“Welcome to Dendrick!” announced the gaudy billboard built into the crest of the hill just ahead. One of the bolts must have busted off ages ago; the left side of the sign was touching the ground leaving the rusted old thing at an angle that only added to its overall dilapidated appearance. Dendrick was a far cry from the city pictured on the welcoming sign. A dystopian pock-mark on the surface of a more-or-less desolate planet, Dendrick was more like the last bastion of humanity than the golden city on the top of the hill; you, though, would never know the difference. You were born and raised here and, as far as you were concerned, it sure as hell beat being born in the Outlands. That being said, you always had enjoyed the beauty of the unforgiving wasteland just beyond the city limits. When Dendrick had been plotted, the sign was placed on the top of a ridge overlooking valleys on both sides. In one direction were fields of green, a place where the giant mechanical beasts of old had harvested crops when the land had been more yielding. Sixty foot tall robotic creatures devouring the landscape and spitting out produce, it must have been glorious to see. Of course the land hasn’t had crops in nearly a hundred years and is now nothing more than a desert, permanently clouded by an eternal red-sand storm. In the other direction, Dendrick, a technologically superior example of what humans can accomplish when they put their minds to it, infested with the most deadly pox the universe has to offer--greed. Roughly four million people “governed” by only a handful of wealthy few. Corporations continuously play chess with the lives of their wage-slaves. Constantly fighting for territory, frequently gaining an advantage just to lose it the following day. Personal armies wage wars in the streets and espionage reigns supreme. As for the layman, there are only two options in Dendrick, become a cog in the machine or risk your life day to day running in the shadows... you have never been sure which was more dangerous. It is about a half hour drive back down Highway 7 and into the city, but you have always enjoyed the solitude. There is safety in being alone. As you turn the key and rev the engine you take a final look at the sign in your rear-view mirror. “The City of the Future!” the sign exclaims in its subtitle. Your face twists into a grimace, what fool dreamt up THIS future.

"It’s a sorry excuse for a den," Pudge had said before the two of you had entered. "He doesn’t card," had been your reply. You can't remember if this conversation actually happened or not. The two of you had spent so much time dancing the line recently that it was starting to get hard to tell what was real… and you’d been diving nonstop in the six hours since his ‘disappearance.’ Charles is sitting at his terminal next to the throne, the freshly unplugged jack resting loosely in his left hand, a tarnished, silver flask in his right. “It’s your money… but I’m tellin’ you this is a waste of time. You’re chasing a fairy tale. Something worried parents tell their children to keep them off the ‘oooh scary’ parts of cyberspace.” He shakes his hands back and forth mockingly, spilling some of the contents of the flask on his shirt. Everyone knew the story, of course; an incredibly brilliant child prodigy, broken and twisted by the Old Garde and loosed on the cyber highway. A grown woman by now, with the experience of the greatest hackers in existence and the maturity of a 5 year old. She was the modern day boogeyman. “I heard the buzzing,” your eyes drift slowly to the seemingly lifeless body of your little brother, “I’m close to finding him, I know it.” Charles takes a swig from the flask and savors the flavor for a moment as if considering your words. His augmented eyes finally shift from the terminal to meet yours as he leans in, “look kid, I get it, but your brother needs help. REAL help. ME-DI-CAL help.” The smell of alcohol on his breath only adds to his overall grimeyness. “PLUG ME BACK IN!” You snap. Charles flinches and then slowly slumps backwards into his chair. After a moment he merely shrugs apathetically and slides the jack back into his terminal, “fine--but this session is gonna to cost extra.”

