» 9:30 PM : SAN AMARO ST SANTO DOMINGO – RANCHO CORONADO
THE FINE LINE BETWEEN THE SHARP KNIFE’S EDGE OF NIGHT CITY & the bandlands. here lies a vast storage yard collecting dust & rust beneath an elevated highway overpass for vehicles zipping by this shoddy backdrop, on a pathway to a myriad of sights that are lot less sandy drab & more neon kitsch. this place has seen better days. RIBBED METAL CRATE stacked upon crate, vast in size & volume, reign dominant over the location. among the unmarked or lesser known brands, some of these containers are labeled with the infamous militech logo —— its ivory paint fading away with time. unattended material. metal cranes & automated pulley devices in which to transport & lift them also seem inoperable & if 𝐕 is to posit? nothing electrical here has been powered on for quite some time, not even the haphazard metal gate leading into the yard remaining perpetually ajar. behind that, a factory of some sort. polluted DARK STEAM whistling through a metallic, cylindrical spout & other implements keeping the place going.
& it is here, the solo waits, propped up with legs crossed against her MOTORBIKE, menthol cigarette sitting between lips & thumbs aimlessly cycling through her phone: a picture that has been plastered on every big ‘mill paper’ nationwide. sixteen political disappearances ended with sixteen black bags somehow ending up on the doorstep of the president & ceo of kang tao. xu’s under heavy fire. first, the conspiracy of qiant intentionally allowing defective zetatech to ‘fall’ into the black market, ( correlating to some recent, uptick in cyberpsychosis cases!! ) & then, in contrast, mlitech’s stocks increase in value? a CONSPIRACY. a mess.
( ‘corpo-cunts will be corpo-cunts,’ johnny says, pacing the ground in front of her in all of his intermittently glitching glory before stopping to point with a ringed index, ‘look alive. gearhead contact’s on your six.’ )
thinks about the nature of the gig, some corporate hotshot from IGEN called a few days ago through a secure & untraceable codec frequency. called herself “dierdre”. buttered her all the way up with platitudes about her being recommended by another associate, for 𝐕’s discreetness, professionalism & ability to carry out A CLEAN JOB. once they were past that, she’d been talked through the trade & the more was said, the more vague the job became. the price tag it came with, however, was too good to pass up. & that price tag ( the metaphorical carrot on a stick, ) was enough to keep her pressing questions at bay. & somehow, now, something tells her there is MORE to the job than “dierdre” let on.
a few minutes later, 𝐕 lifts her chin from the illuminated smartphone & turns head toward the figure approaching. straightens & pockets the thing. she is prefaced by a multitude of RED, circular lights in the form of lenses aglow. strange device fitted over her face that makes her appear more cyborg than human. ( a black widow spider with reflective eyes in the dead of night. ) gives the contact a onceover. tall, aged, strong features, bulky. doesn’t dress for the city & she knows a nomad when she sees one. NODS.
❛ not gonna’ bother with intros, ❜ she sighs. long BLACK FINGERNAILS swipe the cigarette from mouth after exhaling a cascade of smoke through nostrils.
❛ pick-up time’s 12:45AM. got an hour & ten now. should prolly head out. unless you got any questions. ❜
@alphaternal ⮕ plotted starter
