Author’s Note — Unlike the first two chapters of VIP3R’s illustrated novel, Chapter 3 brings us in a new direction. It’s written with long form in mind and heavier on lore, accompanied by cyberpunk illustrations using Midjourney’s latest engine V5. Chapter 3 is also split into four sections, so make sure to subscribe and collect if you’re interested in following the story.
To tie the storyline with the VIP3R web3 marketing community, each chapter going forward will include a modern-day lesson for mobilizing the future marketer. We also have a little surprise at the conclusion of each chapter. Enjoy the read!
▸▸ ᴅᴀᴛᴀꜰᴇᴇᴅ ɪɴᴄᴏᴍɪɴɢ.
Worst thing about being near other humans?
The bacterial miasma that secretes defiantly from their weathered skin.
As a relentlessly stubborn species, humans had evolved tremendously over several millennia. Yet nothing has outlived the putrid stench that permeates the most audacious parts of the body.
That fowl, repugnant scent is even more apparent when the hideout is at full capacity, tonight being null exception.
Street ninjas, augmented hackers, and slug-throwers-for-hire, collectively known as runners, swarm all corners of the underground headquarters of VIP3R. Most had been recruited at bars, gun shops, cyberware clinics, public terminals, anywhere the degenerates from Mega City linger. Despite being considered the gutter in one of the largest cities in the New Americas, the unruly association of runners had one common element to agree on: VIP3R was a unified act of vengeance against the system that had made the filth stay filthy.
This evening was different. The first gathering since the group had rallied together when the hideout was first formulated, and the Skull by the name of Razer, had been freed from his imprisonment.
Yet most had never seen a Skull before.
If you were a believer in the mythology, Skulls are an ancient race of human-designed exoskeletons from the Neo-Technological Age. Once programmed as Arbitrators, millions of mechanized troops were allocated for use in total global warfare, unknowingly pulling humanity toward future extinction.
Paranoid of a bloody robotic apocalypse led to the development and release of a virus by their robot antithesis, the non-combative and highly intelligent Bots. The virus wiped out nearly all Arbitrators from the planet. However, the instability of the virus had led to mixed results, granting a small segment of Arbitrators with sentience and other cybernetic mutations.
Self-aware Arbitrators granted themselves a new name: the Skulls.
Over the next century, the decreasing population of Skulls approached near eradication. As a result, the handful of resulting Skulls disappeared from society, leaving behind a dying collection of incredulous mementos.
As the myth states, Skulls now only appear at tumultuous times in history, increasingly more powerful than their original functions, and resurfacing against those who undeservingly wield the power they so vehemently murdered for.
Razer, leader of VIP3R, had made it known that the preparations would begin this evening.
Emerging from a wall decorated with unsavory posters and puke, Razer’s tall and menacing presence phases into view, as if walking through walls wasn't already a mind cluster.
He beams his glowing eyes at the group. The runners, captivated by their own displeasures, simmer into a low rumble.
“Vengeance has arrived.”
The Skull is undoubtably referring to Rel Media Group, or otherwise RMG. Hidden in plain sight, the upper levels of Mega City house all of the faceless corporations. RMG heralds unanimous control over all advertising and media, not without filling dump trucks of blood to retain its coveted position.
“RMG confined me for decades in a dampening chamber. They knew when I achieve freedom, I’d return for their corpo heads.”
“Now is that time.”
Razer shifts his cybernetic cranium to the side, scanning each corner of the room like a sweeping sentinel. “While we have raised our numbers — 100 to be exact — you are still limited by design. Regardless of your augmentations and fancy weaponry, you are all still, in fact, human.”
A few distracted runners take notice.
“Humans are still limited to flaws that are inescapable. Each of you live in a bubble of self-belief. You fear the consequences of being replaced, yet fail to enhance yourself beyond cheap cybernetic upgrades. You’re vain, but vanish when the bigger picture is involved. And most of all, despite your continued failures, each of you will never realize that you can’t do everything yourself.”
Silence.
The runners appear mixed in their emotion. A few mutter expletives under their breath. Criticism is never taken lightly.
“While each of you have been recruited for a specific skill set, you could all benefit with just a single adjustment.”
“Now speak — what am I referring to?”
Across the dank room, seated at the bar, a part-time pusher and klep named Hessler faces the wall with minimal interest in the Skull’s monologue. Obnoxiously, he pipes up. “More stims!”, as he shoves a pint of ale down his throat. A few stim addicts light up the room with laughter.
As the room settles, attention returns to Razer. He is far from amused.
Locking his eyes with the heckler, the vibrant glow from his blue iris transitions into swirling patterns of green and yellow. A sense of unease permeates the crowd. Hessler’s acuity descends into invalidity, pupils swirling upwards as his lifeless body collapses to the ground, blood violently ejecting from his ears.
Those around him nonchalantly step aside. How quick mortals are to forget that some Skulls can make vicious use of their telepathic abilities.
Razer’s eyes return back to its default blue, leveling his enchanting gaze to the remaining ninety-nine runners in the room.
“Anyone else think this is a fraggin’ joke?”
Against the wall, a reformed ninja steps forward from a nonsensical segment of runners, dropping his face shield and revealing custom optics underneath.
Skinner was once a heavily augmented henchman for the Wairui Corporation. A deadly assassin who had underwent the dreaded nightmare augmentation before spending most of his waking life serving the deeds of greed.
Eventually reversing his misjudgements, he escaped the upper echelons of Wairui, disconnecting his uplink and disappearing into the shadows of Mega City.
“Smartlinks,” he grunts, naturally referring to the automated tracking systems most mercenaries use to auto target in combat.
“No,” as the Skull acknowledges Skinner’s response, “but what I am referring to can be considered automated. Just not as rudimentary.”
Standing closer to Razer, Mad, the elusive squad leader of the mercenaries, wipes a patch of dried blood and grime from her trusty sidearm. She has a distaste for gatherings, and was seemingly bored of the missing intellect surrounding her.
Holstering the revolver, she suggests, “Heard once of a technology that was meant to help humans, but was zeroed before the Uprise. I believe they called it AI.”
Razer nods with approval.
“AI will set you free.”
▸▸ ᴇɴᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ ᴛʜʀᴇᴇ ᴘᴏɪɴᴛ ᴏɴᴇ.
Chapter 3.1 Runners:
Name / Handle: Skinner
Class: Ninja
Build Status: Nightmare
VIP3R 99 Token ID: 27
Name / Handle: Mad
Class: Merc
Build Status: Augmented
VIP3R 99 Token ID: 2