“Tammy two-tap, eh?” Smitty eyes you over the top of his data pad, “that chick is chromed out and kitted. Not to mention she is apparently undefeated. You sure you want to go through with this?” A wry smile forms on your face as you rap your knuckles twice on the locker, “yeah. I'm hoping this one will be an actual challenge.” The locker door slides open revealing your gear. You adorn the vest with its sleek power pack, slip in your mouth guard and fasten the helmet strap beneath your chin. Smitty helps you stuff your fists into the power gloves and then leads you out of the locker room and down to the stadium floor entrance, “Well I sure hope you’re up for it. She has enough gear to knock your block off--and quite literally with that light weight crap you like to wear.” You just nod and gesture for him to get out of the way. There is nothing quite like it. The thrill, the exhilaration, the pure ecstasy that comes from that door opening. The noise of the crowd crashes into you like a violent ocean wave. They are cheering for you, chanting for you. They worship you. It's a better feeling than any drug and twice as addicting. As you step out into the light of the arena the cheering intensifies. Adoring fans are shoved up against the sheet glass, their eyes emphatically observe your every move, their voices cry out for your attention. There are a handful of signs in the crowd the largest of which has a crudely drawn picture of you with the words “Marry me!” written underneath. You give a big grin and lift one of your power gloves into the air. The crowd mimics the motion and, in unison, gives out a deafening howl. You see that Tammy has already made her entrance, her bright pink mo-hawk sticks out of the slit in the top of her spartan-style helmet. The woman is enormous, her armor covers most of her body. Her gloves are made of hardened titanium. Two powered struts run along her arms and around to the portable reactor on her back. She could likely slug a hole through five inches of reinforced steel with that set up. You smirk, the bigger they are the harder they fall, your grandpa had always said. You step into the ring and the referee gives you a curt nod. You nod back and he gestures both of you to the center of the mat. The hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as you approach. Something is off. There is a calmness in Tammy's demeanor that sets you on edge. She isn't showboating or playing to the crowd at all. The referee motions for you to bump gloves but she doesn’t move. After a moment, she slides a foot forward and takes a peculiar stance, one you haven't seen since--panic begins to rush over you as it becomes unnervingly clear who this really is. Before you can fully collect your thoughts the bell rings and the referee shouts, “fight!”

The crowd is so thick in the small auditorium that you can barely keep up as Jamie plows his way through the fancily dressed Presidium dwellers. The looks they are throwing your way make it obvious that you are unwelcome. You are wearing the most expensive outfit from your wardrobe but it is pretty clear that you aren’t from the Presidium. To be honest, you aren’t entirely sure how Jamie had gotten the S-class Presidium passes in the first place, much less these exclusive tickets, but you weren’t about to pass up an opportunity to see a live concert of the ‘Cyber Siren’, the ‘Seraphim’, the ‘Chrome-dome Queen’ herself; Evelyn Angelica. Jamie stops and turns right, then left, “This way. I think...” He looks down at the vibrant, electric blue ticket stubs in his hand and then points down the row. He hands you one of the stubs and cuts through the line of concert-goers. Jamie is a squat man, slightly overweight and balding. He has a Cyberwyre visor implant where his left eye use to be and his right arm is a pretty low-grade prosthetic. He has a beard with some grey in it and a tattoo of a snake around his neck. Despite his appearance, he is a pretty pleasant man, if not a little overbearing at times. The two of you work in a small cafe near The Damned in the Underbelly. You mainly run orders and make drinks. Jamie is suppose to be the manager on the floor but he seems to spend most of his time repairing the machines. As far as you could tell that doesn’t bother him much, though; you are pretty sure he was a mechanic when he was younger. You run your hand along the backs of the seats in front of you as you travel down the row. You are certain you have never felt such soft material. The fabric reacts to your fingers as they glide across it, creating a minor but euphoric electro-chemical stimulation. You had heard about this luxury but you had never experienced it till now. You lift your hand from the seat back to observe the tips of your fingers and as you run your thumb across them a tingling sensation shoots down your spine. “If you think that’s something just wait until the show starts,” Jamie, already in his seat, is watching you with a slight smirk. After the moment passes, you make your way to the seat next to him and plop down. “Take one of these,” he produces a small white pill from a vial and then tucks the vial back into his vest pocket, “It’ll help with the nausea.” You pop the pill in your mouth and it dissolves rather quickly. You gaze up at the vaulted ceiling and sink into the seat. It is, without question, the most comfortable chair you have ever sat in. As the crowd begins to settle, the lights in the little theater dim and the sound of a trickling drone, almost like electric rain, begins to softly tickle your ears. A cascade of lights, all different colors, begins to creep out from the center of the stage. As the lights gain in intensity they also seem to dance like snakes across every surface of the auditorium, each unique and seemingly with a life of its own. As the visual trance grabs hold of you, the electro-chemical stimulus from the fabric of your seat riles up the feeling of absolute ecstasy. Right at this moment, Evelyn Angelica appears, coursing through every fiber of your being. You know she is on the stage but it feels more like she is encompassing you. You are no longer aware of the crowd in the venue. She and you are the only two beings in existence in this moment. The drums become your heart beat, the blood in your veins coursing with every rhythm; her voice and your thoughts are now one in the same.

