Dreams propel us forward. They shape our goals, shift our perceptions, and even in darkness, they endure. If God dies, dreams persist — fragmented echoes reverberating across time. They are infinite, metaphysical, boundless.

  In this way, futility itself becomes meaning. We are granted purpose because of our impermanence, our flaws not obstacles but catalysts. Do gods dream? Do machines? Or is this sacred longing reserved for humanity alone? If God does not dream, is it truly perfect — untouched by yearning, unshaped by memory? Within our fragmented recollections, we carry miniature heavens — private dreamscapes, evolving and expanding. Memory and dream intermingle, crafting new realms that resist erasure.

  Even humble visions — of love, of belonging, of family — anchor us to existence, granting defiance against the void. We are not just observers of meaninglessness; we are its authors, sculptors, dissenters.

  Every man is both creator and destroyer, god and devil, divine spark and shadow. We are the places we've been, the people we’ve loved, the stories we’ve chosen to remember. This — this unending tension, this creative paradox — is the divine. - Sincerely Martin Gravesend

  As I wake, the dull inner coating of my house’s paint peels in flaking strips. I open my eyes only to find them strained and stinging—the neurotellin has officially worn off. Outside, the ether lamp casts its harsh glow through the bedroom window; my pupils dilate, adjusting to the glare. I know it won’t always be like this. A few more jobs and I might finally get my license—become an official contractor within the City Department. But right now, my bills are stacking up faster than I can pay them, and I need heating money. The bouncer gig at that Club Lux should help cover groceries, and the cab-driving luckily left me that contact—but leads move slowly, earners demand time and patience. I still need a side hustle. After I answer Elise’s call, I’ll have to slip out to the so-called Staining Office—definitely not a City Department branch. I need forged documents stamped with my own blood type. Only one black-market DNA stainer works that fast, and though he hates me, I know he’s got a weakness for lucrative intel. I haul myself upright, joints popping. The radiator rattles somewhere down the hall—useless without coal. I pull my coat tighter, grimacing at the bare bulb overhead. Tonight, under etherlit signs and in back-room shadows, I’ll trade whispers for papers. Then maybe, just maybe, I’ll inch closer to daylight and leave this peeling refuge behind. I was meant to be an officer not a hitman. That meant my physical‐based skills carried over some communication and situational awareness—so my main “physik” training blended into “travik” abilities, unlike the pure travik of the cab driver. He had to recognize, in a single nod and glance, that I wasn’t a bouncer—an exchange both kind and shady. If I’d altered my DNA once, I could do it again—but the cost, and the slime that came with it, meant I’d have to get my hands dirty. Instead, I slid on my black suede trousers over the white shirt I’d been rewashing and rewashing to save money and time. I pulled on my coat and crossed into the living room just as the clock chimed. I’d wound it to that exact hour—morning, noon, or night—every move rehearsed, each ritual keeping me balanced on that tightrope like a stage show. In the world we live in, skills fall into what we call the four ways : Mentik: mental engineering and weaponized mathematics (but not algebra). Travik: travel, social dexterity, situational awareness, subterfuge. Medik: medicine in its broadest sense—healing, toxins, smuggling and even religion’s rites. Physik: raw physical labor and endurance. Each discipline overlaps with the others in sub–categories—little cross‐training opportunities you could even swap at a black-market DNA stainer. But your primary way? That was far harder to change. And mine was locked fast in “physik”.

  Tonight, I’d answer Elise’s call, slip into Lux’s back office, and arrange that underground stain. Afterward, I’d be one step closer to the City Department—but for now, my bones ached, and my bills threatened to bury me in a world built on codes and betrayal. Yet with each rehearsed breath, I reminded myself: this is the only way forward.

  I knew I’d have to visit the DNA stainer after Elise called—and before I made it to the club—which stretched my day into the early hours. Everywhere you worked now, they’d replaced paperwork with the blood-alchemical printing log. You didn’t hand in forms or swipe cards anymore; you pricked a fingertip, the crystal cartridge scanned your blood, and the city’s administration updated your ID in real time. It was how they kept every sector running: labor, resources, even surveillance data flowed evenly across job sites and networks. In theory, it killed black markets and bottlenecks—though a few of us who slipped off-grid by swapping DNA profiles learned it wasn’t foolproof. Still, I couldn’t afford to fall too far out of their systems. My primary “physik” clearance locked me into heavy-lift gigs and underground courier runs. Skipping a blood-print check meant losing access to the undercity tunnels—and without those, I’d be exposed. Not that the checks weren't strictly mandatory but they thrived on compliance. So after Elise called, I’d need to ask her for a small favor she’d picked up on the street. Then I’d slip past the magus of the stainer, pay my bribe, and reset my profile to match the new shift code. By the time I crawled into bed, I would feel like a rusted automaton—but at least my face would still pass for the right class of worker.

  The Wosnac-10’s unarmoured shell vibrated on the lacquered console, its shock jolting me upright. I’d set the ringer to silent—too many stray calls from bailiffs and street gangs—but this one cut through. Slowly, I reached out and flipped it open. The display glowed dull green: ELISE. My thumb hovered over the accept key, spine tingling. My voice came out calm, but slightly shaky—the Neurotellin had worn off, and I hadn’t taken my morning dose. Something forgotten. I told myself that quietly, a whisper of reprimand floating through the fuzz of diluted awareness. Synthetic interference had dulled my senses; the conversation ahead would be difficult, leverage likely elusive. The phone clicked and stuttered with faint static—white fuzz blurring the edges of connection. Elise answered. Her voice was not as it had been yesterday. No softness, no hesitation. Something had shifted back home in Midlight, I could feel it. "Your update," she said—not angry, not rushed. Just sterile. A monotone professionalism had replaced the subtle cadence of concern. Her words rippled with the practiced boredom of a Wosnac protocol, each syllable wrapped in a gray void I dared not pry into—not while weakened, not without the Neurotellin buffering my cognition. Great, I thought, lips parted but dry. I paused long enough to feel the fragility of my voice claw its way up. "I’ve made progress," I finally said, my vocal cords scratching through the static like unraveling wire. "But it will take some time."

