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Characters

David Freeman
A hard boiled rebel detective for the Federal Bureau of Cyberneurics. David recalls Rustin Cohle, Joe Miller, Jimmy McNulty, Sherlock Holmes with a shot of Christian Bale on the rocks.
David is a caucasian male in his late forties, approximately six feet two inches. Some long line of introspective European, maybe German or Jewish. He is medium built with coiled muscles and razer reflexes from prior military training and cardiovascular exercise. He has a gaunt angled face framed with stiff black hair just beginning to edge grey. His nose, bent from too many bar fights, watches over chapped and sealed lips. His eyes are hollow almond, the kind that wish they were somewhere else. He wears a prussian blue work suit which hasn’t been ironed in a while and a coffee-stained dress shirt.
Loss drives David, loss of his daughter. He spends his days remorsing on her death and his nights searching for her killer. All the while drowning in the closest drink. After his daughter’s death David had her neural network digitally entombed, the demi-soul of her thoughts now dwelling on a cerebral implant inside his head. He wants his daughter back but knows he can never have that. He harbors burning vengeance for the one who took his daughter away for him but six long years of searching have brought him no closer. His is a relentless pursuit of truth.
David is a rowboat of self-inflicted rage amid a tempest of sorrow. David keeps mostly to himself and has trouble trusting the intentions of others. Experienced at sensing the order of things, David focuses on objective facts and patterns to solve crimes. Everything is processed through logical filters and his curiosity is often more interested in finding answers then the answers themselves. Always vigilant, David adapts to changing circumstances spontaneously. His voice is monologue and melancholy, the kind talking directly to you. His vocabulary, down to earth and working man but all to often straying toward existentialism.
David is a heterosexual man. His ex-wife used to break out the kinky handcuffs, but that was before she left, taking his chance of a happy little family with her. And the dog, he liked the dog. It is not that David won’t stop and momentarily contemplate the taunt wet curves of the stripper at the bar. But it always comes back to the pointlessness of it all which prevents him from forming human connections.
Politically, David supports the Hegemony because the Hegemony supports his paycheck. He knows the government does bad things but, the way he sees it, it is not his problem. Whether it is this party in power or that one makes little difference. David holds much the same beliefs on religion. He is apatheistic, whether or not God exists being irrelevant since God clearly has no intention of interfering down here.
Sophia “Jax” Mao
A retro hacker determined to change the world. Jax multiplies Lisbeth Salander, Trinity, Sombra, Major Mira Killian, Elliot Alderson, with a hit of Tiny Tina straight to the veins.
Jax is a hispanic female in her early twenties, approximately five foot one inch. She is fluent in mexican and ryukyuan. Growing up on the street, Jax was a parkour fanatic and her body is thin and lithe with viperious agility.. Her face is a mocha teardrop laced with a midnight lavender mohawk and not-so-subtle eyebrow extensions. A platinum nose ring clips a petite nose above sensual lips the most irresistible violet. Her eyes scream neon pink from cybernetic iris implants. An ink black dragon scrawls across her elegant curved back. Her nails are hieroglyphic LED. She wears a short leather jacket, studded rivet belt and frayed mini-skirt, all shades between onyx and pitch. Her scent is lilac.
Pleasure and fame drive Jax. She wants nothing more than to be remarkable among a sea of forgotten people and ride every thrilling sensation she can achieve on her way to the top. Orphaned at a young age Jax was raised on the streets and it was on the streets that she learned to hack. At age seven she had broken into her first cryptocurrency bank. At age eleven she had programed a class III artificial intelligence. But it was Retros, the virtual reflections of the past, where Sophia truly found her domain. Here in the Retros, Jax is queen, bending chance and circumstance to her will. She spends her days dominating cyberspace under her alias, telecasting her performances to a captive holo-vid fan club. She spends her nights lit by hazers, empathogens and psychoanaleptics in underground rave discotecas.
Jax is an ecstacy firecracker illuminating a starless night. She laughs, loves and lives her life to the fullest. She is seductive, daring, and optimistic. Yet she knows her waves in the web have made her some deadly enemies. She uses her cleverness and flexibility to constantly evade these foes, always having an alternative contingency. Jax is charged up by being around other people and can multitask like a processor in parallel. She focuses on possibilities and values creativity and innovation. Feelings give her direction and she is sensitive to the emotions of others often using these to manipulate them. Her voice is quirky and hyperactive. Her vocabulary playful tones but a penchant for awkward cursing.
