The DOR fields are getting thicker than a can of hate-syrup left in the sun and filled with mating insects. Several Anachronistic TT agents are in place, surveying the environment. One is clad in cheap leather, trying desperately to fit in, touting the merits of accepting bribery to compromise one's principles. 9cubed bails from the scene escorting two other agents wearing cloaking devices to their quarters. He drifts endlessly with a submarine passively carried on the waves for an hour or so before landing at the Deep6 pirate docks. He's dead tired and drifting in and out of sleep by this point. The mobile repair station he sleeps next to is left in shambles. He'll have to goto the local 2nd hand dealer of electrongnosis oriented tech in the morning. By design, this convergence is slipping into negazones fueling the Zede Lenisker seed.
Dr. B. tries to "tug" on the Harpocrates Cloaking Feed broadcast from OSK, but a new feature has been installed, much to his dismay. Anyone attempting to pierce it's veils are now blinded with a flash of pure Ain. It throbs in his pituitary glad as a sharp headache. He removes his glasses squinting and touching his eyes with left hand. "Fuck. He's onto me. I'll have to go this with my own accumulated negative veils." he thinks. They eventually meet their contact at the station and board a ship bound for an OSK underwater floating castle. Neurogame = capture the Binah bitch in psionic-flash encoding.
Agent Brantley aims a finely tuned eloptic raygun at Hecate and delivers a sole message: "Ikipr Sends his regards" in a blast green, toxick light whose source is the Tunable RGB Tri-Coil of Sansenoy, Senoy, and Semangeloph. 1351.
Meanwhile at the Deep six controlled pirate harbor, a Psychotronic ninja implants a self-replicating code in a series of Brantley-bots, hoping to effect the entire cluster. He leaves a mark on the door and hops in his mercurial sub.
King Behemoth of the Bennington Club enters the shadowy doorscape, eyes on fire as two girls gaze over his card tricks somehow amazed. He smiles a big sickly grin thinking about money and women, the Lord of Behemoth club has a two-track mind. Dr. B. is looking out at the crowd thinking "They are like ancient seeds waiting for the drought-breaking rains." But alas, Rains rarely come in these deserts of power abandon.
Tericon is breaking apart at the seams and the Admiral knows not what to do. He is distraught and his long-term disillusion with his cohorts is simmering with ever increasing temperature.
"Violent eloptic rituals, magician with a cellular extension created Inferior Station dowsing resins - Deep6, total, slow into young non-time," an Ayin-mem gangster chants with 712 at gunpoint - they're going with him whether they like it or not. 943.5 watches in remote sectors of time quietly. "Serves the bastard right" he thinks. The Ayin-Mem gangsters have been sent in to retroactively wreck up the etheric joint and take very specific prisoners. They attach viral servitors of toxic tonality to his nervous system and smile thinking about the long-term self replication that will be fueled by his muscular system.