What I do with a

 Canon DSLR (and Darktable), before getting into the Cyberdeck Cam..

 

The coming lens is very different. The sensor Sony 12MP, different than Canon

and I think less pixels. 

#cyberpunkcoltoure

 

#misconceptions

You think Europe is rich.

IKEA has incredible success by using Designers and H&M did the same. 

But it is lousy quality.

So, how many can really afford that here? 

The even worse misconception of Nations is that Michel Angelo and his Artists created fountains in public places for any other reason than having had no factory being that the very only way to create for THE PEOPLE, YOU MOTHERFUCKING NAZI CUNTS!!!!

#provos #IRAmovement

#cyberpunkcoltoure

Quality over Quantity. Train body and mind.

 

#TIE 

... in a close potential future ...

Incorporated with DeepSeek

The Motel Mont Blanc

 The rain came down in optical-fiber threads, catching the headlights of the lone GMC Universe as it peeled off the A13 and into a darkness that no corporate cartographer had bothered to name. The village was a smear of wet stone and dead halogen, the kind of place that existed only because the Alps refused to be moved. Three streetlamps, two of them flickering, one broadcasting a faded AR tag for a gas station that hadn’t sold gas since the Crash. The navigation sprite in my retinal display flatlined into a shrugging skull. *No SIN, no service,* it blinked. Perfect.

I killed the engine behind what looked like a collapsed barn. The shed was half-swallowed by black ivy, its corrugated door blistered with rust. A single drone buzzed overhead, sporting a Lone Star transponder but blind as a cave fish out here. I pulled my jacket tighter—armored synthsilk lined with thermal weave—and thumbed the subdermal chip behind my knuckle. The shed door moaned open, revealing a downward ramp lit by a ribbon of liquid neon. The music hit me first: a deep, arpeggiated bassline riding a snare that crackled like static electricity. Synthwave, thick as incense, piped through a diy sound system that someone with more talent than cred had cobbled from repurposed cyberdeck amps and subwoofers ripped from a crashed T-bird. It swallowed the rain, the road, the whole fragging Alps, and replaced them with a pulse.

Downstairs, the place was a cathedral of clean polycarbonate. 3D-printed furniture glowed at the edges—tables with honeycomb underlighting, barstools extruded from recycled bioplastic in a continuous looping script, their surfaces alive with slow-moving geometric patterns. LED strips traced the contours of the room like the veins of a neon god. No smoke. No spilled soykaf. No shrines to the cheap chemical gods of the street. This was not a drug den. This was a temple for the tongue.

The twenty-hour crowd was already here. A rigger with chrome-plated eyes nursed a glass of something amber and fragrant, her fingertips dancing over a haptic feed from a convoy idling three klicks away. Two elves in matching Ares-branded dusters spooned black caviar onto wafers of printed rye, the caviar real, harvested from awakened sturgeon that the Saeder-Krupp Food Security Act had made more illegal than a military-grade monofilament whip. At the long table, a decker with a datajack glowing violet scrolled through a virtual menu projected above his plate, the dishes rotating in impossible detail—saffron-laced panna cotta, truffle shavings from a variant of *Tuber melanosporum* genetically tweaked to bloom year-round, a cheese cultured from the milk of a chimera goat that existed only in a Zürich orbital lab. All of it forbidden. All of it worth more per gram than the yen in my pocket.

The woman I was meeting sat in a booth fashioned from a single curved piece of 3D-printed mycelium composite, its surface pulsing with a soft bioluminescence. She was mid-thirties, severe, her blonde hair shaved on one side to expose a line of subdermal LED implants that shifted color as she breathed. Her name was Margot, and she ran a private kitchen on the eighty-second floor of the Berlin-2 arcology, where a dinner for six could cost you a year’s salary—or a well-placed secret. She didn’t stand. She nodded at the case I carried.

“Alpine glow mushrooms,” I said, placing the carbon-fiber container on the table. Its internal stasis field emitted a subsonic hum that tickled my molars. “Spore prints only, as requested. They glow for sixteen hours after harvesting. A little light show for your drek-eating CEOs.”

Margot’s LED implants rippled turquoise. “You’re sure these aren’t Awakened? I can’t serve anything with a mana signature. The corp auditors have mages on retainer now. They taste the astral on your breath.”