Romantically, Jax is bisexual woman with preference for women. She has seen it all but don’t make the mistake of thinking she is a slut. Every partner she has ever been with has had to earn it. Problem with a girl like Jax, she is rarely satisfied for long. She is not narcissistic, nor high maintenance, she just has space rocket standards.
Jax falls somewhere between libertarian and anarchist. Part of her dreams of a future where triumphant democracy allows us to live free. But a smarter part of her knows that it is all going to have to come burning down to get there. On triple proxy encrypted channels there are messages with certain rebel elements. Whether she would even take the next step even Jax doesn't know for sure. Jax is a Catholic. She knows her Madre would have never approved of her lifestyle but nevertheless she still clings to the old religion. She finds ironic comfort, like a fairytale amidst the swirling chaos of everything else. Be a good person and upload to heaven. Someday.
Eli Achebe Malik
A slave mechanic for the Keays War Raiders. Eli is constructed from Idris Elba, Denzel Washington, Samuel L. Jackson, Tom Hardy, and nitro primed with Ludacris.
Eli is an african american male in his mid thirties, approximately six feet seven inches. Before the Fall, genetic engineering was widespread and in the post-apocalyptic nomads these mutagen chromosomes have been evolutionarily selected. His bones are ultra-dense from rare earth metal ossification. Myosacro hyperplasia reinforced by years of junkyard weight lifting have built his muscles brutish. Eli’s face has a rough texture and granite jawline, his hair is corded dreadlocks adorned with cerimonial trinkets. His skin is scarred ebony hide. His hawk eyes are shaded moss green. His left arm is a military-grade cybernetic aug with hydraulic servos and piezoelectric twitch fibers. He wears a threaded dirt linen tunic with camouflage leather breeches. When traveling in the mantle tunnels he wears a mole suit, water cooled trench coat and strapped oxygen tank. He speaks rarely but when he does his voice is calm and bass. His vocabulary is english mixed with Akkadian.
Survival drives El, survival at any conceivable cost. Taken from his birth clan as annual tribute, his first memories are of the long trek across the Oklahoma floodplains. He was sold at the outskirts of the Mojave irradiated zone to the Keays Boys. The savages brought him to the trash mesa ruins of San Diego. They forced him into the mechanic trenches, but under the encouraging touch of thorn whips, Eli found he had a gift. He was adept at turning rusting metal into diesel-spitting machine. His cars, whether screaming past salt-flat speedways or pillaging neighboring tribes, always seemed the fastest. On his name day he was sold to the Boss for work on the warlord’s personal mech walker. He spends his days tinkering with gatling machine guns and squeezing every ounce of horsepower out of turbine engines.
Eli is a calm wind over scorching desert. He has a serenity that comes from having everything taken away. He seeks a harmony with nature and shows a gentleness towards lingering life. But buried underneath that is loathing and fury for what his tormentors have done to him. He is independant save for the shackles that bind him, yet dependable, pragmatic and tenacious. In his mind what separates mankind from beast is values, chief among them honesty and justice and he judges others by this same code of honor.
Eli is a heterosexual man. At an early age his genitals were mutilated both to boost testosterone for cage fights and render slaves unable to reproduce. David’s religion prohibits sexual desires outside of marriage and he is quick to temper errant thoughts. David, despite being a lone wolf, longs for a family some day.
Eli is an outsider. All he has ever known is gang tyranny and tribal castes. Eli believes deeply in the shamanistic creed of his birth, loosely translated as the Quake Brotherhood. This religion preaches that a prophet will come some day to reclaim the earth and only those who follow the rituals strictly will be saved. Eli has practiced these rituals in secret for many long years.

Neo Angeles

The Towers
Neo Angeles. Founded circa 2058 in the still cooling radioactive ash of old Los Angeles, the city was an amalgamation of constructed mountains and excativated canyons. On a clear day, from the outskirts of the Mojave Irradiated Zone you could just make out the Towers gleaming against the bay. Massive citadels formed from titan alloy skeleton and indomitable granicrete core, these mammoth institutes formed the foundation upon which humanity's future would be built or her soul finally crushed. There were seven towers.
