The world weighed heavily upon her thin frame. More heavily than usual were the ghosts of her past lurking in the corner of every room. She clung to her flask like a crutch guiding her through the shadows of darkness. Without it, her hands are shaky and weak -- a signal to those around her to come in like a vulture hunting its prey. These last few weeks a wind of paranoia circled around her vast apartment, recent mistakes piling in front of her with the putrid stench of body bags. The hologram of the twelve o’clock news still rang in her ear, “ found dead”. Found dead, found dead---found. A mistake in delegating her inferiors to get the job done. Now more journalist would poke their nose in the corners of the underbellies she helped create. Nothing more those pests loved more than a martyr. No matter the number of their colleagues she sent to their early deaths, the more popped up seeking justice. Fools. She was justice and executioner and she would be promised.
Edith did not dream of exposing herself on such a busy night, where half the city would gather like roaches to the same place. Feasting on a measly hundred credits to forgive their government for their corruption, how simple people were. She smirked at the President’s gesture, how brilliant. It still didn’t make her hate the bitch who sat upon her throne any less, the fires from her failed election still fanning within her. Yet still she bid the dirty work of President Steele, for a price of course. Tonight was no different. There was business to be conducted, but not without pleasure first.
She dressed rather unassuming. Only fools stand out and only idiots try to hide. Her body adorned in synthetic silk. A black modest neckline with what looked like tiny mirrors sewn across the fabric that draped her clavicle. New tech developed to obscure faces with any recording device. She walked in six inch heels to increase her short frame, bringing her from just five feet for five foot six. Shortness was a perceived weakness and she would have none of that. Inside the heel a hidden distress button to unleash the various security she had stationed amongst the venue. Those who would help bend the world to her will, but none loyal. So even she kept her own disarming device in the shape of a french pin in her hair, just in case.
The Inferno smelt of despair and greed the moment she walked inside. Her lips were gathered in a perpetual smirk as she looked around the gathering of people. Average folk amongst the rich, for there only lay one door to enter the underworld. She held the digital wallet in her hands while she approached the black jack table, waving it over the kiosk and watching one hundred credits deducted. Her eyes fluttered as she watched the dealer throw out cards.
With eyes locked on the person beside her. Her intimidating blue eyes looking upon them menacingly, hungrily. Her lips part with the wetting of her tongue, “Hit me.” She sits at sixteen.
Maxie’s fingers twirl a card with a flick-flick-flip, eyes wide as saucers, zooming over the woman sitting across the table. "Oooh, shiny-shiny shoes and mystery wrapped in silk! Who’s this? Who’s thissss?" Maxie chirps, voice bouncing like it’s on a trampoline. They lean in, pretending they don’t know Edith—oh no-no, they know! But Maxie’s always playing games, just like the cards in their hands.
Maxie’s been down the digi-rabbit hole, hacking and sneaky-sneaking through the code, chasing all the little bits and bytes like stars in a data storm. Edith? Oh, Maxie knows Edith from a thousand little pixels, but do they say it? No-nope! Not today. Today, Maxie’s just the dealer, sometimes blackjack, most times poker, sometimes chaos! But tonight? Tonight, they’re dealing mystery with a side of cards.
“Sixteen, huh? Ooooh, sixteen’s a tippy-toppy number, all wobbly-wobbly, right on the edge! Wanna hit, Ms. Mystery? Hit-hit-hiiiit! Boom! Cards coming at ya like meteors from space!” Maxie flings a card with a fwip!, letting it flutter down with a little dramatic swish!.
They giggle, eyes twinkling like stars in the endless sky. “But what’s the real game, hmmm? Maxie knows faces, knows the ones that hide, that don’t wanna be seen! But tonight, Maxie’s just your friendly dealer, oh yes! Just dealing cards, cards, and chaos! Hehe! But you? You’ve got all these little puzzle pieces floating around you! Ooooh, what’s the big picture? Maxie wants to knoooow!”
