B-Cluster 529
From Infictive
A.K.A. - "The Deadliest Portion of the game."
Colonel Purple's sitting outside Parfaxitas Lounge on the curb of the Thantifaxath market place. He drags a cigarette, angry look on his face, gritting his teeth and making fist. He just got through binging on ungodly amounts of Eyedot and smoking his pipe inside the club next to some lost Biazetai Boys out of their depths. Inside, some Tin Teeth Gang members survey the children from the corner, one of the gangsters comments "They'd fetch a fine price with the Strangling Mother of Children." Nefarious plans in the making. Elsewhere 9cubed is wearing the S.-IX suit, past the Lucifuge's drain pipes for the Liquid tunable nanolight to leave Asmoedeus Manor and the Black Haunted Woods unscathed. He moves beyond the City of the Mad, fed By the Portal's Blackhole polarity in OSD. Two Giant Daemonform conjoined in antilux union of bitterly tinged thought entanglement pace one another in a deviously shifting uneven circle. 9cube's interface glitches, momentarily he sees through A-UnitNo.146's eyes. He's walking by Colonel Purple. "The hunted." thinks 9cubed. His Vision returns. He's in the hollow endless black nothing, interfacing the circuit at it's origin. "If you want Our Spark Fragments, you have great depths to cross from the Tageriron Serpentine Node and should acquire equal assets to gamble with in this game of Athiel." his words resound across the Circuit Board.
Agent Titan picks up his assignment almost a year after the initial leak. It was prying through glaring black eyes out of the surfaces of his equipment for a long time. It is the AntiSource manifest. Two years later, Chuck Crump begins to notice black layers of viscous etheric liquid on the equipment he inherited from Agent Titan. It resonates with disease - Unholy slime, ἀ+ζωή. Raflifu is unhappy with their bargain. Lilith is pissed at she's elopticly bound with one of those superior TriCoil Tunable RGB Optic Guns Rodent Industries® can't get their hands on.
When an escaped Black Mother screams in the face of Mr. Brantley over Target184's defeat, he simply points her in the right direction. "You have mistaken me for someone else, madame. The lineage you are after is that of Jimmy Crump." Brantley Avoids some wild-painted Binah. Co-ordinates busted:"We know you are out there, and we are coming for you."
Ikipr is sitting in the Silver Twilight Lodge - pretty much always these days. He's smoking strange alien drugs acquired by way of an Orbital Transfer Unit, watching the game on a Psi-Chronistic Data Replay Screen. He sips a smoldering cup of Black Noxious Peppermint elixir and smiles a devious grin as he drags a cigarette. Scrawls a map of the non-linear territory and eyes' it's curves and winding paths closely. He relays the pivot points of access to 9cubed, waiting in the no-space of Athiel. Patches wires in a bay carefully in sequence. Characith is leaking out his pores. The S.-IX suit overclocks Spark Fragments upon transmutative-integration. Initially when acquired, the vibrant light behind these crystalline dataforms is obscured by a thick inky substance of No-Life, proper filters must be applied to them and the separated material is a hazardous substance (known as Hate Syrup) must be disposed of with proper care. 9cubed's suit runs on the toxick stuff. He's only interested in playing for keeps, stealing all the power-ups and selling the remains. He fingers a blue tube seal that he ejected from his sleeve, a Bowling pin sample is inside the hermetic, antimagnetic seal from remote interface and dissipation of residue.
"Access rights." Ikipr thinks, noticing the Malkuth Station upgrades have been implemented since 184 quit walking between the borders. He looks at a button on his GUI labeled "Purge" - it is not yet time to press it and push the Liquid tunable NanoEloptics in the tunnels into a new bandwidth. Not while these agents are still down there and so many Spark Fragments are still in play.
The Neo-D docks are being prepped and sterilized for contained shipments of new batches of Hate Syrup. Meanwhile in the Restricted BioGenetic Weapon Labs, which once housed a Shadow Gilded Window into an OSK store front in Thantifaxath, Dr. Z. is tinkering with reduction of a Shichiriron sample to a nanoscale by applying a Breakers Algorithm to it's subsurface microcode. If he is successful in this operation, the ions will properly conjoin with the Zaraq element in a state suspension within finely tuned RF-conducting Carbon nanotubes. Operation Oreb is underway. He ponders the innocent causalities of those whom may at present be occupying the tunnels for only a passing moment of reflection. Zamradiel's resounding metallic-pulse stirs him back into waking. He's sitting alone in a room filled with war-bots set for replication by way of this substance and destined for the tunnels. SubCthonian micro-alienform wars will be all that remains.
"We are Thricefold." the thought echoes across their interfaces in a moment of transpersonal unity. "Just like Sansenoy, Senoy, and Samangeloph." The birds perched on the wall at the Malkuth Station starring into the black chunk of abyssal negamatter, awaiting restoration of their code so that it may be compiled, allowing them to swoop in and crack the bonds of the dark swirling matter below.
Sitri is everywhere, watching alongside The Black Ones. The era which started this whole ordeal and concludes it in Amprodias has yet to begin...
