2025-10-15 03:13:15
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Cracking the Code
Jace Varn slumped against the shielded wall of the Rusty Nail's backroom, the stun baton's afterglow still humming in his veins. Lena patched a fresh scrape on his arm from the vent crawl, her touch steady but her eyes sharp as knives. "You attract trouble like a magnet, Varn," she muttered, tying off the bandage. The air was thick with the bar's stale beer stink seeping through the walls, mixed with the faint ozone buzz from Jace's new hacking skill frying that rival's lock. Two players down in two days—Level 5 at the pier, now this Level 3 punk and his buddy. The System wasn't playing nice; it was stacking the deck."Blame the chip," Jace said, flexing his hand. HP at 110/140 after the level boosts, armor mod soaking minor hits. The HUD flickered soft in the dim light: Safe House Active - Drone Jamming 80% Effective. Lena's setup was gold—scrap foil and black-market freq blockers keeping the city's eyes blind. But rivals finding him fast? That screamed tracking. "They knew I was her
Rival Shadows
Jace Varn stumbled through the neon-drenched alleys of New Cascadia, the rival player's blood still sticky on his knife. His shoulder throbbed from the graze, but the level-up surge dulled it—HP ticking back to 75/120 like some magic Band-Aid. The System HUD flickered in his vision, a constant buzz now, tagging everything: "Low-Traffic Alley - Safe for Now," "Residual Threat: NeoTech Patrols - Evade." He wiped the blade on his pants, heart still hammering from the scrap. That guy—Level 5, eyes glowing with the same chip curse—had come out of nowhere, claiming the core like it was his birthright. Rivals. The whispers about players weren't just edge; they were killers."Fuck this game," Jace muttered, ducking under a flickering holo-ad pushing "Neural Upgrades for the Elite." The city hadn't changed—same smog-choked streets, same drones whirring overhead—but he saw it differently. HUD perks lit up blind spots, perception 15 (boosted from level-up) spotting a loose grate ahead: "Sewer Ac
First Blood, New Rules
Jace Varn hit the bayfront streets at a dead sprint, the salty wind whipping his face like it was pissed he was still breathing. His neck burned where that busted drone had jammed the chip in, a dull throb pulsing in time with his heartbeat. But the real mindfuck was the HUD overlaying everything—blue text boxes tagging crates as "Salvage: Low Value," distant drones as "Threat Level: Medium." New Cascadia hadn't changed; he had. The System, or whatever this crap was, turned the world into a goddamn video game. Stats, quests, death penalties. Players. It was all real, and he'd just gotten drafted.He ducked into a narrow alley between rusting shipping containers, chest heaving. The HUD's map pulsed in his vision, highlighting Pier 5 a half-mile east—NeoTech Corp outpost, crawling with security. 23:45:23 on the quest timer. "Data Heist," it mocked. Steal a server core, or neural shutdown. Boom, lights out. Jace leaned against a graffiti-smeared wall, rubbing his eyes like he could swipe
Warehouse Wake-Up
Jace Varn pushed through the creaky door of the flop house, the kind of dive where the walls leaned in like they were tired of standing. It was a squat on the edge of the slums, all peeling paint and flickering bulbs that buzzed like angry hornets. He'd crashed here before—mattress on the floor, a single window boarded up against prying drone eyes. The air stank of old sweat and burnt takeout, but it was off the grid enough to feel safe. Or as safe as anything in New Cascadia.He locked the door with a rusty chain, tossed his jacket on a rickety chair, and flopped onto the mattress. The data stick tumbled out, clinking against the floorboards. Jace stared at it, that little black bastard mocking him from Lena's warning. "Ditch it," she'd said, her eyes hard like she knew what kind of fire it could start. Players, glitches, Riko ghosting—everything was piling up, squeezing his chest like a vice. He rubbed his temples, the beer from the Rusty Nail still sour in his gut. Sleep. He needed
Lena's Warning
Jace Varn slipped through the neon-soaked streets of New Cascadia’s slums, the buzz of drones and flicker of holo-ads a constant hum in the background. The data stick from the Docks job was still in his jacket, heavy as a bad bet, and the credits from his recent gigs—lookout, courier, data runner—were already thinning out. The player talk was piling up like trash in an alley, from drifters to Milo to street gossip, and those glitches—flashes of code in the air—were messing with his head. He’d seen another one this morning, sharp numbers flickering like a glitch in reality itself. Jace needed a break, a drink, and maybe some answers, so he was headed to the Rusty Nail, the dive bar where Lena slung drinks and sharper words.The slums were alive with their usual chaos—vendors barking about cheap tech, kids running scams, techheads lost in their feeds. The air smelled like burnt wiring and stale beer, and the neon glow painted everything in sickly pinks and blues. Jace kept his hood low,
Watching the Shadows
Jace Varn crouched on a rusted catwalk overlooking a junk-strewn lot in New Cascadia’s slums, the kind of place where deals went down and trouble followed close. The city’s neon glow flickered through the smog, painting the night in shades of electric blue and pink. The data stick from the Docks job was still in his jacket, heavy as a bad decision, and the credits from his recent gigs—courier runs, data dashes—were barely enough to keep him going. Riko’s silence was a screaming red flag, and the player talk kept piling up—squat drifters, Milo, Taz’s buyers, street kids. Those glitches, flashes of code in the air, were eating at him too. He needed to hustle, keep moving, because standing still in this city was how you got buried.Tonight’s job was another lookout gig, this time for a crew called the Scrap Dogs. They were small-time, moving hacked tech to buyers too cheap for legit markets. The deal was set in a dead-end lot off Mason Street, a forgotten corner of the slums where even t
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