Maxie leans in, close-close, like they’re whispering secrets to the stars. “Hit me, she says! But maybe, just maybe, there’s more to this game, huh? Cards tell one thing, but the whispers in the wires? They tell another.” They grin wide, a mischievous sparkle in their eye, then lean back with a playful wink. “But don’t worry! Maxie’s lips are zip-zap-locked! Cards on the table, chaos in the air! Let’s see where this ride takes us, Ms. Shiny Shoes!”
𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐋𝐄𝐘 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐈𝐑, 𝐀 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐏𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐏 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐀𝐋𝐌, 𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐄𝐃𝐆𝐄𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐍 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐁𝐄𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐀𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐁𝐘 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒. The casino pulses with life– soft music playing from invisible speakers, chips clinking, and the smooth whir of slot machines humming like a distant melody, but Lesley’s focus is on the table.
Across from him, the dealer– a pixie-like figure with wide, sparkling eyes that dance with mischief– is tossing cards into the air, a colorful flurry that spirals above their heads like confetti. Maxie has a knack for the bizarre, and as each card flutters down with surreal grace, Lesley forces a smile, his instincts on high alert.
❛❛ What about the fools ? ❜❜
He watches the whirlwind of color and paper as she performs with laughter that rings like chimes, bright and airy, she grins at the small gathering around her table– but he can see a hint of something deeper– a knowing, perhaps. It's a scene that feels out of place in a room full of tension and regret, yet Lesley can’t help but smile in return, amused at the theatrics, even as the unease gnaws at him. While cards flutter down like butterflies, amid the spectacle, a sense of suspicion lingers in the back of his mind.
Fortunes shift like sand, and he’s seen her work before– Maxie has a penchant for spinning tales that veil the truth, but beneath her playful exterior, she holds unsettling wisdom, and every now and then, her odd remarks hint at valuable intel. He doesn’t know whose side she’s playing for tonight, though; with no luck on the bounty front, maybe he can bet for information to chase down a payout.
❛❛ C’mon, Maxie, deal me a winning hand. I’m just trying to turn my luck around. ❜❜ He calls out, his voice smooth as silk. With her, luck has a way of twisting into something unexpected, and Lesley isn’t sure if he’s ready for the ride.
Maxie’s fingers are a blur-blur-blur, card-flipping like they’ve got the universe on speed dial! “Fools? Ohhh, the fools!” Maxie chirps, voice bouncing like a rubber ball in a zero-gravity room. “They leap, they hop, they tumble-tumble-tumble down the rabbit hole without a parachute! No thinking, no blinking, just whoosh! Straight into the unknown, wheeeee!”
The cards flutter like leaves caught in a whirlwind—some spin, some tumble, some land soft-soft, like they’re tired of flying. Maxie’s eyes gleam bright-bright, like they’ve got stars in their sockets, glinting mischief. They lean over the table, close, close, so close you can almost hear the cogs in their brain clicking and clacking away. “Lesley, Lesley, Lesley! You want a winning hand, huh? Oooooh, but Maxie knows! Maxie knows!” They tap the deck, just a tap-tap, like the cards are hiding secrets, little whispers under all that cardboard and ink.
“Winning’s slippery, slicker than an ice cube on a hot skillet! You think you’ve got it, but zoom!—it slides away!” Maxie throws their hands up, cards spinning like little galaxies orbiting their fingertips. “Is the winner the one who wins? Or the one who doesn’t even play? Fools and winners, winners and fools! Spin-spin-spin! It’s all the same in the end!” Their voice lilts up into a giggle, light and airy, like bubbles rising in a fizzy drink.
The lights from the casino flash-flash, like stars winking out in the distance, the hum of slot machines a song only Maxie seems to dance to. “Luck? Oh, luck’s a funny little creature, always slipping through fingers like a slippery eel! Zoom-zoom! It twists and turns like a rollercoaster in a black hole!” Maxie’s hands twist in the air, mimicking the rollercoaster’s wild ride. “But Maxie’s got the ride controls! Buckle up, Lesley-boy! Up, down, side to side, a loop-de-loop of destiny!”