Chorus: All you gotta do is come in closer. All you gotta do is come in closer. All you gotta do is come in closer. I'll be yours. All you gotta do is come in closer. Verse 1: Take my hand, take your time. It's true, trust me. But I'm only human. (I can make you feel alright) I'm only human. You don't know me. Chorus: All you gotta do is come in closer. I'll be the one to set you free. All you gotta do is come in closer. So hold me closer now. All you gotta do is come in closer. Mmmm no, here we go. All you gotta do is come in closer. In paradise, yea, you and I. Verse 2: In your way in my mind, You always run from this moment. But I'm only human. (I can make you feel alright) I'm only human. Please someone help me. Chorus: All you gotta do is come in closer. Feels like something... All you gotta do is come in closer. No way, can't anybody see? All you gotta do is come in closer. I'm on the edge. All you gotta do is come in closer. In paradise, yea, you and I. Verse 3: Take my hand, take your time. It's true, trust me. Nobody will believe it. But I'm only human.

The smell of dirty shag carpet is thick in your nostrils. Its coarse texture has rubbed the side of your face raw; you must have slid a great distance. You blink your eyes open and shut as you shake off the daze. As you lift yourself up, everything seems to be moving in slow motion. The air is filled with debris, floating pieces of paper, dust, drywall, all knocked loose by what you can only guess were breach-charges. Coral is in the neighboring cubicle, crouched down behind her desk, trembling in terror, and with her hand clenched firmly around the handle of the firearm she keeps strapped at the small of her back. A volley of heavy weapons fire whizzes over the top of your work space as you press yourself against the flimsy, hard-plastic wall. You hear a muffled, augmented voice shout out over the screams of the chaotic office space. You reach out and grab Coral by the shoulder, “What did he say?!” Surprised, her eyes go wide and she turns her panic-stricken face to meet yours, “N-n-no-nobody moves.” She takes a deep breath, “I think we are being robbed!” Her voice is shaky and weak. You let go of her shoulder and stand up just enough to peer over the top of the small grey divider. A metal monstrosity, at least eight feet tall and armed to the teeth is standing in the center of an enormous, crumbling hole in the wall. He is a cyborg by guess, but his augmentations are so extensive it’s hard to tell. He is accompanied by three soldiers, all with military grade hardware, and a couple of bloodhounds, mechanical beasts capable of tracking down targets with terrifying efficiency. This is no robbery, the thought shoots through your head, that’s a death squad. Your cousin had warned you about working at a startup company; frequently one of the megalo-corporations will see them as a potential threat in the market place and raze the entire block. It’ll be made to look like an ‘accident,’ a wildfire out of control, or maybe a gang war that spilled off the streets and into a work-complex. You saw it on the news all the time but you always knew the truth of it, everyone did. You duck back down and turn to Coral, “we have to go, NOW!” Her eyes narrow and she nods slowly. Your heart is beating so loudly that it is all you can hear. You have to make it to the garage. Your XT9 is there and you are fairly certain it can outrun whatever these thugs brought. You take a final deep breath, swallow back the fear, and grab the pistol you keep strapped underneath your desk. Its go time.