Lakshfi, Vault of Prosperity, home of the banking guilds and mega finance firms, was bedecked opulent golden whirls on decadent silver, her enormous clockface rang constantly trading marketplace cash, commodities and wealth from the Trans-African Republic to the Russian Confederacy. Anbal, High Seat of Justice, adorned marble columns with blind lady justice overwatching, in her halls the Judicators safeguarded the populace from unrelenting lawlessness. Seshrat, The Bureaucratic Monolith, tubule stylus where legions of unnamed bureaucrats churned the gears of society. Genaea, Birthplace of Gen-gineering, verdant helix whose spiraling terraces overflowed with designer vegetation and rejuvative stemcell tanks. Budyha, The Happy Corporation, supplier of franchised acme products worldwide, cartoon animations dancing along prismatic cubic surfaces. TyrX, NanoRobotic Industries, an ominous scarlet ziggurat, empty scarab husk abandoned since the Drone Wars.
The last Tower, Irez, rose above the rest. Her triangular heights crawling with vid screens and vox speakers. Pinnacle crowned satellite array broadcasting Pan-China syndicated programming. Irez was the nexus for the Neuro Electronic Terminus and it was said those working in the server bunkers underneath Irez could still feel the vibrational dreams of all those lost in the NET.
The Boxes
The Boxes were the labyrinth sprawl at the foot of the Towers, a concrete jungle of condominiums squares and overlapping residential zones. Make enough credits and you live in a penthouse in the Highrizers. Don’t make enough and you sleep in an individual coffin bed slotted next to a couple hundred of your neighbors. For everyone in between there was the apartments. A billion people lived her, all struggling to find purpose among rampant commercialism, racial divides and a society become machine.
The residential zones were checkered against the ever busy commercial sectors where your happiness was only a price tag away. Mega-malls, prefabricated chain stores and retail outlets reproducing at the limits of supply and demands. Here buzzing stream of delivery drones ferry online orders to the convenience of home.
Interconnecting the residential zones and the commercial sectors was an expansive web of bridge, magnetic track and hoverway. The major transit hubs pumped the citizen lifeblood to the city through pneumonic hyperloops. Supersonic flights continuously taking off and landing at Asimove International. Perched on the hill overlooking the airfields was a lone X-21 Traveler, the launchpad on darkened lockdown since the moon colony went dark. Streams of fishing trawlers, cargo freighters, juvenile sportscraft and private yachts filtered through the cities two ports, North Marina and Rancid Harbor.
At the northern end of the Boxes was Gates University, you did well in primary schooling, you went to Gates with a chance at a better life someday. Next door was the Neo Angeles Archival Library, buried in those dusty mainframes were stories from before the Fall and even the occasional banned religious texts. Nearby Genaea Memorial, High Cross and Children’s heals those with priority insurance. Those more indigent queue for St. Bellevue, coughing in the exhaust from the Infirm Crematoriums.
The Boxes, for all it’s toil was not without its points of pleasure. In the Art district were the Grand Aero Theater, Bard Studioway, the Hover Speedway, and the Rave Circuses. The Entertainment Complex humed with upscale nightclubs, aroma restaurants, and the privilege casinos. Hybrid Gardens was home to reanimated birds and beasts from the extinct wild, now thriving in a photosynthetic jungle. Lakeshore Hills to the south offered serenity living for country club suburbanites. Vacation Island, pristine beach resort of the Elite, rested just offshore. And not to be forgotten was the theme park Budyha Land, family centric incorporated fun for all paying customers.
The Industrial Pits
Beneath the Boxes were kilometer deep bore holes penetrating the earth’s crust. Hollowed out shortly after the Twenty Minute War, they were originally intended to serve as massive fallout shelters for the city populace. However, they had since become dark fallen places where societies most undesirable seemed to settle. The poor, villainous and lost condemned to a subterranean life sentence.
The Tech Caverns housed the massive nuclear facilities and hydroponics plants, life support for surface side. Augs, those who had chosen cybernetic enhancement for medical or cultural reasons were shunned by society but welcome in the engineering communities down here. The Indentured, civilians who sold their rights for protection, food and shelter, worked laborious and short lives in factory towns. Slugs, those addicted to drugs or virtual stimulation litered the sewer tunnels down here. Among these factory towns were the ethnic enclaves, Little India, Euroburg, Asiatown and Latinville, each with a dedicated crime family engaged in all out gang warfare amid ghetto squalor.
Descend down a level and you would find the Subterrestrial Farms, growing luminescent biovats, gengineered plantations and meat slime nurseries. Harvesting drones nurtured and protected these pitch black fields from the hungry. The deepest abyssal Pits were mostly unknown. Hole 64 was a black site prison restricted to the most craven criminals and their machine wardens. Hole 51 was omega classified, some say it collapsed long ago, some say it contained pre-Fall relics. Those who said anymore, disappeared.