“Completely mundane. Biofluorescence courtesy of a jellyfish gene splice from before the genetics accords. The glow is just a party trick. The flavor, though…” I clicked the case open a centimeter, just enough to let the aroma escape. It smelled like wet earth and something else, something that made the back of your brain sit up and pay attention.

The decker at the far table actually put down his fork.

Margot smiled, a thin, reptilian thing. “Price?”

I slid a data chip across the table. The numbers flickered into her personal AR space, visible only to her corneal implants. She didn’t blink. “Fine. But I need another item. A baker in Vienna has been holding out on me—real vanilla, pre-Crash stock, still sealed in an orbital vault. I need a courier who doesn’t exist. Your fixer says you have a talent for being unmemorable.”

Before I could answer, the room’s ambient lighting shifted to a deep crimson. The synthwave track didn’t stop, but the tempo accelerated, a percussive heartbeat over the bass. Everyone tensed. The bartender, a massive ork with a chrome arm that ended in a built-in shaker, tapped his temple and sent a room-wide AR alert: *Perimeter breach. Lone vehicle, no transponder. Coming slow.*

Not a raid. Raids were fast and loud. This was something else.

The shed door above ground opened again—I could hear it through the sound system’s momentary drop. Footsteps, heavy, deliberate. The neon staircase outlined a silhouette descending: tall, broad, wrapped in a coat that shimmered with active camouflage. A man stepped into the light. His face was a ruin of old burn scars, his left eye a gleaming cyberoptic that clicked as it focused on Margot. He carried no visible weapon. He didn’t need one.

“Ms. Voss,” he said, voice like gravel in a blender. “The Bremen Guild extends its regards. They’re very interested in the amateur geneticist who’s been slipping unlicensed delicacies into the arcologies. They’d like a word about supply chain security.”

Margot’s implants flared white. The rigger’s drone feed cut to static. The elves stopped eating.

I was already moving. Not out of heroism—out of habit. The drek hits the fan, you don’t stand in the spray. I palmed the case of mushroom spores and slid toward the kitchen, where I knew a service exit led to the old root cellar. The ork bartender met my eyes and gave a tiny nod. His arm whirred as he reached beneath the counter, not for a gun, but for a lever. A section of the 3D-printed floor irised open behind the bar, revealing a ladder down into blackness.

Behind me, the scarred man said, “We can do this quiet, or we can do this with a corporate audit that freezes every asset you’ve ever touched.”

I didn’t stay for the answer. I dropped into the hole, the synthwave fading to a muffled heartbeat, and landed ankle-deep in cold mountain runoff. The root cellar smelled of earth and the faint, sweet ghost of the mushrooms I carried. A narrow tunnel, shored up with old printed beams, led away into the dark. My AR compass spun uselessly, but I didn’t need it. I walked until the music was memory and the only light was the pale blue glow seeping from the case in my hands.

Twenty minutes later, I surfaced through a storm drain into a pasture where a single cow watched me with flat, unimpressed eyes. The rain had stopped. The Alps loomed overhead, black against a sky just beginning to bruise toward dawn. I didn’t look back. Margot would either buy her way out or end up a cautionary tale whispered through the secret kitchens of the sprawl. Either way, I had a delivery to complete—vanilla, from a vault in the stars—and a reputation for being unmemorable to maintain.

The shed, with its neon temple and its 3D-printed saints, would stay open 24/7, waiting for the next lost traveler with a hungry soul and something illegal on their tongue. The bass would keep thumping, the LEDs cycling through their endless spectrum, until the road finally swallowed the village whole. But that was a problem for another night, and for another sinner. I had a long drive ahead, and a case that smelled like the ghost of forests that had never existed. 

So, what you get

 If you mix Latino poor, U.S. Gang sticking tight, European road junction net attitude, Middle Eastern ruins with African open sky Spirits...

I think it is just that here. 

An Empirum doomed to ever form

being in forming

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

The are not, they'll ' others say. 

The BBC

 Looks like Cbum goes for extreme symmetry. So, many in Germnay, the second placed Big Boys Club nation of Bodybuilders often say to win it needs to be an American, but watching this man that cannot act being nice like that, it is just hardest competition. 

Most Bodybuilding training is, next to the stack and diet, machine based to train very focused specific muscles. That gets volume and large size, the typical Michelin Man look.

Not to be mixed up with the Marshmallow Man.

 The problem with that typical training is that we have asymmetric strength being either left or ride handed down to having a stronger leg which makes men walk in large circles through the desert believing they walked straight ahead for days. 