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  The line cracked gently. A sound like distant electricity danced at the edges. Elise didn’t respond immediately. Her silence was shaped—not by thoughtfulness, but by procedure. When she finally spoke, it was a voice scrubbed clean of intimacy, filtered through too many layers of institutional protocol. Martin’s voice—when he joined the line—was another texture entirely. Gravel-soft, deliberate. Like a patch cable half-connected, letting emotion pulse in stunted bursts. “Understood,” he said, with that steady low pitch that felt more real than the machinery surrounding it. “Time is expected. But clarity… clarity is essential.”

  The mark has military training,” I began—my voice steady, rehearsed. “Which no doubt you're aware.” I paused, the shakes crawling up my spine like frost lacing old iron. I forced my breath into silence and continued. “He has a wife,” I added, the words curling out with a subtle smirk. She couldn’t see it, but that didn’t matter. The thought of her hearing it—of it riling her up—was the point.

  It didn’t.

  She remained monotone, unfazed, her reply clipped and cold: “Go on.” In the background, I heard the metallic scrape of a lighter. The hiss and crackle of flame followed. She’d lit a cigarette. It was her usual—ritualistic, calculated, indifferent. “They’re getting married soon,” I went on. “She frequents Gravecrest Priory—a church tucked in just enough shadow. It’s where I found my window, Elise. Best place to reach her while she’s out of his line of sight. My way into the mark’s life.” The word “Laterists” lingered a little as I continued, careful to maintain an even rhythm. “They’re an open community. Suspicious, yes, but welcoming when nudged right. I managed to slip in, started building a rapport. Enough to keep eyes off me for now.” Her silence wrapped tight around my words, encouraging yet unyielding. I pressed forward. “But hits are slow earners, Elise. You know that. So I’ve had to branch out. Picked up a side hustle—a bouncer gig at Lux. The place is out of district, closer to home. Keeps my cover tight. And if I pay someone to slip my blood into the machine on the right date… it gives me an airtight alibi.”

  I paused again. The weight of my next words pressed against the edge of my ribs.

  “Of course, before that, I need to visit the Stainer. And even before that... I need a favor from you.” My breath came harder now—rasping, fractured by effort. Focus was slipping, but I caught it by the throat and dragged it back. “I was wondering... if you had any intelligence for me. Not about Home, obviously. We keep that off the board. But maybe something about the Varadeshi Republic?” I let the question hang. The silence on the other end grew longer, threaded with smoke and static. My skin went cold, goosebumps rising as if memory itself had swept through me like a breeze off the midlight ruins. “The Vardeshi Republic?” Elise quizzed, her voice laced with a groan of theatrical disdain. It wasn’t fatigue, not truly—her expression betrayed her. Even without Neurotellin, I could see the spark behind her smirk. The yawn she offered was a forced pretense. Her interest was piqued, despite her best efforts to feign indifference. She leaned back, casually but with a glint in her eye.

  “Well,” she began, dragging the word like silk over broken glass, “I know Prince Hasvar and the merchant Caliquo are on the move. And yes, Hasvar is but one of many princes, as you no doubt are aware. But here’s where it gets interesting.” She paused, savoring the shift in tension. “There’s remarkably little media coverage on the man. His movements are scarcely documented, and he’s certainly not in Varadesh. One might assume exile, wouldn’t they?” I nodded slowly, letting the implication settle. “But,” she continued, almost tasting the twist in her tale, “he’s been seen far past Antigua. Nowhere near the Commune—not with how the North detests the Varadeshi. That’s where the thread unravels.” Her voice dropped slightly. “What I find compelling isn’t where Hasvar isn’t—but what’s growing nearby. A minor island. Small, easily overlooked. Dragenta.” I raised an eyebrow. “Dragenta?” “Bustling,” she confirmed, smiling again, “with a particular kind of person.”

  I laughed, catching on. “You mean... pirates?” She laughed louder now—throaty, amused, deliberately goading me. “Quite right. Wouldn’t the Varadesh love to know? Given their obsession with clamping down on freebooting and their open disdain for merchant raids.” The grin lingered on her lips as I reached for the Wosnac. I tapped it twice, a gesture of thanks. “Appreciate the insight.” She gave a mock curtsy, winking beneath that unsettling green glow in her eyes. I pushed open the shack’s heavy door. The hinges creaked with disuse, and the moment I stepped outside, my heart sank. No sunlight to greet me and the quiet certainty that Elise’s warning would soon unfold. You had to wonder—did the prince switch sides? Of course, Elise hadn’t told me that, and I wouldn’t be foolish enough to sell that part of the information. Reckless, really, since it wasn’t known or confirmed. Then again, it was possible he still worked for Varadesh… and the reverse could be true: sanctioned pirateering against the Commune.

  Either way, I passed along the limited version—the part Elise had told me. Let them ponder. Let them worry. Let them decide who gets it right.