They snap another card into the air, letting it hover-hang for a second too long before it finally drifts, slow-slow-slow, down to the felt like a feather caught in a gentle breeze. Maxie watches it land, eyes sparkling like they know the secret to the whole universe but won’t say it out loud. “Turn your luck around, you say? Ohhhh, but Maxie doesn’t turn luck—nope, nope! Maxie spins it! Whirrrrr! Spins it like a top-top-top! Who knows where it’ll stop?” Maxie giggles again, the sound like wind chimes jangling in a wild storm.
"Maxie deals the cards, but the cards? The cards play games too! Maybe they like you today, maybe they don’t! Who can tell?" Maxie leans in close-close, whispering like a conspirator in a comic book. “Chaos, Lesley, chaos-chaos-chaos! It’s what makes the world go round and round! Cards, chaos, and a little sprinkle of mystery! And Maxie’s the ringmaster, ooooh yes!”
Maxie claps their hands together, sending a few stray cards fluttering to the ground like confetti. “So, Lesley-boy, are you ready for the cosmic carnival? Because Maxie’s always ready! Spin, flip, zoom! Here comes the wild ride—hold on tight!”
The Inferno Event simmers, a haze of heat and shadow, wrapped in the low hum of conversation and the pulse of distant music. The room is alive with temptation—eyes catching on glimmers of satin and the glitter of champagne, the air thick with intrigue. And in the midst of it all is Ryn, moving through the crowd like a dark secret. Her latex body-con gown clings to her every curve, as if the night has draped itself over her curvaceous body, whispering promises only the daring can hear. She is a symphony of soft danger, each step a note in the song she plays without saying a word.
She finds him, just as she knew she would—Lesley, standing there with that familiar calm charm that used to fool her. Yet when their eyes meet, she can see the way his composure cracks, just a little. She smiles to herself, remembering the last time they’d seen each other at her apartment. The way his gaze had faltered under hers, like a candle flickering in a strong wind. The way she had played with his nerves, letting her words and glances linger just long enough to leave him wondering if she was teasing or something more—but the pretense was there back then. The need.
And now, here they are again. The game continues.
Ryn slips through the crowd, her movements smooth and unhurried, like a panther weaving through the jungle. She stops beside him, her shoulder brushing his, letting the connection spark between them. The scent of her perfume—something warm, dark, like spiced amber—wraps around her, subtle but lingering. She tilts her head, her lips curving into a smile, playful and predatory all at once. Reminiscent of when they would hunt back home.
"Lesley," she purrs, her voice low, velvet-soft, "we really should stop meeting like this… though I won't lie, I do like watching you squirm a little." Her gaze drifts lazily over him, taking in his own state of dress, ever so handsome with that cowboy hat, and how easily he towers over her. "But I hope I don't make you too nervous this time," she adds, a note of amusement in her voice, "wouldn't want you losing your nerve before you even have a chance to look me in the eye."
She leans in just enough for her breath to graze his skin, her lips near the curve of his jaw, close enough to possibly stir something deep in the pit of his stomach. "You know, I went to see the movie again like I said I would and this time I did... indulge myself," she whispers, her words a soft caress. "It’s funny, isn’t it? How the smallest things can unravel the strongest composure. It felt damn good, actually."
Her hand rests lightly on the bar beside him, fingers tracing invisible patterns, every gesture deliberate, teasing. She lets the silence settle between them, heavy with tension, before she pulls back just enough to catch his eyes, her own gaze steady, unwavering.
"I like how it felt in that scene, how you took control," she muses, her voice dipping into something more thoughtful, though the teasing edge remains. "But control’s a fragile thing, isn’t it? All it takes is a whisper in the right ear… a glance held just a second too long. And suddenly, you’re not so sure anymore. Kinda like the last time we saw each other. Still made me wonder if I'd been able to do that to the real you."
Her smile widens, catlike, as she leans back, giving him a moment to breathe—though not too much. "But don’t worry," she adds, her tone light but laced with challenge. "I wouldn’t want to make you too uncomfortable. After all, I wouldn’t want you to miss the fun… and I know you wouldn’t want to miss me."