Characters
David Freeman
A hard boiled freelance detective for the Federal Bureau of Cyberneurics. David recalls Rustin Cohle, Joe Miller, Jimmy McNulty, Sherlock Holmes with a shot of Christian Bale on the rocks.
David is a caucasian male in his late forties, approximately six feet two inches. Some long line of introspective European, maybe German or Jewish. He is medium built with coiled muscles and razer reflexes from prior military training and cardiovascular exercise. He has a gaunt angled face framed with stiff black hair just beginning to edge grey. His nose, bent from too many bar fights, watches over chapped and sealed lips. His eyes are hollow almond, the kind that wish they were somewhere else. He wears a prussian blue work suit which hasn’t been ironed in a while and a coffee-stained dress shirt.
Loss drives David, loss of his daughter. He spends his days remorsing on her death and his nights searching for her killer. All the while drowning in the closest drink. After his daughter’s death David had her neural network digitally entombed, the demi-soul of her thoughts now dwelling on a cerebral implant inside his head. He wants his daughter back but knows he can never have that. He harbors burning vengeance for the one who took his daughter away for him but six long years of searching have brought him no closer. His is a relentless pursuit of truth.
David is a rowboat of self-inflicted rage amid a tempest of sorrow. David keeps mostly to himself and has trouble trusting the intentions of others. Experienced at sensing the order of things, David focuses on objective facts and patterns to solve crimes. Everything is processed through logical filters and his curiosity is often more interested in finding answers then the answers themselves. Always vigilant, David adapts to changing circumstances spontaneously. His voice is monologue and melancholy, the kind talking directly to you. His vocabulary, down to earth and working man but all to often straying toward existentialism.
David is a heterosexual man. His ex-wife used to break out the kinky handcuffs, but that was before she left, taking his chance of a happy little family with her. And the dog, he liked the dog. It is not that David won’t stop and momentarily contemplate the taunt wet curves of the stripper at the bar. But it always comes back to the pointlessness of it all which prevents him from forming human connections.
Politically, David supports the Hegemony because the Hegemony supports his paycheck. He knows the government does bad things but, the way he sees it, it is not his problem. Whether it is this party in power or that one makes little difference. David holds much the same beliefs on religion. He is apatheistic, whether or not God exists being irrelevant since God clearly has no intention of interfering down here.
Sophia “Jax” Mao
A retro hacker determined to change the world. Jax multiplies Lisbeth Salander, Trinity, Sombra, Major Mira Killian, Elliot Alderson, with a hit of Tiny Tina straight to the veins.
Jax is a hispanic female in her early twenties, approximately five foot one inch. She is fluent in mexican and ryukyuan. Growing up on the street, Jax was a parkour fanatic and her body is thin and lithe with viperious agility.. Her face is a mocha teardrop laced with a midnight lavender mohawk and not-so-subtle eyebrow extensions. A platinum nose ring clips a petite nose above sensual lips the most irresistible violet. Her eyes scream neon pink from cybernetic iris implants. An ink black dragon scrawls across her elegant curved back. Her nails are hieroglyphic LED. She wears a short leather jacket, studded rivet belt and frayed mini-skirt, all shades between onyx and pitch. Her scent is lilac.
Pleasure and fame drive Jax. She wants nothing more than to be remarkable among a sea of forgotten people and ride every thrilling sensation she can achieve on her way to the top. Orphaned at a young age Jax was raised on the streets and it was on the streets that she learned to hack. At age seven she had broken into her first cryptocurrency bank. At age eleven she had programed a class III artificial intelligence. But it was Retros, the virtual reflections of the past, where Sophia truly found her domain. Here in the Retros, Jax is queen, bending chance and circumstance to her will. She spends her days dominating cyberspace under her alias, telecasting her performances to a captive holo-vid fan club. She spends her nights lit by hazers, empathogens and psychoanaleptics in underground rave discotecas.
Jax is an ecstacy firecracker illuminating a starless night. She laughs, loves and lives her life to the fullest. She is seductive, daring, and optimistic. Yet she knows her waves in the web have made her some deadly enemies. She uses her cleverness and flexibility to constantly evade these foes, always having an alternative contingency. Jax is charged up by being around other people and can multitask like a processor in parallel. She focuses on possibilities and values creativity and innovation. Feelings give her direction and she is sensitive to the emotions of others often using these to manipulate them. Her voice is quirky and hyperactive. Her vocabulary playful tones but a penchant for awkward cursing.