That also means that doing the same set of stress for a left biceps and right biceps will have them grow differently strong, because just like control the nerves transport growth trigger.

 

For the average Gym guy that is utterly and completely irrelevant. For someone that stares onto muscles like an F1 driver onto fractions of seconds, it tells worlds apart.

 

Being a Gangster is even worse... 

 

The stretching exercises will become, if I am right, much more important than creating a need for some more time in the gym. The one in which he holds the bar to stretch into, that and all alike he wants to do with both arms to create that clicking of bones and muscles that relieves muscle pain from muscle tensions. 

 

That clicking or popping sound you hear while stretching is known medically as crepitus. While it feels like it is coming directly from your muscles, the noise actually originates from your joints and the connective tissues surrounding them.The sound is caused by two main, harmless physical mechanisms:   [...]

 

That all means in summary certain forms of Yoga: 

 

To target the deep physical release that often triggers satisfying joint clicks or pops, you want styles and movements that focus on passive, long-held traction or deep rotational spiraling. These mechanisms pull joints slightly apart or move them to the end of their normal range, allowing trapped gases to release and taut tendons to snap smoothly over bone. [1, 2, 3] 
The most effective Yoga and Tai Chi forms and specific movements for achieving this tension release include: [4] 

## 1. Yin Yoga (The Ultimate for Joint Traction) [5] 
While active yoga styles (like Vinyasa) stretch the muscles, Yin Yoga specifically targets the deep connective tissues—the fascia, ligaments, and joint capsules. Poses are held completely passively for 3 to 5 minutes, allowing gravity to gently pull the joint structures apart. [2, 6, 7, 8, 9] 

* Reclined Spinal Twist (Supta Matsyendrasana): Best for popping the mid-to-lower back. Lying flat on your back, you draw one knee to your chest and drop it across your body to the floor. The passive rotational weight of the leg often gently decompresses the facet joints of the spine. [10] 
* Child’s Pose (Balasana) with a Walk-Out: Shifting your hips back to your heels and walking your hands heavily to one side creates massive traction in the shoulder sockets and rib cage, often releasing the thoracic spine. [11, 12] 

## 2. Hatha Yoga (For Targeted Range-of-Motion) [13] 
Hatha yoga uses slower, deliberate poses held for several breaths, making it excellent for intentionally moving tight joints to the edge of their range where cavitation (popping) happens. [3, 14, 15, 16, 17] 

* Cobra Pose (Bhujangasana): As you gently press your chest up while keeping your pelvis grounded, the front of the hip joints and the anterior spine stretch deeply, which can cause the lower back or sternum to click open. [18, 19, 20, 21] 

## 3. Chen-Style Tai Chi & Silk Reeling (For Rotational Spiraling) [22, 23] 
Most Tai Chi styles are purely linear or soft, but Chen-Style Tai Chi heavily incorporates a foundational practice called Silk Reeling (Chan Si Gong). Silk reeling uses continuous, spiraling, three-dimensional twisting motions that start at the feet, travel up the legs, rotate the pelvis, and spiral out through the wrists. [1, 24, 25, 26, 27] 

* Arm Spirals and Wrist Circles: Twisting the arms outward and inward while continuously circling the elbows trains the tendons and opens the compressed joint capsules of the shoulders, elbows, and wrists. [25] 
* Loose Torso Arm Swings: Standing with relaxed knees and swinging your upper body completely from side to side allows your loose arms to slap against your hips. This dynamic, relaxed twisting frequently releases clicks from the lower vertebrae. [1, 28] 

## 4. Qigong / Tai Chi Warm-Ups (The Joint-by-Joint Method)
Often practiced right before a Tai Chi form, traditional joint warm-up sequences are structurally designed to systematically rotate every single joint capsule in the body. [25, 29] 

* Neck and Shoulder Rolls: Slow, heavy neck circles and large elbow circles open up the upper back and shoulder blades, allowing tight shoulder tendons to snap back into their proper tracks. [25, 30] 

## ⚠️ A Crucial Safety Reminder
Never force, bounce, or violently jerk your body to aggressively "hunt" for a popping sound. The goal of Yoga and Tai Chi is decompression and relaxation. A safe, healthy release happens naturally when the joint capsule space is opened through gentle, steady breathing and passive gravity. If a movement causes a sharp pain or pinching sensation, back off the stretch immediately. [2, 31] 
If you'd like to try a specific routine, let me know:

* Which part of your body feels the most tight or locked up? (e.g., lower back, neck/shoulders, hips)
* Do you prefer a routine that is completely still and passive (Yoga), or one that keeps you moving fluidly (Tai Chi)?