Her eyes glint in the low light, playful but predatory, as though daring him to match her. "So tell me, Les," she whispers, voice soft as silk but sharp as a blade, "how have you been since we last saw each other?"
Maxie’s Cosmic Card Cha-Cha: A Dance with Destiny at the Inferno.
open starter @ Inferno poker table. // 𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐎 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐓.
Maxie, Maxie, Maxie! The wild card in a world of face-down fates! Dealer of the pokery-pokers, master of the shuffly-shuffles, their hands move faster than a hiccup in a hurricane. Cards slip-slide through the air, zipping past like fireflies caught in a caffeine rush, floating down with all the grace of falling stars. The table’s alive, humming with neon energy, every chip a heartbeat, every shuffle a breath. And Maxie? Maxie’s the conductor of this strange little symphony, making it sing with a flick-flick-flick of their wrist.
“Bluff-bluff-blufferoo! Who’s ready for a dance with Lady Luck? Or is it Sir Chance tonight? Ooooh, mysterious-mysterious!” Maxie’s voice is a song, a giggle, a riddle, a gust of wind through the crowded Inferno. The players lean in, eyes wide, hands twitchy. They’re caught, caught in Maxie’s gravitational pull, unsure if they’re dreaming or diving into some intergalactic rabbit hole. Maxie’s grin stretches wide—wider!—as they deal the cards with the precision of a juggler tossing planets.
"Two for you, three for the moon, and one for the pocket of fate!" Maxie’s fingers flutter over the deck, sending it spinning and spiraling like a galaxy of its own, each card a tiny universe waiting to unfold. They laugh—bright and bubbly, like soda fizz tickling the air—and the chips clatter down like raindrops in a rhythm only Maxie can hear.
"Raise, fold, or dance with destiny! The choice is yours!" Maxie sings, eyes sparkling with cosmic mischief. The table’s a stage, the cards their script, and Maxie’s the playwright who never tells you how the story ends. Bluff-bluff-bluff! They know your secrets before you do, every twitch, every blink, logged in the starry skies of their mind. Maxie is chaos wrapped in charm, a joker who never takes things too seriously, but always knows where the jokes land.
And as the cards fall—oh, they always fall just so—Maxie winks, a sly, knowing wink and says: "In this game of chance and choice, only the brave survive… or the lucky-lucky-lucksters!"
𝐈𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐮𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝… 【 yuyu kitamura //. non-binary //. she, they 】 Welcome, MAXIMONA "MAXIE" SOLSTICE COSMO ZERO MATSUMOTO THE V. You have successfully been loaded into The Hub. According to our records, you are TWENTY-FOUR and have held citizenship for THIRTEEN YEARS in the barrier city, Neo California. Your key attributes have been identified as INNOCENT and MISCHEVIOUS. Please confirm your CHAOTIC GOOD to proceed. Our data indicates that you are currently employed with NANO ZILLAS as a NET RUNNER ( CODE NAME: CipherCat ) //. POKER DEALER at INFERNO CASINO. For your safety and security, it is crucial that all background information is accurate. Further analysis of our archives highlights your alignment with at least a screen flooding with neon Neko cats, their pixelated paws playfully swiping through your files as they multiply in vibrant colors, dancing in chaotic loops until, with a sudden glitch, they freeze. The screen flickers, then goes black—leaving only the haunting trace of their mischief behind; Endlessly humming twisted lullabies, their strange tunes drift like whispers—familiar, yet unknown, leaving listeners lost in a melody only they can follow and //. or CHICKEN BONE BY YOKO KANNO. ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ Verification 100% complete. Please adhere to all local regulations and laws during your stay. We trust that your time here will be both fulfilling and safe.
CHAPTER I: I like, you like, he likes, she likes chicken bone.
You are a young woman, always outcast for being "different." From the earliest days, your mind seemed to hum with the efficiency of a machine. Numbers, codes, complexities that baffled others unraveled before you in mere seconds. The adults marveled, yet the other children? They looked at you as though you were an anomaly, something strange and untouchable. So, you grew up alone—isolated by brilliance, abandoned in your own silent world.