Your Birdie is about halfway through the climb. You have entered the veil, a thick cloak of mud-red smog that lingers perpetually over Dendrick, and visibility has gone to zero. The Birdie pilot has given up on looking through the front windshield and has transitioned to using his nav-com exclusively. You make trips to the Presidium maybe once or twice a year, usually hired to smuggle some goods, almost always medical supplies. This trip was no different. Marcy set up an exchange with Jarvis in a restaurant called Over the Rainbow somewhere in the food court. A small package, about the size of a lunch box, packed full of little bottles of insulin. “At eight hundred credits a bottle, the clinic just can’t afford it and I have three patients--they are just kids…” Marcy had pleaded. She had also instructed that Jarvis would have a Squirrel Suit for you. “I hope you like flying” she had joked. That at least explained how she expected you to get the supplies out of the city. You knew Marcy well; she had a good heart, but this job probably wouldn’t pay much. If Max were still alive he’d have called you an idiot for taking it, but sometimes you gotta do the right thing. Your Birdie breaks the veil and sunlight floods the compartment. Wonderful, beautiful sunlight. You can’t remember the last time you saw the sun. As your eyes adjust, the most opulent location in the world comes into focus--The Presidium, The Floating Garden. The parkways are outlined with trees that bloom violet, blue and green, the sidewalks with vibrant neon flowers that grow from gardens of fresh fruit. They say if you are hungry you can pluck one right from the bush but you’d never tried. Magnificent, glistening glass skyscrapers reach up as if to touch the sky, and the sky, the beautiful crystal blue sky is even more breathtaking than you remember. The Presidium is the most decadent spot in all of Dendrick, possibly the world. It is a place of immense wealth, where the most powerful CEOs and corporate stooges play kings and queens, gods and goddesses. You retrieve your credit stick from the driver as you step out of the Birdie and onto the marble flooring of the security checkpoint. A sharp wind blows across the platform and you take a moment to enjoy the sweet fragrance of fresh, clean air. As the Birdie departs you begin to make your way to security. You flash your fake badge with practiced ease and the woman behind the security kiosk waves you through. As you pass through the detector and step into the elevator you smile. Maybe this trip won’t be so bad after all. The elevator begins to rise...

Storms have been beating the city for three days straight. You are huddled against a waist high wall outlining the roof of an old warehouse that overlooks the majority of Takiyoto, a long since abandoned district of Dendrick. This heavenly slice of filth has fallen into disrepair making it the perfect hiding place for all those who wish to live outside the reach of the Big Five. Your rusty combat drone hovers noisily beside you, the occasional heavy wind attempting to blow it this way or that. The hood of your jacket offers barely enough cover from the weather to make visible the drone’s readout on the display of your hand-held. Rain water dances across the screen, splashing and then trailing off in serpentine patterns. It’s not the most powerful cyberdeck but it controls the drone well enough at short range and, to be honest, it's all you could afford. A sudden and sharp bolt of lightning cracks the night sky in half, illuminating the dilapidated terrace of the Meiji inspired high rise just ahead of you. Your drone perks up as you frantically scan the layout before the light fades. You breathe a sigh of relief, Still nothing. Being the infamous Ronin of the Underworld has earned you quite a reputation. Your ability to hack systems previously thought impenetrable, and your unparalleled skill at piloting drones, has not only brought you considerable notoriety but also some pretty powerful enemies. You used to joke about it as being an “occupational hazard” but this most recent foe has you pretty spooked. His name is Vsevolod Markov, and as far as you can tell, he has been stalking you for months. Markov works for Architekt, one of the Big Five, the most powerful corporations in Dendrick. He is a terrifyingly good hacker and you've heard rumor that he was a marksman during the war. This is a deadly combo in modern warfare. Most field operatives use implants to improve their performance. If you can disable these implants, or better yet turn them against their user, you can frequently win a fight without ever firing a round. It was a type of combat that, up until a few months ago, you thought only you had mastered. A red warning sign begins to flash rapidly in the corner of your goggles… he's here! With a panicked flurry of keystrokes on your cyberdeck you attempt to reinforce your firewall but it's too late. It fizzles and sparks and an excruciating shock shoots up your arm. Your drone falls silent and drops like a brick. You yank your sawed-off double barrel from its holster, rip the goggles from your eyes, and duck down behind the guard wall. For better or for worse, this ends tonight.

