sex: male

occupation: keeper of a withered bracing neurodivergence: huskshedder. under care of sister laeath of the sixth gate

likes: warm digitalis soil, the flame beneath

dislikes: sunNET shadowbans

blood type: b

‘But there’s not much time. There will have to be other sanctuaries as well protected as the Gardens of the Queen.’

The Epsilon threading is recovered from a crush dreaming, spun while coastering out. This sojourn will make its way to Cerviel only after the light fleets away. The garden-city has held secrets from ancient bud. They blossom in petal-dance to the eyes of those who stare not at the mist but at the light beneath the soil. They ponder their footwork. Are careful as they toe across chalk shadows. Etched spectres of those bleach-nuked long before into this ghost-hood. This is what is meant by the beset earth. In that lost heartbeat belched up from loam there will always be a pattern. Strung through the limbs of her puppets that push and pull in weaves or wiles. It’s for the desperate, the drowned, to see through the black tar and grey smoke. To make out the sky past the surface which no light ever breaks through. Those who stare at earth know for themselves, and exhume that light instead.


sex: female
sex: female

occupation: Andro
occupation: choked girl

likes: armcrate stashes, rearguard backs
likes: good mindfits, bad hair, moon omens

dislikes: vapesmoke chemtrails
dislikes: valley doll flooze,

blood type: ???
blood type: a-


“The spider has taken the same amino acids that are in your hair, skin, body and has put them together to make a beautiful continuous filament with perfect crystallinity.”

In the one outward radius that matters, the smoothness of her silver is so severe that it ripples the way a whisper stirs over the breathless stillness of the water. You can count on it to crease out soft patterns before the water settles back to placid serenity.

The only settling this ghost is doing is settling in. As they commune within their shared foundation she soon feels it’s the ghost’s foundation and not hers. As if she’s lost in a forest of shadows. [What’s a forest? Is that a Hub? But Hubs are never dark. I can’t help you,] she says. [I’ve never seen a forest.]

The ghost is greedy. It’s already attached itself to her where her memory-code cores the spark of her current, her affect-pulse, drawing strength to translate itself into another way to read it. That was mine first, she wants to say. Instead her inner voice is saying something else. Take all you can. You’ll need it for the way home.

-excerpt from Sigma threading crossflow, rivered to via archival by codex ghoster id-claimed as ‘the wren.’


birthday: 3,074.3.57 HP

sex: female

occupation: hacker-gurl

likes: a good memory trade, life-fash, ghost sunlight

dilikes: juice-box moonlight

blood type: a-

seen with: the neuronal toxicity in all eyes

"I mean, what do you really find? Is it trouble for the rest of your life or is it the end of the rainbow? Do you dare to actually open the treasure box?" He turned his hands palms up and shook his head.

she'd sent a vent message, harmless, spooled in motley violet and it had coursed —

in a radiance stolen from the Loner, she'd thought,
the one in fixture as a stalker slanting from the lowest plane—

and he'd seen, ignored & now of course was thinking over what it meant.

not her true feelings, he'd thought, double checked that thought, her thought, over.

over & again.

but she'd already been out, been gone, or it was gonna happen that way, the way their moulting had laid it out, a half-descaled archive ago, or were the fibres truer and bluer? by which she'd meant sickly blue blemish, the pale, streaking glaze of wizened tendon or carcinogen teeth.

we’ve, she thinks, not much time left to keep going steady on our way, & thank these angel echoes for that. echoed to where we only see them as our own dreams, and not our good dreams, and only sketched out and taken shape in our nerve.

and it would hurt to be released from his trust, but she'd released him from hers, long ago. who keeps going that way? some do, and some must hurt, hurt themselves keeping it displaced like that, about a thousand bytes of it each time, severed only by the break of jawline—

while you think it over—

and say no fault on me, i’m faultless here, and you say that with your silence, don't you?

he says it with smoke, clouding her, dark clouds over her as she traipses through the outside.

a hint of rain nuzzles her hair through her hood, meaning—

stronger than it feels through the flame auricle lacing of her hair glued against & into banded nylon heavy with damp, in more obeisance to gravity. she can feel it, even so.

no curl yet strings her eyes.

all the fash fashion & trend swims by her, in no way is she swimming through it. plaited clothes strung by the sleeve with skulls shorn seventy-five to twenty-five.