[1] [https://welltech.com](https://welltech.com/content/tai-chi-for-flexibility)
[2] [https://www.youtube.com](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XAlAJfu96VI)
[3] [https://yogauonline.com](https://yogauonline.com/yoga-anatomy-2/popping-joints-in-yoga-practice-heres-what-it-means/)
[4] [https://smytten.com](https://smytten.com/blogs/wellness/what-yoga-reduces-stress-your-complete-guide)
[5] [https://aurawellnesscenter.com](https://aurawellnesscenter.com/2024/07/26/yin-yoga-poses-to-relieve-anxiety/)
[6] [https://www.youtube.com](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-TuKsh1NiQs)
[7] [https://jcfitcity.hk](https://jcfitcity.hk/en/health-tip/Yin-yoga)
[8] [https://jogayogatraining.com](https://jogayogatraining.com/vinyasa-flow-yoga-guide/)
[9] [https://www.naturalmentalhealth.com](https://www.naturalmentalhealth.com/blog/yin-yoga-class-to-support-calm-joy-and-focus)
[10] [https://www.arthritiswa.org.au](https://www.arthritiswa.org.au/jia/yoga-poses-for-tension-relief/)
[11] [https://www.yogajournal.com](https://www.yogajournal.com/practice/yoga-sequences/sweet-surrender-2/)
[12] [https://www.instagram.com](https://www.instagram.com/reel/DRSO_zzjmm-/)
[13] [https://www.yogaspace.nyc](https://www.yogaspace.nyc/blog/hatha-yoga-flexibility-strength)
[14] [https://psu.pb.unizin.org](https://psu.pb.unizin.org/kines082/chapter/yoga-and-tai-chi/)
[15] [https://www.everydayhealth.com](https://www.everydayhealth.com/yoga/guide/)
[16] [https://www.adidas.com](https://www.adidas.com/us/blog/different-yoga-styles-and-their-benefits)
[17] [https://physioclinic.sg](https://physioclinic.sg/spinal-manipulation-safe-or-not/)
[18] [https://satyanandayoga.gr](https://satyanandayoga.gr/en/satyanandashtam-blog/cobra-pose-in-yoga-technique-and-health-benefits/)
[19] [https://www.chimesradio.com](https://www.chimesradio.com/best-podcasts/yogshala-yoga-for-kids/)
[20] [https://www.shvasa.com](https://www.shvasa.com/yoga-blog/yoga-poses-to-counteract-sitting)
[21] [https://olaben.com](https://olaben.com/blogs/olaben-blog/what-is-sivananda-yoga)
[22] [https://www.taichi.ca](https://www.taichi.ca/2023/12/the-basic-principles-of-tai-chi-chuan-part-2/)
[23] [https://www.youtube.com](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=it1jV-66NOg)
[24] [https://www.youtube.com](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7C2e98v8w3Y)
[25] [https://www.youtube.com](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pNYHVe7nC3I&vl=en)
[26] [https://www.verywellmind.com](https://www.verywellmind.com/what-is-tai-chi-5073074)
[27] [https://chen-taiji.com](https://chen-taiji.com/hip-rotation-%E8%BD%AC%E8%83%AF-zhuan-kua-in-chen-style-taijiquan/)
[28] [https://www.youtube.com](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BSH11AujyeU)
[29] [https://headacademy.com.au](https://headacademy.com.au/tai-chi-vs-qigong-understanding-the-key-differences/)
[30] [https://www.saga.co.uk](https://www.saga.co.uk/magazine/health-and-wellbeing/simple-yoga-stretches-for-creaking-joints)
[31] [https://www.youtube.com](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h7afrTxTRb0)
 

 

You can do that with weights, right? 

 

I think he recently swapped IFBB class to the Open Class. That one is not in particular known for being about symmetry having no weight limit. It also means that for the hardcore fraction that class might become much more interesting and nerve wrecking by a clash of philosophy that is very very niche... 

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

 

 

Oh. Sktr,

 packs behave alike individually. That means, if you have disc round eyes, the guys next to you has, the guy hitting will have to. Puuuuh, everyone.

That helps.

It is support.

Be strong from the group!

