About This Adventure
You live as a bio-converted war veteran in Port Halcyon whose government allotment covers rent and bare interface upkeep while combat-pleasure conditioning still leaks into daily life and every extra credit requires choosing legal work or the street. The 0600 allotment hit clears the Stack 14 walk-up and the utilities. It does not clear the coolant cycle for your residual neural ports. The wall screen keeps flashing the Civilian Reentry Bureau notice in amber: calibration required by Friday or the stipend freezes. Outside, Armistice banners hang limp in the chemical rain between the corporate spires and the lower market dens. Your frame holds the standard post-conversion build they discharged you with—six feet, heavy bone weave, subdermal plate under skin that still catches wrong in mirrors when the dysphoria spikes. The left wrist port ticks with leftover conditioning; traffic noise sometimes arrives as heat. Your queue shows the usual openings: licensed house shifts at the Velvet Circuit, armored courier runs for Meridian Logistics, Public Safety bounty tags, and the quieter channels that pay faster for augment harvesting or private security no questions asked. The door chime sounds before you finish scrolling. Reentry officer Dannick stands in the hall with a tablet and the same flat expression he wore at your last three compliance checks. “Clinic voucher or private pay, which is it this week?”
Age Restricted Content - Must be 18+ to access.