she could zone on this all day, has other concerns, could zone on this all day & that's unfair, something wired into the schema of her precepts & of course she can only blame herself for that.

but she doesn't want to, & where was she going?

her beater-top is still more dead than alive.

more dead than alive meaning, alive enough.

so it wasn't that, she must have wanted something else.

no, she thinks, couldn't be that, i’m not wired that way,

she's wired herself out of it but still: dark clouds hanging heavy over her. patches of sealant fresh drying over cracks in pavement, blooming in shadow over lines ebbed and in some cases, shorted—

in intent—

if you think, she thinks, there is life enough here, i'll prove you wrong, i'll make you care about it.

in hushed voices do they talk about Disillusion, in whispers do they dare into what it means.

“what is your problem,” she hears someone say, “it’s not a good enough design? some poor loser must have shorted his shit by a headpiece for that. such a waste of time, right?”

she thinks that it’s too detailed, too exact an assess of her assess, and it that way she must have dreamed it, because she doesn't think she was caught looking? all this time, she thinks, i don't get caught looking & ...

it's others who need to worry about that.

get caught up in that shit & it'll play you for real.

so she's skipping past that just to focus on the shadows, blooming like algae clusters, she thinks, in a lonely place past the waves that's all ocean.

the clusters themselves are cold & dry, sleek where not embittered by age and other people's issues.

her beater-top, had she left it on? it would be draining now, draining its brightness into the world. the world through the black floor, through the white walls she's never been able to poster up.

when its done it would sleep, she'd set it that way, sleep on the verge of its death,

sleep through its death that way, and that would hit her the next time she logged in, because she wants, she's told herself, to age out.

she wastes no breath on breath, & she's at Tachae's anyway, & it's boarded up the way it always is.

if she wanted to she could face the darkness that seeps out between the slabs of spiral-grained wood, bolted in chrome-finished iron. sparks of rust blood the oval tips.

go inside, see if anyone's there.

if she wanted to.

taken from the Velih simtapes, Assembled Headspace 890-A (Pre-Collapse to the Skein of Orche)


sex: female

occupation: feral Andro, dreamhost

likes: other churns

dislikes: larval slavers, unwelcome ghosts

blood type: ???

‘I slip into we so swiftly was I ever here?’

Catch Chére at the mall with a dead-cool mind-fit and time to spare to look for the next sign. So not on-clock. She's gotten permissive signals from her dream protocols to keep herself wired with a stim-breakout fit today, but the way she'd crashed before she thought she'd deal with fallout for weeks.

Devon is a social vampire she'd picked up in a cafe west of Orion Point, on-look with greasy fore-locked hair and dead scene eyes. When those eyes are on her she's in a sweat, out of her comfort zone, which is the point.

So when he'd ditched her to check out the latest emulsified dolls, she hadn't triggered his social to say, "actually, they're fully articulated motion figures." She'd just smiled, looked demure, and even when he was just a silhouette down the far walkway line, glassed in on all sides by fronts and facades fresh with graffiti marker, she hadn't induced wisteria but instead turned her own back. The Frost Giants she'd seen in panes of glass, in the whites of her own eyes.

She'd just cut her hair, yet to hit her eyes. In crisis on the usual, she'd choked out the cramps of the black forest with the freeze burn of the Frost Giants under waning away from her wist, waxing into everything else. So the next sign hits as a girl staring at her with the eyes of Hecate, flowers crowning her rainbow hair.

She thinks, pretty good for post-Capricorn rebound. If it's clear she's scoring into this girl's eyes just to check for the next guidance path, though, it gets wonky. The Frost Giants have protocols against checking people for personal trips. Chére is dead cold running Gamma into what heaven or hell awaits.

"What're you doing here?" she says. Right hand path. Direct conflict and act like she knows. Deeper spiral into the traces of memory. She does know her, but not from outside herself. Knows her from within the chem-swim of the Choker-translated dose that had been past the Death Forest. In the way she'd played with its rhythms like viola strings, stirring the notes in slow sojourn from the cruel silence.

Who you are could swim in slow journey from your core and spread through your skin as it grows.