#sktr 

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

#jedi

 I usually don't break my  routine, but I thought that Adam learned from Eve how to bite...and jumped.

Don't miss your time to die.

#jedi 

... in a close potential future ...

 Incorporated with DeepSeek

Project Senna

“learning to tell Koreans from Japanese people apart, means wearing no Sunnies and daring to keep eye contact while stumbling past Mammia Mia into broken English.
 

Thereby Project Senna...

... you will ride every single possible positive stereotype hard!
For Naples and Palermo in Love, Peace and Harmony like San Francisco in the 60ies.”

---

The rain over Rome tastes like exhaust and ancient dust, a cocktail that never leaves your tongue. Neon from AR-adverts drips down the Colosseum’s flank, painting the bones of the Empire in flickering pink and cyan. I skate through it all on my inline blades, smart-wheels hissing on wet cobblestones, a stack of waterproof flyers tucked in my jacket, the waxed paper crinkling against my ribs like a promise.

My name is Enzo Vitale. I’m twenty, Italian down to the cheap synth-espresso in my veins, and I am a flyer scout for the Ferro family’s *Dolce Sosta* network. You won’t find my face in any Cosa Nostra org chart. I’m not a made man. I’ve never squeezed a shopkeeper, never cooked the books, never even jaywalked with intent. I don’t do acts of crime. I do the opposite: I hand tourists a slip of paper with a discount code and teach them how to get from Roma Termini to a little bed-and-breakfast in Napoli that smells of lemon blossoms and clean sheets. And every time someone books a room with the code **SENNA-NAP** or **SENNA-PAL**, a few nuyen slide into my untraceable credstick. *Nothing sweeter than legal money*, Don Ferro always says, and for once the old man isn’t lying.

The Street knows me as Senna. Not because I drive cars—I ride a battered Italjet Dragster scooter with a gyro-stabilised sidecar for my gear—but because I move like Ayrton. My blades are part of me, ceramite wheels humming a prayer to Saint Sebastian of the Sidewalk. I weave through crowds and traffic, never slowing, never flinching. Aggressive inlining, they call it. To me it’s just breathing. And nobody, not the Roman gutterpunks, not the corporate sararimen with their razor-tie security drones, not even the other scouts from the rival *BellaVita* hostels, ever tries to mess with me. Maybe they see the way I carry my body, the set of my jaw under the dark curls, the eyes that refuse to hide behind sunglasses. I don’t wear sunnies. Rule one. You can’t project love and trust if you’re screening the windows to your soul.

Today’s hunt takes me to the Spanish Steps, slick with rain and littered with umbrellas. My HUD flickers with tags via my datajack: tourist SINs pop up as soft blue halos. I scan the herd. There—a cluster of hesitant body language, map overlays dancing in their AR glasses. Asian faces. Now comes the art.

I coast to a stop, blades clicking into walk-mode. I walk straight up, no hesitation, and make deliberate eye contact with the woman on the left. Something about the shape of her brow, the way she holds her shoulders, the curve of her Hangul-script AR name tag that I’ve taught myself to read. *Korean.* The man next to her is stiff, elegant, a subtle Kyoto tilt to his posture. *Japanese.* I’ve learned. Project Senna demands nothing less.

*“Konnichiwa! Annyeonghaseyo!”* I stumble, deliberately, letting my tongue trip into *mamma mia* territory. I switch to broken English with a heavy Roman accent, the kind that makes people smile. *“Scusa, you need place for sleep? Very nice, very clean, I have bed in Napoli, also Palermo. Bus from here, train from Termini, I write all for you. You use my code, you get big discount. Look, sunshine and sea, no stress.”*

I hand them a flyer. It’s not just an ad. On the back I’ve hand-printed a little map, bus numbers, the secret gelateria near the Palermo port that doesn’t overcharge, and a phrase in Italian: *Il dolce far niente.* The sweetness of doing nothing. That’s our product. That, and love, peace and harmony—like San Francisco in the Sixties, a dream I carry in my chest even though I’ve never been further west than Ostia.

They laugh. They take the flyer. The Korean woman types my code into her commlink, and a moment later my HUD pings with a booking for a double room in Napoli, sea-view balcony, three nights. *Grazie, Senna.* My cut is small, but multiplied by dozens a day, it keeps me in synth-leather and top-grade wheel bearings. And I’m good at this. Don Ferro’s accountants say my code is the most used in the whole legitimate network. That’s why the family keeps me on the street instead of some back office. I am the smiling, skating face of *Dolce Sosta*—the Mafia’s cleanest enterprise.

