Street Outside MCA, Saturday Morning

[suitably_heroic]

It was raining.

Endless water, plunging down from the sky, streaking past the heavy neon signs sticking out from MCA. Jaq stood underneath it. He lifted his digital lighter and lit his e-cigarette, a puff of electronic smoke trailing off into the sky.

Something glitched in the corner of his eye. Was it reality? Or a fiction? He sighed.

"I need to go find one of these damned rickshaw runners," he said.

[[ open! ]]

Xenomeld Stims (Usually Groovy Tunes), Saturday

[furnaceface]

Chamber's gaze seemed to be focused on very little in particular as he straightened his collar up over the lower half of his broken face, which still cast a faint electrical-blue haze from his cybernetic implants as the effects of the electro-stim he'd taken earlier wore off. It had been his usual morning picker-upper, a burst of synthetic confidence that helped him get out of bed every day in spite of... everything. His most vivid memories of the worst of what had led to it had been reaped ages ago, replaced with only the most vague sense of purpose, and had been distilled down into their most pure components, peddled off as fear and pain and horror stims to the highest bidders. That didn't mean it was any easier to get up and going every day, mind.

If he was going to have to live with being a physically broken husk of a man, he might as well pull a tidy profit from it, after all.

On the shelves around him, chips containing mood implants and phials of distilled emotional stims were waiting for buyers to come in. People were always looking for an escape, a new experience or a laugh that they'd never achieve on their own, or, as had been the case with the buyer who had purchased Chamber's distilled horrors, a weapon. A small black feline lurked the outskirts of the room, keeping an eye on the door for him as he contemplated which mood to showcase today. Chamber could let Jon-I pull the heavy lifting when it came to surveillance- the neural link that he shared with her meant that he'd know immediately if anybody came to the door.

Xenomeld was open for business, peddling synthetic or authentic distilled chemical or digital emotions of questionable legality. And, if you knew how to talk to the man minding the shop just so, memory implants of definite illegality. He wasn't exactly advertising those, of course, but that wasn't what contributed to the fact that he was always in stock.

[OOC: Because the closest thing to music is apparently digital emotional implants or chemical mood injections. Memories are also available, but they aren't exactly advertised in the window. Open!]

Abandoned Warehouse District, Saturday Evening

[myownface]

Spark held his breath as he crouched down by the access panel to one of the seemingly abandoned warehouses in the dirtier, presumably even rainier part of town. Of course it was raining. It always seemed to be these days, and that suited Spark just fine. After all, if people weren't inclined to be out in this weather in a neighbourhood like this one, that bought him a little bit more time to do his job uninterrupted. His datapad was patched in to the panel, and he was just a few more seconds away from bypassing the security systems so that he could get inside. He'd paid dearly to get the passcodes forged, getting the credits he needed for the exchange by selling off a few memories on the black market. Nothing important, really. A few sexual experiences. A pleasant date with his first boyfriend. The rush of his first successful heist, minus any of the incriminating details. He'd made backups of all of those memories before he'd sold them off, of course. He was desperate, not stupid.

His screen flashed bright red in warning as one of his codes failed to pass a security checkpoint manned by one of the company's more intelligent AIs, and he hissed between his teeth, pulling himself sharply to his feet and yanking his datapad's uplink jack free before she could turn his work back against him and hack in. Okay, the subtle way in wasn't going to do him any good.

He pulled out his gun and shot the access panel twice, kicking up a white-hot flurry of his namesake, then kicked the door in and slipped inside.

He'd come too far to lose ground now, anyway. He wasn't going to give up yet.

[OOC: Because sometimes you just gotta break into a warehouse. Open!]

The Perk, Saturday morning

[crimson_sister]

Lucille had her hands wrapped around a CoffeeMug™. She ignored the text scrolling around the edge, having no need to be informed about the ten new flavours that had just been released, one of which was advertised as True Coffee. Her hair was wet and black and blue strands stuck to her temples. The clothes were already dry off course; waterproof fabric of good quality. That was on of the reasons she was still wearing the Neo-Victorian outfit even though she had left the compund several months before. All her money had been spent on the best nano-poisons she could afford. It would be worth it though. When the job was finished she would have enough funds to find herself a nice Neo-House and send a message to her brother to join her.

[Open]

Fandom Neuromodulation Clinic (usually Fandom Counseling), Sunday

[sharp_as_knives]

Hannibal's office was sleek and expensive, and a first glance might take it for old-school, not even a terminal visible. A closer look would show the high-quality HUDs and playback ports quietly available around the space.

Only a well-informed or illegally enhanced scan would reveal the bordering-on-illegal, medical-grade recorders throughout. Hannibal was nothing if not thorough.

Thorough and discreet. Both his patients and his "patients" appreciated that.

He'd acquired some new recordings this week, and was busy at a screen coded only to his eyepiece, sorting through them for distribution between his practice, Chamber's shop, and the back room exclusive to the most discerning clients.

But he'd always be willing to stop for an interesting buyer. Or seller.


[Electronic and chemical stimulation available as therapy! Or for fun, for the right price. Some more benign and legal than others.]

Caritas, Saturday Evening

[newroutines]

It was business as usual at Caritas tonight. The techno coming from seemingly everywhere at once made it feel like the whole building was alive – and its pulse was feverish. Impossibly beautiful people were around, waiting to mingle with customers. Every once in a while, some of them shifted their appearance in a wave of binary code into something targeted to be more appealing to a specific customer.

Towards the back of the lounge, there was an area for VIP customers only. The bar served drinks, sure, but back there? Some mind-to-cyberspace connections of questionable legality were on offer to those with the means to pay for them.

And Mike was behind the bar, but distracted, tapping his fingers nervously against the edge of it. He had his reasons. Just... don't ask. Not that anyone would want to. He wasn't looking too good. If you wanted someone who looked like they'd slept at some point in the last three days, you needed Tino.

[ooc: Open, no ocd!]