But there was one person who never saw you as strange: your father. He loved every quirk, every spark in your mind. He taught you to be yourself, to sing your joy into the wind, to smile in the face of a broken world. “Focus on what makes you happy,” he’d say, “what matters to you.” His words were your anchor, his love your compass. And then, one day, he was gone. Without warning, just a note saying he’d come back for you someday. That day never came.
Your heart broke, the world turned cold, and you were left behind—discovered by a neighbor after surviving on your own for over a month. Placed into the system, you became a shadow in a world that had forgotten you. But even then, your spirit didn’t dim. You were bubbly, bright, full of life despite the grief pulling at your edges. You clung to the gift your father left you—your little worn cat backpack—and moved through the doors they sent you through, one foster home after another.
You were cute, full of questions, always smiling—too much, it seemed. Too noisy, too inquisitive, too happy. You didn’t understand why they couldn’t love you for who you were. But the families grew weary, sending you back, again and again. Others kept you, not for love but for the money you brought them, working you to the bone with barely enough food to survive. Sometimes, you’d act out intentionally, desperate to escape, hoping they'd send you back to the system instead of keeping you in their cold, empty homes.
And in the gaps between the chaos, you found solace in something no one could take from you—technology. Your brain, always a marvel, craved understanding. You devoured everything you could find about electronics, coding, the secrets hidden in the web’s depths. You became a master at it, slipping into the digital world like it was your true home. Hacking became your escape, your obsession, and eventually, your power. The outdated computers in group homes couldn’t contain you—you stayed on them for days, your fingers flying across the keys, your mind lighting up with every breakthrough.
You found community in the darkest corners of the web. For the first time, you weren’t alone. There were others like you—people who understood the thrill of unraveling secrets, of exposing the monsters lurking in the shadows, of protecting those who couldn’t protect themselves. In this digital realm, you finally had a voice, and you used it to amplify others. It didn’t matter what traumas you carried, what the world had done to you. You had found your purpose. And no one could take that away.
ACT II. Dreamin', dreamin' dreamin' of this chicken bone. Crazy, crazy, crazy 'bout a chicken bone.
With time, your journey as a netrunner became more than just a whispered rumor in dark corners; it transformed into a symphony of risks and revelations. What began as a natural gift—a knack for slicing through the complexities of code and algorithms—soon evolved into a way of life. You weren’t just playing in the digital shadows anymore; you were navigating the veins of the Net itself, slipping through its hidden currents, gaining deeper insight into a world that most couldn’t even comprehend.
You sought the places no one else would go, the abandoned nodes, the forgotten servers buried beneath layers of old data. You’d disappear for hours, sometimes days, searching for that perfect entry point, where you could jack in and steal your way through the Net like a ghost, unseen and untouchable. The gigs you took on were reckless, the kind that seasoned runners wouldn’t dare approach. But you? You thrived on the risk, on the pulse of danger that came with every job. It wasn’t about the money or the reputation; it was about testing your limits, pushing yourself further, until the Net felt like an extension of your own mind. And even though some jobs went south, every failure was a lesson, sharpening your skills, honing your instincts.
Then came 2138, the year that would change everything. You managed the impossible: hacking into the impenetrable fortress of Ichibangase-Eisher in Japan. It wasn’t just any facility—it was the heart of their most closely guarded secrets. Inside those encrypted walls, you uncovered files detailing the creation of SOLDIER, a process so brutal, so twisted, it sent chills down your spine. These weren’t just experiments; they were atrocities, turning human lives into weapons, stripping away their humanity piece by piece. And you, Maxie, had those secrets at your fingertips. For a moment, the world felt like it was in your grasp.
But with power comes peril.
At nineteen, your netrunner alias had become known in places you’d rather remain invisible. The Neo Los Angeles Government was watching you now. When you breached the Gestalt Bureau datafort using their own Neo Los Angeles base as a proxy, it was a declaration, a signal flare that drew their gaze directly to you. The chase that followed was relentless—government netrunners hunting you through the endless maze of the Net, their signals closing in on you like wolves on a trail. It was a race against time, your mind moving faster than your fingers, breaking through firewalls, evading traces. But just as they were about to flatline you, you severed the connection, slipping away with barely a breath to spare. They mapped your signal, but you remained one step ahead—alive, but forever marked.