Romantically, Jax is bisexual woman with preference for women. She has seen it all but don’t make the mistake of thinking she is a slut. Every partner she has ever been with has had to earn it. Problem with a girl like Jax, she is rarely satisfied for long. She is not narcissistic, nor high maintenance, she just has space rocket standards.
Jax falls somewhere between libertarian and anarchist. Part of her dreams of a future where triumphant democracy allows us to live free. But a smarter part of her knows that it is all going to have to come burning down to get there. On triple proxy encrypted channels there are messages with certain rebel elements. Whether she would even take the next step even Jax doesn't know for sure. Jax is a Catholic. She knows her Madre would have never approved of her lifestyle but nevertheless she still clings to the old religion. She finds ironic comfort, like a fairytale amidst the swirling chaos of everything else. Be a good person and upload to heaven. Someday.
Eli Achebe Malik
A slave mechanic for the Keays War Raiders. Eli is constructed from Idris Elba, Denzel Washington, Samuel L. Jackson, Tom Hardy, and nitro primed with Ludacris.
Eli is an african american male in his mid thirties, approximately six feet seven inches. Before the Fall, genetic engineering was widespread and in the post-apocalyptic nomads these mutagen chromosomes have been evolutionarily selected. His bones are ultra-dense from rare earth metal ossification. Myosacro hyperplasia reinforced by years of junkyard weight lifting have built his muscles brutish. Eli’s face has a rough texture and granite jawline, his hair is corded dreadlocks adorned with cerimonial trinkets. His skin is scarred ebony hide. His hawk eyes are shaded moss green. His left arm is a military-grade cybernetic aug with hydraulic servos and piezoelectric twitch fibers. He wears a threaded dirt linen tunic with camouflage leather breeches. When traveling in the mantle tunnels he wears a mole suit, water cooled trench coat and strapped oxygen tank. He speaks rarely but when he does his voice is calm and bass. His vocabulary is english mixed with Akkadian.
Survival drives El, survival at any conceivable cost. Taken from his birth clan as annual tribute, his first memories are of the long trek across the Oklahoma floodplains. He was sold at the outskirts of the Mojave irradiated zone to the Keays Boys. The savages brought him to the trash mesa ruins of San Diego. They forced him into the mechanic trenches, but under the encouraging touch of thorn whips, Eli found he had a gift. He was adept at turning rusting metal into diesel-spitting machine. His cars, whether screaming past salt-flat speedways or pillaging neighboring tribes, always seemed the fastest. On his name day he was sold to the Boss for work on the warlord’s personal mech walker. He spends his days tinkering with gatling machine guns and squeezing every ounce of horsepower out of turbine engines.
Eli is a calm wind over scorching desert. He has a serenity that comes from having everything taken away. He seeks a harmony with nature and shows a gentleness towards lingering life. But buried underneath that is loathing and fury for what his tormentors have done to him. He is independant save for the shackles that bind him, yet dependable, pragmatic and tenacious. In his mind what separates mankind from beast is values, chief among them honesty and justice and he judges others by this same code of honor.
Eli is a heterosexual man. At an early age his genitals were mutilated both to boost testosterone for cage fights and render slaves unable to reproduce. David’s religion prohibits sexual desires outside of marriage and he is quick to temper errant thoughts. David, despite being a lone wolf, longs for a family some day.
Eli is an outsider. All he has ever known is gang tyranny and tribal castes. Eli believes deeply in the shamanistic creed of his birth, loosely translated as the Quake Brotherhood. This religion preaches that a prophet will come some day to reclaim the earth and only those who follow the rituals strictly will be saved. Eli has practiced these rituals in secret for many long years.
Neo Angeles
The Towers
Neo Angeles. Founded circa 2058 in the still cooling radioactive ash of old Los Angeles, the city was an amalgamation of constructed mountains and excativated canyons. On a clear day, from the outskirts of the Mojave Irradiated Zone you could just make out the Towers gleaming against the bay. Massive citadels formed from titan alloy skeleton and indomitable granicrete core, these mammoth institutes formed the foundation upon which humanity's future would be built or her soul finally crushed. There were seven towers.