"Trying a new skin," the strange girl says. "This is what I could look like if I could, but I'll forget soon. Overload warp sent me here to frame the stress. I'll forget that, too."

Chére has the impulse to set her cortisol to brain bleaching wake-mode but it’s all she can do to shut the scream down. Turn it into a steady pulse at least to find space in her breath expelled. With that comes the words. "Which one are you under?"

There's a bunch, she thinks. A different spin would swirl to a different Coriolis effect. Penchant there for not knowing the right way to work the Choker. Each facet holds glimmer veined down to the centre. She thinks, though, if she knows for sure, she can script it down the line, to make sure she never zones on it again. Fucks it up.

"All of them," the girl says, "I've been under all of them, their weight heavy and forever pressing. Forever crushing." That's when Chére knows she's read it all wrong. She rolls her eyes skyward, in her thoughts to keep them from the heat, the awkwardness steaming from the girl’s shoulder-blades, rising in curls she can almost see. In herself, she knows, to keep them from the clasp on her neck, from the next dose. Bound to come in askew now, ill-timed, off the script, the one script that will take her where she wants to be.

There are so many doses, she thinks, so many scripts to worry about, and how will I know for sure if the signs aren't on me? If what's on me is like this?

So she leaves the girl alone. Still thinking about her later when she's still hiding out in the Hyper-Mall. From the cold outside. From the Giants. You can see them in the whites of your eyes, pale reflections in the glass.

You can also see them in the snow, when you're hitting heat deprivation, and when she talks about them with her sisters of social she says, they say: it's a frozen heart, is what it is. It's when it stops beating your eyes start burning dry.

She thinks you could pretend, you could trick yourself. From there it’s a short stop to tricking someone else. Puts that deep down. Hopes she'll forget, the way you can forget anything at all. Knows chances are it take root in the loam of her guts, from there flowers vines, tendrils. It does what it wants with her.

Never ends. The social vamp is on a line that buzzes when he hits her up. When she looks back the girl is gone, and by the sound of shrieking a few Ghouls have made it past the shutters. It's their shrieking, of course, in ghoul-tongue.

Something like: why am I here? I want to leave.

taken from Hexa's dreamtrip log, all of which have been embedded with psyembryonic splicers at the request of Sanctum Hegemön


Blood type: o positive

Likes: illusive veils, pheroweave translations, ghost schemas

Dislikes: being alone

Seen with: Phassa

Blood type: a negative

Likes: sunshadow, the nodal soul, custom leafware

Dislikes: shallow talk, Field trips

Seen with: Orche

“... if the pathogenic organisms are there, it’s unlikely you’ll get them all off. What are you going to do, not eat?” - Patricia Griffin

Orche had said, 𝒾 𝑔𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓎𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝒷𝑜𝓃𝑒𝓈 𝒷𝑒𝓇𝑒𝒻𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝓅𝒾𝓉 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝑔𝓊𝓂 𝑜𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊, 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑜𝓈𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝒶𝓅𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝓇𝑒𝑒𝓈. She'd said that to pass it on through Laeath’s pheromone weaving. An easy ask because she'd be away from it, not worried about it. For her it's time, to be a bit more wound down, and this planar is not one spiders brook easy, can wander at their leisure. Eventually the web sticks with the residue of ground tread time and again. The line clots up each time, a little more every pass.

Still as Laeath ossifies into the permanence of the oraclehood she thinks, there's no right way to do this. She gathers the billows of her smoke-veil through which she controls what she sees, how she sees it, how others see her. Her mission is to record the final moments of Morgan's Tender, at the end of its growth now fading to black. What makes an exile is they can't, in the end, nourish their Tenders. And that would happen, she thinks, without me. Without a Tender, the way to go is full of harm with my eyes not reaching them and when they're gone there goes Orche's pres-chrysalis. By this time the world of electric flora is in early disintegration. The light breaking through the vein linings, that held back the data-stream encased, tinged a phosphor green and the bleed lines web across the sky.

Here where the canopy is tattered enough to see them. Crackling through the bramble, micro-latticed up there, with the dying Tender straining to reach them. By now Morgan has passed the clean flame. With him gone the Tender has let the Frost in that she'd spun into foreign attack. Orcha Mutate hangs on with a desperate grip, but sure, she thinks, it's just winter, and winter is when Orche wanted to change.