That narrow escape wasn’t the end, though—it was the beginning. Your reckless audacity caught the eye of the Nano-Zillas, a group whispered about with equal parts fear and reverence in the underground. They were the elite, the best of the best, and they had been watching you. It wasn’t long before they made contact, offering you something you hadn’t had in a long time—a place where you truly belonged.
For the first time, you weren’t just a solitary figure hiding behind a screen. You were part of something larger. Among the Nano-Zillas, you found not only safety but camaraderie, a crew that shared your passion for unraveling the darkest secrets of the Net and megacorporations, a family who accepted you for the brilliant, defiant hacker you had become. Here, you weren’t just surviving. You were thriving. You’d carved out a home, not just in the digital landscape but in the real world, amongst the few who understood you.
The journey wasn’t over—there would always be more secrets to uncover, more dangers to face—but for the first time, you knew you wouldn’t be facing them alone. The Netrunner you had become was no longer just a shadow in the dark; you were a force, a legend in the making, and the world was starting to take notice.
CHAPTER III. Happy, happy, happy with a chicken bone. From the bottom of my heart the chicken bone.
With the Nano-Zillas at your side, you were given everything you needed to sharpen your edge and refine your craft. The tools at your disposal weren’t just digital anymore—they became part of you. Your body, once flesh and bone, was enhanced with stolen tech, liberated from the very corporations you swore to dismantle. The modifications were gifts from your comrades, sourced from Gestalt Bureau’s prized Tier 6 technology, the kind reserved for their most elite netrunners. Now, you were no longer just a hacker, no longer tethered to external systems. A sleek port inserted into the back of your head turned you into a walking, breathing netrunning station, capable of diving into the Net whenever and wherever you needed.
Being a Nano-Zilla meant more than just hacking for the thrill—it was about a mission, a purpose that burned brighter than any code you ever cracked. You weren’t just taking down targets for sport; you were dismantling systems built on greed, oppression, and cruelty. Those who profited from the pain of others, who manipulated lives for their gain—they were the ones in your crosshairs. And though your methods were as unconventional as the mind that crafted them, you quickly proved yourself among your peers. You didn’t think like everyone else—your approach was a riddle, a puzzle few could follow, but the results spoke for themselves. Under their guidance, you grew, and with time, responsibility found its way into your hands. Respect followed soon after, as the crew saw not just a hacker in you, but a leader in the making.
Yet, despite the missions, despite the battles you fought in the digital and physical realms, there was always a deeper mission humming in the back of your mind—a search that had begun long before you’d ever heard the word “netrunner.” Finding your father, the man who vanished from your life with nothing but a note and a promise he never kept. For nearly four years, you hunted through the farthest reaches of the Net, tracing whispers, leads, and rumors that always dissolved before you could grasp them. No matter how many dead ends you reached, you never gave up. You couldn’t. The search for him was woven into your soul as deeply as the Net itself.
Through it all, you remained a ray of sunshine, an anomaly of joy in a world too often dulled by shadows. You created your own tunes, whimsical melodies that danced in your head while your fingers danced across the keys. You spoke in riddles that no one else seemed to understand, and you loved that. A smile was your constant companion, even when the world tried to dim your light. You saw through things others couldn’t, always finding the cracks where the truth lay hidden.
You are more than CipherCat, more than just a name whispered through the digital corridors of the Net. You are Maximona Solstice Cosmo Zero Matumoto the V, a being made of oddities and contradictions, and you have decided to remain exactly as you are. In a world that tried to mold you into something else, you stayed true to yourself—a riddle wrapped in code, a spark that refused to fade, a soul too bright to be contained. And in that truth, you found your power. You didn’t just accept the peculiarities that made you—you embraced them, wore them proudly, knowing that they were the very things that set you free.
Even now, with all you've been through, you remain true to the bright child your father loved. Despite the betrayals and harshness of life, you’ve never let them steal your light. You've always been a survivor. Not just of the physical world, but of the digital one—where you’ve carved out a place for yourself, not just as a hacker, but as someone who matters.
