds. He needed her *distance*.
"No tour," Silber said, his voice stripped bare of its usual concierge polish, revealing the hard edge beneath. "I need a package delivered. Off the grid. Beyond the sight of Firewatch, beyond the reach of… entities who prefer chatrooms. To a place that doesn't exist on any map you or I have ever seen. And I need it done yesterday."
Rigger leaned back against a workbench strewn with engine parts, crossing her arms. The raven let out a soft, amused *kraa*. She smiled, a genuine, dangerous thing that crinkled the corners of her amber eyes. "Now *that*, suit, sounds like a proper vacation. Let's talk price. And routes. The sky has ears, even out here. But mine," she tapped her temple, the cybereye whirring softly, "are better."
In the humming, bird-filled hangar, on the edge of the dead world, Silber felt the gilded cage of his Frankfurt aristocracy dissolve. He wasn't negotiating with a subordinate or placating a superior. He was dealing with a force of nature, a queen of this mechanical, toxic wilderness. And for the first time in years, the unpredictability didn't feel like a threat. It felt like breathing. He was back in the real shadows, and the price of entry was everything he’d become. He paid it without hesitation.