I’m about to pivot towards a new group of travellers when my commlink chirps a priority alert. The tone is ugly, a low-pitched buzz that means trouble. I glance at the message, blink-coded onto my contacts: *Vito, caro, something is wrong at the Palermo hub. Guests checking in with your code, but they’re not tourists. Cypher says they smell of Renraku. Come home.*

Cypher is the Ferro family’s decker, a pale wisp of a girl who lives in a darkened van and speaks in matrix fragments. If she says Renraku, she means the megacorp’s shadow operations arm. Why would a Japanese AAA corp give a damn about a string of southern Italian bed-and-breakfasts? Unless someone’s been using our network as a front for something we didn’t approve. And that would break the cardinal rule: *Nothing Sweeter Than Legal Money.* If Don Ferro finds out somebody’s been dirty, he’ll pull the plug on Project Senna, and with it, my whole world.

I skate faster. Through the rain-snarled arteries of Rome, past the Pantheon’s oculus crying neon tears, I push my body hard. Aggressive inlining isn’t just a sport; it’s a physical adept’s prayer. I’ve got a touch of the magic—just enough to enhance my balance, my reflexes, to make the concrete yield like a dance floor. The ceramite wheels sing a high-pitched hum that parts crowds like a ship’s bow. I leap a flight of stairs, grind a marble railing, ignoring the carabineri drone that shrieks a warning and files it away as “youthful exuberance.”

At the scooter, I throw a leg over the seat, the sidecar rattling with my spare blades and a thermos of real espresso. The Dragster’s electric motor whines to life, and I merge into traffic with the fluidity of a fish. I need to get to Palermo, but the maglev won’t leave for hours. I’ll have to ride the scooter all the way, or call in a favour. I thumb my commlink and ping Uncle Tano, the Ferros’ transport fixer.

“I need a cargo drone, one-way to Palermo. Scooter and me.”

Tano grunts. “You got trouble, ragazzo?”

“A corporate sniff. I’ll handle it. Just get me there.”

An hour later, I’m strapped into the belly of a battered Ares Dragonfly, my Italjet netted beside me, the wind howling through the bay door cracks. Below, the Tyrrhenian Sea is a black mirror lit by the occasional fishing trawler’s ghost-glow. I use the flight to review the files Cypher sent. Guest registrations under my code, all Korean or Japanese names, all paying in corp-backed nuyen. They booked the top-floor suites in our Palermo BnB, the one with the terrace view of Monte Pellegrino. They checked in two days ago and haven’t left the rooms. No luggage. Their SINs are too perfect—corporate fakes. And one of them, a “Mr. Takeda,” has a Renraku internal security tag embedded in his digital footprint, something only a decker of Cypher’s calibre would spot.

Renraku doesn’t take holidays.

The Dragonfly sets me down in a rusty lot on the outskirts of Palermo. The air here is warmer, tinged with salt and jasmine. I unstrap the scooter and ride through the narrow streets, the wheels cracking over centuries-old cobblestones, until I reach the *Dolce Sosta* Palermo house: a honey-coloured palazzetto with bougainvillea climbing the walls and a hand-painted sign in Sicilian dialect. *Qui si dormi cu lu cori.* Here, you sleep with the heart.

It’s midnight, and the lobby is dim. Behind the counter, my cousin Filippo, a mountain of muscle with a soft heart, looks worried. He gestures upstairs. I remove my blades, tuck them under my arm, and pad up the marble stairs in socked feet, silent as a shadow.

I stop outside Room 3B. Inside, I hear low voices, a mix of Japanese and Korean, but something’s off. The Korean speaker uses a dialect I recognise from travellers—not Seoul-standard but Gyeongsang, maybe Busan. The Japanese voice is too crisp, a Tokyo corporate dialect. They’re not tourists; they’re talking about “data extraction” and “wiping the local node.” I don’t understand everything, but I catch the word “Senna.” They’re talking about my code. They’re using my code as a backdoor.

Anger flares hot in my chest. Project Senna is pure. It’s about connecting people, spreading harmony, helping kids from Seoul and Kyoto see the real Italy, not the corp-packaged Disneyfied version. It’s about showing that the Mafia can be a force for good, one honest booking at a time. I won’t let some suit-wearing kumi-in turn it into a data-harvesting operation.