The driving tool floats weightlessly where you left it, shoulder height and only inches from your gloved and smoldering hand. You eye Patrick, wreathed in flames, his miner’s suit doing its best to protect him from the volatile chemical fire caused by the powder. It's called Bitrite. It's one of the most efficient fuel sources in the known galaxy. The process of extracting it spreads fine-dust particles onto literally everything in the immediate area, frequently igniting whatever it lands on for a few seconds before burning off. It isn’t particularly dangerous unless you breath it and with the proper equipment the flame is pretty harmless. Inevitably everyone on the ground team catches fire at some point, often the whole team is ablaze in orange-blue flame. The effect can actually be quite beautiful. Patrick pats out the fire in his hand long enough to grab his driver and fasten the last bolt on the rig. He then waves to you to confirm that the job is done and you flash your headlamp twice in acknowledgement. You would normally Voice him but you are pretty sure he’s blasting the new Angelica album and wouldn’t have heard you anyway. With all the bolts sealed there isn’t much else for you to do but wait for pick-up. You double check that your carabiner is clipped to the stake drilled in the rock, lean back, take a deep breath of the stale, filtered air and look out on the great, expansive, emptiness of space. Six months on this asteroid, six months away from your family and friends, and it hasn’t been made real clear when the job will be done. You find time, moments you can steal for yourself. It is against regulations to use a Vidchip of any kind while deployed. “You must stay alert!” the taskmaster always repeats during the briefing, but you pretty much always sneak one. This particular recorded memory is of you and your one and only, your soulmate, your Starlight. It has always been your favorite despite there being nothing particularly special about it. As you close your eyes and drift off into the dream, the incessant humming and beeping of your suit fades into the background.

Never trust Tony. Your visor says half past two. He was suppose to be here an hour ago. The “barista” at the Modern Vixen is starting to get suspicious and you’ve choked down about all of that swill they call Karsk that you can stomach. At least it takes the edge off. Jax is fidgeting, thoughtlessly snapping the button on the holster of his pistol, and has been for the past fifteen minutes. The sound seems to get louder with each click. Never trust Tony. These junkies are all the same. Five minutes alone with a Steinberg High Grade and they are right back in the pit, jetted out and tweaking. He promised Jax it was behind him. You knew better. Now you are stuck between a rock and a hard place. If you show up at Switchblade’s without the implant it’ll be lights out, and there’s no point trying to hide from her in this city, she owns it. That leaves only one option. The Damned. That trash filled, seedy club in the Underbelly. Home to the lowest of the low, willing to sell their own mother for a ride on the electric highway. He’s definitely hole up there and you doubt he’ll give up the implant willingly. Damn it, Jax… Never trust Tony.