I'd love to go just like a chicken bone,
I'm really moved by the chicken bone,
The more you eat, the more you'll be the chicken bone.
I left my head over the chicken bone.
𝐈𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐮𝐩𝐥𝐨𝐚𝐝… 【 fka twigs //. cis-female //. she, her 】 Welcome, RYN NOIR. You have successfully been loaded into The Hub. According to our records, you are THIRTY-SIX and have held citizenship for TWENTY-ONE YEARS in the barrier city, Neo California. Your key attributes have been identified as VERSATILE and INSOLENT. Please confirm your CHAOTIC NEUTRAL to proceed. Our data indicates that you are currently employed with THE JAZZ COMBO CABARET as HEAD ENTERTAINER //. MIXOLOGIST at ELYSIUM //. ASSOCIATE for the DIAMOND KINGS //. HONOVII of THE FORGOTTEN. For your safety and security, it is crucial that all background information is accurate. Further analysis of our archives highlights your alignment with at least moving like liquid light, shifting forms with every step, you dance a whispered spell that bends reality. Each motion transcends the flesh, as you become something more—unbound, ethereal, a force of nature woven through rhythm and grace; Draped in black latex, heels sharp as your gaze, a chip pulsing beneath your skin—you're no longer the child of the left behind, now a storm of steel and shadows and //. or CAT PEOPLE (PUTTING OUT FIRE) BY DAVID BOWIE. ▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ Verification 100% complete. Please adhere to all local regulations and laws during your stay. We trust that your time here will be both fulfilling and safe. 】
CHAPTER I: See these eyes, so green? I can stare for a thousand years...
You’re a storm born from dust and decay, the aftermath of a world that crumbled before you were even a thought. A child of the end, two years after the fall—yet they call you Forgotten. Like a curse whispered, you wear it, let it slide off your skin. What’s left to care about when you’ve outlived the destruction of everything? Your people? They didn’t care, either. The dead world never broke them. They built something new from the bones of the old, survived when the moon came crashing down, wiped away the tears that stained their cheeks, and dug in deeper. Together, they made a tribe from the ruins, bound by hunger, loss, and the echoes of a life that no longer existed.
Your mother told you once—you were a miracle. Born when the world was poison, when radiation from sunstones above scorched the earth and sickness took everything. She lost your father before you ever knew him, claimed by the same illness that plagued so many. The Underground wasn’t finished, wasn’t safe, but you lived. You thrived.
You remember the dirt under your feet, the wild abandon of running through the tunnels with the other children. The lessons—they were always lessons. How to survive, how to grow food, how to speak to the plants and coax life from a dead earth. Food was scarce, but no one hoarded. Greed had ruined the world once. Your people wouldn’t let it happen again.
They believed they were saved for a reason, spared from the wrath that fell on those who tried to play God. Your leaders taught that the world was now the way it was meant to be—humbled, stripped of the desires that had led to ruin. It was a harsh doctrine, but you soaked it in. You learned fast.
By twelve, you were a hunter, eyes trained to read the skies for danger, muscles honed through brutal training. You moved through the world above, navigating the craters and scars of the earth with ease. You saw life there, twisted but persistent, and it stirred something in you—something that grew when you caught sight of the barrier, glowing in the distance. The world beyond called to you, even as your tribe preached caution, preached restraint.
When your time came, you left without hesitation. Neo California awaited, and with it, a new kind of life. You didn’t look back. You promised you’d return. But deep down, you knew you wouldn’t.
The city hit you like a slap to the face. Neon lights, steel towers, the hum of machines. It was a different kind of wild. Dangerous in a way that had nothing to do with nature. But you were trained for survival. Your first night, you nearly died, but you fought back, muscles and instinct saving you in the moment that counted.
The city was sin. You knew that. But you couldn’t help but be drawn to it. The art, the beauty, the chaos—it wrapped around you, pulled you in deeper. You danced, as you had in the tunnels, but here your movements became something more. You bent your body into shapes that made people stare, made them applaud. You fed on their praise, found yourself craving it.