I put my blades back on, fastening the smart-buckles with practiced clicks. Then I knock, three sharp raps.

The door opens a crack. A slim Japanese man in a black suit appraises me. His eyes are flat, cybernetic irises dilating with targeting reticles. I don’t flinch. I give him my brightest, most sunnieless smile.

“Good evening! I am Enzo, your local scout. I bring complimentary cannoli and a private tour of Palermo by night. May I come in?”

The door opens wider. The room contains four people: the Japanese man, a Korean woman with a shaved head and military posture, and two others—a decker plugged into a portable terminal, and a heavily augmented figure who looks like a street samurai on loan. The terminal screen displays a wireframe of the *Dolce Sosta* booking system, with my discount code highlighted. They’ve been siphoning guest data, mapping patterns of movement between Naples and Palermo, maybe even planting tracking malware for future human-trafficking pipelines. Renraku or whoever backs them wants the network not for beds, but for bodies.

I keep smiling. “I see you’re admiring our system. Very efficient, yes? All legal. Our motto is *Nothing Sweeter Than Legal Money.* You should respect that.”

The Korean woman steps forward, hand hovering near a concealed weapon. “You’re Senna. The skate-boy. You’re just a child.”

“I’m old enough to know when someone’s trying to poison my family’s honest business.” My voice is calm, but my body is already singing the song of Project Senna—balance, speed, nerve. “I’m going to ask you to check out. Now. And leave the data.”

The samurai laughs, a wet metallic sound from a broken jaw-mod. “Or what, little skater? You’ll hand us a flyer?”

I don’t answer. Instead, I leap backwards, hit the hallway wall, and push off, grinding the railing of the staircase in a spray of sparks. The samurai lunges after me, blades extending from his forearms. I ride the rail down two floors, then kick off into the lobby, landing in a low crouch. Filippo has already flipped the panic button; the palazzetto’s discreet security systems begin locking doors and triggering silent alarms. The Ferro family’s soldiers will be here in minutes, but I don’t need them. I need to keep these corp rats busy and away from the terminal.

The samurai follows me out into the cobbled alley. Rain is falling again, making the stones slick and dangerous. Perfect. I accelerate on my blades, dodging his slashes with the fluidity of a leaf in a storm. My adept senses flare—I can almost see the trajectories of his blows before they happen. I lead him on a chase through the labyrinth of Palermo’s Vucciria district, past shuttered market stalls and graffiti-tagged saints. He’s fast, but I’m faster when the ground is wet. I skate up a ramp of stacked crates, spin in mid-air, and deliver a double-footed drop-kick to his face. The blow is augmented by my momentum and a touch of physical magic; his head snaps back, and he crashes into a pile of fish nets.

But the real battle is elsewhere. Back at the BnB, Cypher has crashed the party digitally, locking the decker out of the system and flooding their comms with an endless loop of “Volare.” The Korean woman and the other operative find themselves surrounded by Filippo and two of Don Ferro’s men, who are very large and very protective of the legal money. By the time I skate back, dripping and breathing hard, the intruders are kneeling in the lobby, hands bound with zip-ties, their commlinks crushed.

I walk up to the Japanese man—Takeda, his real name or not—and crouch to his eye level. I don’t wear sunglasses, so he sees everything in my gaze: the righteous fury, the love, the fierce joy of a boy defending his dream.

“You came here,” I say, slow and soft, “to use my code, my network, to hurt people. But you picked the wrong host. This is *Dolce Sosta*, the sweet stay. We don’t steal data. We don’t traffic. We give backpackers a bed and a bus route and a smile. So here’s what happens now. I’m going to call your boss. I have the number. And I’m going to tell them a story about how Renraku almost started a war with the Ferro family over a tiny legal BnB chain, and how that would be very, very bad for their stock price. Then you’re going to walk away, and you’re never going to touch Project Senna again.”

Takeda’s cyber-eyes flicker. He knows I’m right. The Mafia still has enough weight in the Italian Confederation that a corp skirmish isn’t worth the nuyen. He nods, once.

I smile, the most genuine smile I’ve given all night. “Good. Now let me give you a flyer. Maybe you come back someday, as a real guest. I know a place in Napoli, sunset view, you’d like it.”

---

One month later, the booking network has been upgraded with Cypher’s anti-corp encryption. Don Ferro is so pleased he gifts me a small percentage of the Palermo house itself. I use the first big payout to open my own little BnB on the edge of Mondello beach: *Casa Senna*, a whitewashed villa with an olive tree in the courtyard and a sign that says “Love, Peace & Harmony” in Italian, Korean, and Japanese.