You stumble out of the main entrance and clumsily shuffle down the steps. Unable to muster the strength to continue, you slump down against the guard rail of the moderately-sized Atlas sculpture on the large, paved entryway in the center of the garden. The heat from the flames of the apartment building on fire behind you is warm on your back, the raindrops feel heavy on your head. You glance down and move your hand to reveal a gunshot wound in your gut. You'll bleed out long before help ever arrives, not that any is coming. You had pleaded with Jimmy and Sasha but neither of them had wanted to get involved. It had never been about revenge. They took your little girl, they did God knows what with her, but you had come to terms with it long ago. No, this was more about ensuring that it never happened to anyone else ever again. Even so, an enormous weight feels as though it has lifted from your shoulders. A burden you have carried for such a number of years you didn’t bother to count. You raise your head and survey the area. What was once an immaculately kept apartment grounds now holds the appearance of a horrific battlefield, features in ruins and littered with the corpses of traffickers. Tire tracks in the mud lead from your armored van to a huge hole in the reinforced concrete wall at the perimeter. Through the hole you can see the Dendrick skyline, silhouetted by a sunset just beneath the smog. It is a rare and beautiful view. You close your eyes and tilt your head back. The rain on your face is refreshing. Your mind wanders, flitting from memory to memory. It finally comes to rest on one in particular. It was spring and the cherry blossoms were in full bloom. Your daughter and you had made the trip from your condominium on the Presidium to the park around the corner and were now linked, arm in arm, spinning around and around and singing a silly little tune. You remember her laughter like it was yesterday. She must have only been six or seven at the time. As the memory plays out, your mouth broadens into a smile and you let out a sigh of relief. “It’s over… see you soon, my sweet sunshine.”

Lights unwind. Sleep, sweet sunshine. So long tonight. Forever follow that sweet sunset.

The tires squeal as your bike slides sideways through the turn. You straighten into the corridor and slam the gas, maneuvering the small space with practiced ease. A moment later, there is a loud crash followed by the low rumble of an explosion. You glance back to see a plume of smoke rising over the rooftops. You knew that corner would be way too sharp for them. That should buy you just enough time. You cut out of the corridor and into a main thoroughfare, throttling your bike and merging into the thick traffic. Last night you had a dream. In the dream you were in a luscious green garden. The fresh air had a sweet fragrance and the sun was high in a clear blue sky. A single monarch butterfly was perched on your forearm, its wings glowing brightly and constantly changing neon colors. After a moment the butterfly fluttered off and you awakened. This dream is called the Mark of the Monarch. You still aren't entirely sure when you became imprinted but you know all too well what it means: you are being hunted. Every cop and gangbanger in the city is looking for you. It's time to make tracks. You travel about a quarter mile before exiting the thoroughfare and turning down a tight alleyway. The foot traffic is so dense you have to get off your motorcycle and walk it the remaining two blocks. Familiar faces greet you as you pass; Xan with his taco stand, Gus the mechanic, the sister twins, Cybil and Lily. Cybil is posing in a showcase window debuting a new outfit (it doesn’t leave much to the imagination). As you pass, Lily leans out of the door and waves you over. “Some police officers came looking for you. Said it was important.” Cybil pops her head into the hallway a short distance behind Lily and cuts in, “said to contact them if we ‘remembered’ anything.” She stops chewing her gum long enough to take a drag from her cigarette, adding “no one said anything, of course. Those pigs can bite a bullet for all I care.” She winks at you, seemingly pleased with herself. You retrieve a fresh pack of cigarettes from your satchel and toss it to Cybil. She blows you a kiss and retreats to her spot behind the window. Lily leans in closer, “hey… seriously, please be careful.” You park your bike behind the chain operated garage door and pull the door down. Your apartment is on the twelfth floor. It’s a tiresome walk up the stairs but the view from your room is actually spectacular. You are fairly exhausted but you know there is no time for sleep. It won’t take very long for the police to track you down and you plan to be long gone by then. You grab the duffel bag from your closet and fill it with the necessities. As you turn to leave, you take one final look out the large picture window at the city that made you. Despite all its harshness, it can be quite beautiful at night. After a moment you shake off the nostalgia. You still have a long and very dangerous trip ahead of you and if you want to make it out alive you need to leave now. You take one final moment to tip your hat before rushing out the door, “See ya ‘round, Dendrick.”