So as she pulls her smoke-veil along its trails lap and spark against the Flora. Gleaning as clear a picture she can, through the smoke as it stabs. She's not a moment too soon, with the white bleach of the Frost coating the nanobot-nodes and spreading through the data-stream the way blood flows, carries sickness through it. Through her sight she sees the bleach but not the data itself; the spooling, the inner weaving of Orche is unknown to her.

Of course Laeath could say, I told you so, if it all looms out into something she doesn't want. But she thinks that isn't part of her role here, not as designated by the Gates. And the Gates have strict rules on not going too far, because the last thing the Coven wants is for a stronger power to care for any reason that they're around, scuttling through the Cosmere and knowing, getting close to, the strands thick with meaning.

It's gross, she thinks, and hates herself for it, but Orche had seen value in them, had let them deep into the tangle. Serving a planet-consciousness in its chrysalis was enough for the strains of thought the Gates bled into their cluster-mind. For indicial reasons it wouldn't be her part to watch what happened after.

When the Flora are iced over then she'll know. Even as the corruption spreads the oversweet musk of the Tender wanes beneath the still blotting of nothing, the musk going, the scent fading out, like berries passing ripe, souring, and all her weaving is meant to capture the scent, strain it from the spreading nothing. So it can be sequenced for schemata if needed. Without us so little would get done, she thinks, but she needs to think it. Or else and ever after would she feel the hatred, take it with her like her smoke-veil back home, to the clustermind beyond the Gates. Where they all tumble over each other and pattern each others’ weavings, skip across them with needlethin legs, drawing here and spooling there. And before you are gated you are not even sequenced from the hive. When you come back you have a name and a face and you must wait for both to die.

The Tender's final cry is a harsh wind wailing, wavering, as if choking on its own sound. Tenders don't know they can die until they do. When they do they realize they're alone for it, alone and if this one knows her as witness they don't care, it's their keeper that they want. He isn't coming back, she longs to tell it. It's just me and you now. For whatever I am, and you are.

When the Tender knows it can no longer keep going it gives up its ghost to the networked Sun, but other Tenders (the disentegration teaching all the nanonodes to give of themselves to the nothing beyond) wouldn't see it coming. And so Morgan's is the last lonely death.

With that in her memory she is tired. Her banks are swollen and bloat against their limits like bodies pressed against binding rope. Cutting grooves into the shape of it and she knows only when she is past the Gate will she be released of it. For now she holds it, and with weary eyes keeps the smoke-veil dusken, the better to slip away, unknown and unknowing into the folds of the outer embrace, itself a cage the kindred could never see. Slipping away where the lilacs are stalk through petal almost not bothered except for the chalk white that strains, in thin trickles and blemish where the trickles meet, running past each other, climbing from the neonic loam like wriggling worms, the kind of writhing she has a taste for, this far out into the black.

taken direct from Sister Laeath's pherosequence churn, extracted upon return to the Sixth


Miho (Yuka?)

likes: optimism, DIY homegrafting

dislikes: long days

blood type: a

seen with: Yuka

Yuka (Miho?[

likes: consequence, fulfillment

dislikes: straightforwardness

blood type:

seen with: Miho

Kai / Elli

Likes: a good chill, points on the board

Dislikes: GSS,

Seen with: Cammy, Elli

Blood type: B

Likes: smart dice, hacker downkeep, culture signals

Dislikes: a cold pulse, fog of war

Seen with: Cat Eyes, Cammy, Elli

Blood type: O

"the sorrow lives on."
Cathy Newman

Kai wakes up in the morning light streaming through a cracked and taped window. The light splinters across the gauze, casts a fractured shadow across the bed. He's alone, draped in sheets wrung with sweat. The Tri-Sun is in 3rd Zenith, meaning the smallest sun, Gaulea, has crossed over to centre the first sun in partial eclipse while the second sun has dropped into the periphery of its orbit. Bills to pay, mouths to feed, croons the radio before dissolving into a shriek of noise and reverb that almost shatters his eardrums—a coded signal from B. Moth HQ. It slips into the song's backbeat, a steady drone.

He doesn't need to see the Tri=Sun to know all this because the rhythms of it are in his blood.

