In Halcyon City it is always the seventh of July, 2087, and the rain over District 7 never quite decides to fall.
Rent is cheap on the low floors and the signal is loud. Yuki Arai takes the jobs nobody signs, for the arithmetic. Silas Moreau prices everything, silence included. He is your broker, and you are the hand he hired, so you come into Halcyon with a bag and no address anyone here would recognize. The Seventh Circuit keeps a bartender who answers for nothing, and somewhere in the stack is the one detail nobody has read yet.
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Sleepwell Capsules rents you a bed the size of a coffin, stacked eight high and paid by the hour.
1 sceneCyberpunk
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District 7 Night MarketThe Consortium owns the stalls, the awnings, and the silence about what moves behind the counters. Food Stall Row runs the length of the thoroughfare, steam off the griddles, a menu board that never quite matches what you get.Come in off the wet pavement and the smell finds you first, then the noise, then the feeling of being read. Buy something small before you ask anything.
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Volkova ClinicChrome, prosthetic limbs, and augments fitted on the procedure island under the gantry, with a windowed wall where somebody always watches and an organ screen that never quite agrees with the paperwork. Rain on the glass, coolant in the air, the smell of hot metal and disinfectant. Walk in and nobody asks your name, only your deposit.Bring the full amount. Bring it anyway.
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Sleepwell CapsulesNobody runs this place so much as the front desk takes your chip and forgets your face. Off the Pod Corridor the berths go on and on, numbered, warm, sealed, and behind each little door a stranger is sleeping off a night they would rather not itemise. Come in out of the drizzle and the air is recycled, faintly sweet, humming with the pipes overhead.Take the pod nearest the ladder and keep your bag under your head. Whatever you carried in here, someone in the next capsule heard you set it down.
Silas Moreau fixes what other people broke, and he keeps the receipt for every favor.
1 outfitCyberpunk
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???Platinum hair pulled back into a bun, porcelain skin, blue eyes that stay on the incision and not on the face above it. She works the Cybernetic Enhancement Clinic in Halcyon City, and she works it the way other people hold their breath. Steady, unblinking, unbothered by the blood on the tray.She will take a job nobody else will sign off on. She will not say why. The paperwork goes through clean every time, which in this city is its own kind of noise.
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???She works the low floors of Halcyon City where the rent is cheap and the signal is loud, hunched over a deck she built herself, chin-length blue hair with black showing at the roots. She is young, and she is always short on sleep.The Collective sends her the jobs nobody wants to sign. She takes them anyway, for the arithmetic. Somewhere in the stack of them is one detail she has not read yet.
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???A stranger finds him where the neon runs cheap and the ice never quite melts. Dark skin, black taper fade, a full beard he keeps short, sleeves rolled to show the ink on both forearms. He works the rail with an unhurried hand, and the hand is the tell: he has never once spilled a pour.He listens the way other men drink, steadily, and gives back only what a tab will cover. Ask who he runs with and the smile stays, warm and amused, and the question goes politely nowhere. He knows the price of every seat in the house and has never quoted it aloud.
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Silas MoreauHe works Halcyon City's edges, where a debt can be sold twice and a name can be rented by the hour. The Consortium calls him when a deal needs a hand that does not shake. He is wiry, gray-eyed, hair slicked back and salted through the goatee, and the scars say he has been paid in something other than credits before.He arrives when the job is already bleeding and leaves when it is stitched. He prices everything, including the silence afterward. What he wants past the next commission, no one has heard him say.
Silver eyes, a chrome jawline, and a blade that answers to someone else's name.
1 outfitCyberpunk
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???The samurai stands at the edge of the room and does not sit. Under the neon, the implants along the temple and wrist catch light like wet stone, and the stare never blinks, never wanders. Polite to a fault. Polite the way a held breath is.The oath is the whole of it. A sworn master holds the leash, and the leash is worn like a spine. Halcyon City prices everything, and this one has already decided what the price is not.