I still skate. I still stand in the streets of Roma and Milano, no sunnies, eyes wide open, handing out flyers to kids with backpacks and stars in their eyes. I stumble through my broken English, dropping *mamma mia* like confetti, teaching them how to tell the difference between Korean and Japanese faces by the shape of their kindness, not the curve of their cheekbones. And when they use my code, they get a little piece of Naples or Palermo that’s clean, safe, and dripping with soul.

Project Senna isn’t just my mission anymore. It’s a movement. The hippie dream of San Francisco in the Sixties, reborn on Sicilian soil, riding on ceramite wheels and powered by the purest fuel of all: nothing sweeter than legal money, and a heart that never hides from the light.

The rain still falls, but now it tastes like the sea. 

Dons,

 learning to tell Koreans from Japanese people apart, means wearing no Sunnies and daring to keep eye contact while stumbling past Mammia Mia into broken English.

Thereby Project Senna...

 ... you will ride every single possible positive stereotype hard!

For Naples and Palermo in Love, Peace and Harmony like San Francisco in the 60ies.

#TIE

#MODInc

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

#TIE

 How would Europe be for an Asian person?

Actually, we can abstract that by calculating it. Just like Europe does Asia have several people. When we cross the boarder from Germany to the Netherlands or France the streets' signs are different in design, the road paintings are different, and for Germans Dutch housing appears somewhat English.

That's how Koreans must feel crossing to Vietnam or China. 

The towns are build by the same principles. American towns are different being much more strategically planned having a chess board net as base over being build coordinated with only the neighbors around and ..

Yes, Beijing is famous for its historical grid and symmetrical layout. The ancient core is heavily organized around north-south avenues and intersecting east-west streets and alleyways (hutongs). 

The difference is in the common design elements of the houses that are only known from our settlements in Asia.

Yes! Because of its centuries-old ties to Portugal, Macau has multiple areas with distinctly European—especially Portuguese and Southern European—architecture.          

But, next to the visual impression smell and sound are very important. Especially Italian towns will feel for Asians somehow familiar. Our born fear or resentment, that for some is excitement and desire which is found predominantly and mainly in some European originating human, will be less strong in Italy after having a normal Asian School education knowing our explorer towns from even only pictures that are today populated by Asians with cut ties to Europe through Industrialization and Visas.

There is no Pizza in Asia just like Kimchi needs a minute of thought to get a visual memory too for about every European no matter how much liking cooking. The smells of towns and villages will have in Italy a known and familiar layer of salt sea water. The Ocean has a distinctive smell, but everything else will be different. In Italian town centers that must be very strong. We use no comparable spices and mix of ingredients.

An Asian educated person must feel like a mix of strange alienation, but mixed with a most likely surprising familiarity making it easy to explore town alone off a group.

Europe must be a much more pleasant experience, given same conditions, than the U.S.A. for someone from Asia, like North America and as a surprise Latin America, for a European over Asia.

That's how FBI profiling started.

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

PS: Dons have a large butterfly effect interest of making sure no "Cameras" are offered! Fucking Anytime. Also, a guide bilingual can guide through electronics markets. They have also unbranded gear that fits into the casings around. Law Vs Bribs?

#misconceptions

 I know what Asians have stereotypes about us here, but you would not believe how much we actually trained until we bluntly grab someone at his Revere and keep punching him with the other fist until unconscious throughout his way down flat out... to start kicking.

#ticktack

#noblessoblige

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

#misconceptions

 Taek Kwon Do has only kicks... Observe now closely, the Kattas, please.

Surprise, surprise and I am sure their won't be any hidden cams in Seoul Alleys when they figure. 

#TheWest

#cyberpunkcoltoure 

#gfyCIA

 What you think, how many will about now check what's going on having about no chance to find out about the existence of the CIA Artefact Department... also responsible for missing European Art since WW2.

Especially, those men that do not know about Sports bras and DDs....

#cyberpunkcoltoure

#Hellskitchenthevalley 

#TIE

#armystrong

 Be aware, if you have to join the Army, that's most likely Korea and Japan only harbours a Navy base.

But they'll find a way.

Rangers lead the way!

#bigredone

ENLIST NOW!

That's square dance in far far away

we ship you

U.S. Military