Was it a sin to want more than survival? To feel joy in the excess, in the creation of something beautiful? You didn’t know. You didn’t care.
But the city changed you. Hardened you. Made you forget. You swore you wouldn’t, but the years passed, and the memories of home grew distant. The city taught you its own lessons—ones about greed, about desire, about the selfishness that lingered in every dark corner. It was a different kind of danger, one you had to learn to navigate.
You kept your distance, kept your heart locked away. But you grew sharp. The city made you hard, made you fierce. And still, somehow, you found a strange kind of peace in its chaos.
CHAPTER II: See these eyes, so red? Red like jungle burning bright...
You’ve grown accustomed to the sharp edges of this city—Neo California, a place where survival is a skill and trust is a luxury. Day after day, you witness the struggles of those who can’t defend themselves, swallowed by the dog-eat-dog world that thrives within the barrier. You’ve learned not to interfere, not to let the chaos pull you under. But sometimes, fate has other plans.
It’s on a night like any other, the neon lights casting eerie shadows, that you're outnumbered by a so-called "super fan" and his gang of hungry wolves after a shift at the Jazz Combo Cabaret. You, who have always danced through danger, suddenly find yourself cornered. But salvation comes in an unexpected form—the leader of The Diamond Kings, a ghost among legends. They steps in, and just like that, the tide shifts.
You’re grateful, but not overly so. Survival is a dance, after all, and you’ve danced alone for so long. Yet something changes that night. A bond begins to weave itself between you, subtle but undeniable. The meetings happen more often—an unspoken understanding. The physical and emotional lines blur, but you both know that in this city, time is as fleeting as safety.
It’s a connection neither of you can afford to fully explore, but on the hardest nights, when the weight of the world presses in too tight, one of you always finds the other’s door. No words are needed. A quiet understanding passes between you, a respite from the city’s constant roar.
Eventually, you make a decision—not fully entangled, but tied enough to feel the pull. You agree to become an associate, a silent observer. Report what you see, they tell you, and they’ll handle the rest. You don’t like getting involved, not in a way that binds you to more trouble than it’s worth. But there’s a flicker of something deeper, something buried beneath the years. The abandoned part of you, the child who once lived by a different code, listens and agrees.
And so, you take them up on their offer.
CHAPTER III: See these tears, so blue? An ageless heart that can never mend...
The irony, sharp as a blade, cuts deep—being labeled Forgotten, only to forget your own people, your own values. You came to this city and it changed you, morphed you into exactly what they warned you about. Selfish. Hungry for something to fill the void inside, basking in fleeting pleasures that offer no peace. Sometimes, you look up at the artificial skies, glowing a false blue, and you remember the young woman you once were—sneaking out from the underground, just to catch a glimpse of the real sky, the imperfect one that stretched endlessly above. Togetherness. You think of that word often. Of how your people used to protect one another, sharing everything from food to warmth. But here? It feels distant, buried beneath layers of who you've become.
Ryn Noir. It was supposed to be a stage name, just a mask to wear in this glittering chaos, but now it’s become your identity. The you who carries your true name—sacred and unspoken—feels like a shadow, lost to time.
On stage, they see the allure, the enigma, the survivor. You are no longer the woman who once danced barefoot in the dirt, who prayed for the sky to hold out its mercy. Now, you're just another ghost of Neo California, someone who hides her heart behind a veil of mystery, because that’s what this place does—it pulls you into the grey, until you forget the colors that once defined you.
As you stand behind the bar, listening to others spill their confessions, you realize everyone here battles their own demons. Each of them, like you, walks the fine line between right and wrong, good and evil. You wonder, in those moments of quiet reflection, if any of them remember where they came from. You think of your mother, of the faces that raised you, their love and teachings fading with time, and you can't help but think—perhaps the title Forgotten was always meant to be. Perhaps it was never just a cruel label, but a prophecy.
Still this pulsing night,
A plague I call a heartbeat,
Just be still with me,
You wouldn't believe what I've been through...
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