Lakshfi, Vault of Prosperity, home of the banking guilds and mega finance firms, was bedecked opulent golden whirls on decadent silver, her enormous clockface rang constantly trading marketplace cash, commodities and wealth from the Trans-African Republic to the Russian Confederacy. Anbal, High Seat of Justice, adorned marble columns with blind lady justice overwatching, in her halls the Judicators safeguarded the populace from unrelenting lawlessness. Seshrat, The Bureaucratic Monolith, tubule stylus where legions of unnamed bureaucrats churned the gears of society. Genaea, Birthplace of Gen-gineering, verdant helix whose spiraling terraces overflowed with designer vegetation and rejuvative stemcell tanks. Budyha, The Happy Corporation, supplier of franchised acme products worldwide, cartoon animations dancing along prismatic cubic surfaces. TyrX, NanoRobotic Industries, an ominous scarlet ziggurat, empty scarab husk abandoned since the Drone Wars.
The last Tower, Irez, rose above the rest. Her triangular heights crawling with vid screens and vox speakers. Pinnacle crowned satellite array broadcasting Pan-China syndicated programming. Irez was the nexus for the Neuro Electronic Terminus and it was said those working in the server bunkers underneath Irez could still feel the vibrational dreams of all those lost in the NET.
The Boxes
The Boxes were the labyrinth sprawl at the foot of the Towers, a concrete jungle of condominiums squares and overlapping residential zones. Make enough credits and you live in a penthouse in the Highrizers. Don’t make enough and you sleep in an individual coffin bed slotted next to a couple hundred of your neighbors. For everyone in between there was the apartments. A billion people lived her, all struggling to find purpose among rampant commercialism, racial divides and a society become machine.
The residential zones were checkered against the ever busy commercial sectors where your happiness was only a price tag away. Mega-malls, prefabricated chain stores and retail outlets reproducing at the limits of supply and demands. Here buzzing stream of delivery drones ferry online orders to the convenience of home.
Interconnecting the residential zones and the commercial sectors was an expansive web of bridge, magnetic track and hoverway. The major transit hubs pumped the citizen lifeblood to the city through pneumonic hyperloops. Supersonic flights continuously taking off and landing at Asimove International. Perched on the hill overlooking the airfields was a lone X-21 Traveler, the launchpad on darkened lockdown since the moon colony went dark. Streams of fishing trawlers, cargo freighters, juvenile sportscraft and private yachts filtered through the cities two ports, North Marina and Rancid Harbor.
At the northern end of the Boxes was Gates University, you did well in primary schooling, you went to Gates with a chance at a better life someday. Next door was the Neo Angeles Archival Library, buried in those dusty mainframes were stories from before the Fall and even the occasional banned religious texts. Nearby Genaea Memorial, High Cross and Children’s heals those with priority insurance. Those more indigent queue for St. Bellevue, coughing in the exhaust from the Infirm Crematoriums.
The Boxes, for all it’s toil was not without its points of pleasure. In the Art district were the Grand Aero Theater, Bard Studioway, the Hover Speedway, and the Rave Circuses. The Entertainment Complex humed with upscale nightclubs, aroma restaurants, and the privilege casinos. Hybrid Gardens was home to reanimated birds and beasts from the extinct wild, now thriving in a photosynthetic jungle. Lakeshore Hills to the south offered serenity living for country club suburbanites. Vacation Island, pristine beach resort of the Elite, rested just offshore. And not to be forgotten was the theme park Budyha Land, family centric incorporated fun for all paying customers.
The Industrial Pits
Beneath the Boxes were kilometer deep bore holes penetrating the earth’s crust. Hollowed out shortly after the Twenty Minute War, they were originally intended to serve as massive fallout shelters for the city populace. However, they had since become dark fallen places where societies most undesirable seemed to settle. The poor, villainous and lost condemned to a subterranean life sentence.
The Tech Caverns housed the massive nuclear facilities and hydroponics plants, life support for surface side. Augs, those who had chosen cybernetic enhancement for medical or cultural reasons were shunned by society but welcome in the engineering communities down here. The Indentured, civilians who sold their rights for protection, food and shelter, worked laborious and short lives in factory towns. Slugs, those addicted to drugs or virtual stimulation litered the sewer tunnels down here. Among these factory towns were the ethnic enclaves, Little India, Euroburg, Asiatown and Latinville, each with a dedicated crime family engaged in all out gang warfare amid ghetto squalor.
Descend down a level and you would find the Subterrestrial Farms, growing luminescent biovats, gengineered plantations and meat slime nurseries. Harvesting drones nurtured and protected these pitch black fields from the hungry. The deepest abyssal Pits were mostly unknown. Hole 64 was a black site prison restricted to the most craven criminals and their machine wardens. Hole 51 was omega classified, some say it collapsed long ago, some say it contained pre-Fall relics. Those who said anymore, disappeared.