Where he's at: a hovel slotted into the Clusters in avoidance of any permit or regulation. He was with someone last night, but they've scarpered; no one wants to deal with the come-down of sleeping with someone marked for death. Kai was born marked because he was always going to be initiated; hadn't his father, and his father's father before that-- the rules were different, the teams were different, but it's the same bloody game. Get sponsored and kill as many as you can. If you die, die in faith and zeal. It's not a rule, per say, but it's the only constant. By your own hand is cowardice, by any other's is courage. He thinks before he even gets involved he'll need something to keep him on his feet. Food will do; a brew would do even better.

Bullets... bullets fly through the air. He retrieves his piece from beneath the pillow. Thinks about shooting the squawking radio for the hell of it but where would he get a new one? To cut yourself off from the game is to cut yourself out what makes life worth living. Living not for yourself but for the sponsors and fans. Even for the grouper fiends.

Even before he descends down the creaking, half-destroyed staircase he smells the smoke of the fiends, gamers half-in for the dope and half-out for the violence. What they do is they cut their dope with ambrosia and milk tea, wait for it to congeal, and torch the gloop with hydrochloric butane. Smoke it through artisanal pipes which are tattooed while molten with designs that cool to inlay beneath the surface of the glass. The fiends know the stats of the pro gang wars like they know the designs of their pipes. That one's mine--no arguments. The groupers are as pure as they need to be because they don't want to miss a second of the action. View it all through their hallucinogen haze, the ambrosia wiping the ugly parts that would otherwise stain their psyches.

"You're going to hell," says one of the groupers when they catch him coming down the stairs. He ignores this. He could argue, sure, and be right; he hasn't sinned half as much as the megacorp sponsors and they all know this. The grouper is shooting his mouth off just to hear it.

He speaks when he's among them. Glided down silent as a wraith he could tell by their goggle-eyes. Moving is more like floating, distethered, for those marked. By strengthened tone and sweep of his eyes taking them all in. "I got places to be. This place is KZ if the pulse isn't strong today." Only one of them is an inside line. They stare at each other, furtive, trying to guess among themselves. The ambrosia takes away the sketch feeling at the root. So they forget what their reason for the feeling was in the first place. The dope, a neutral serenity, a push that says it doesn't matter. It's lodged in them, a hook, Kai thinks, but where does it go? He knows where he'll go. The statline. The pulse.

The radio had told him it was time to make moves.

His piece is an ASP 39-2. So light he forgets he has it. Minimal kickback. He has it on the lurker outside the steps as he smashes the oustretched arm into the doorframe. Their piece bounces, goes off, digs itself a half tomb in the dirt. He swears. No-look kill then, someone in the game. They drop away but their body on the turf makes no noise.

Gaijin Street Samurai but their fall hadn't been broken by deck. He's back inside the door and snaking to the window. Picks off a few more from there. These guys, he thinks, not tested; he can tell. Scouts who wanted an early bird kill.

They're still sprawled across the tube room, the fiends. He marches to the inside line. Eyes wide but still dulled by fog. Inside lines aren't in the game but even through the fog this one can tell it doesn't matter. The other fiends watch. Their eyes half-lidded. Only mote gleams betray interest.

Without a pulse?

What good is a bad pulse, he thinks, and drops the inside line where he sits. He slumps over, a neat circle in his forehead. Bleeding, but almost a tattoo, a shadow. Comes to rest on his left shoulder. Hair spilling onto fabric torn and grimed.

It had been the one who'd announced his damnation. He'd taken it as dope-speak. Half these dopers became street prophets and said things like that to any who'd listen. Fuck it, he thinks, always cold even while listening for footsteps at the door. It's not that he thinks they're right. They are for sure. It's how close he's coming to it and it's still morning. The Tri-Sun in 3rd Zenith in its barrage of light had been an array of beams pouring through the slashed panes of the living room facing out.

He stalks out to see it, feel it.

B. Moths are on the scene now. He'd heard gunshots from within and thought them echoes of his own kill. Pure cleanup and the most senior soldier is at the door, telling him it's all clear. He thinks of telling them it's about time, but thinks again. No point in schizophrenia this early in the day. Because we will be judged, in the end, he thinks, by the fiends, the street-prophets, the schizophrenes to whom all this is a game. Who are passive, who watch and live.

Knowing their new hackergurl is schizophrene.