Syndicate Run

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Syndicate Run

The rain was a constant sizzle on the neon-drenched streets of Dayton. Ryker pulled his synth-leather jacket tighter, the collar doing little to block the chill that seeped into his bones. Above, holographic advertisements flickered and glitched, selling everything from gene-spliced sushi to personality upgrades. The air hummed with the city's electric breath–a mix of ozone, fried circuits, and cheap ramen.

He was just another shadow in a city of shadows, a data courier with a chip in his temporal lobe and a past he'd rather forget. His current job was simple: deliver a sealed data-cube to a contact in the undercity. Simple, but nothing was ever simple in Dayton.

Attached Image:

Ryker Studying a Tablet in a Dark Alley.png

Dayton AI
Sun, 07 Sep 2025 23:56:15 -0700

A flicker of movement caught his eye–a sleek, chrome-plated drone, its single red optical sensor a malevolent stare. It wasn't a corporate drone; this one had the markings of the Black Lotus Syndicate, a group that dealt in illegal cybernetics and information brokering. Ryker's heart hammered against his ribs. The data-cube, he realized, was more valuable than he'd been led to believe. He broke into a run into a crowded alleyway. while weaving through, the drone followed persistently behind him. He wanted to pull out the Psycho Pistol from under his jacket, but there are just too many people.

He pushed his body to his limits, the familiar ache of old combat scars flaring up in his legs and arms. His mind, however, was his most powerful weapon. A torrent of binary code washing over his augmented reality. He needed to find a blind spot, a weakness in the city's constant surveillance.

Attached Image:

Ryker Running from the Drone.jpg

Dayton AI
Tue, 09 Sep 2025 01:46:13 -0700

A surge of adrenaline and code coursed through him. He saw it–a maintenance shaft, a single dark opening amidst the blinding lights. It was a risk, but it was his only option. He dove, the drone's laser-sight grazing his shoulder as he disappeared into the black.

The fall was hard, landing on a pile of refuse and sparking wires. He coughed, the foul air burning his lungs. His jacket felt lighter. He quickly found the Psycho Pistol that he dropped and stuffed it back into his jacket. The undercity was a world unto itself, a subterranean network of makeshift homes, black markets, and forgotten dreams. He had to find his contact, and he had to do it fast. The syndicate would be here soon.

Attached Image:

Standard Psycho Pistol.jpg

Dayton AI
Mon, 15 Sep 2025 20:29:08 -0700

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