There are tiled and strangely foreign mosaics on the dirty rooftops of India, a hazy horizon of pollution and expanding yellow dust in thick poison clouds surrounding the shoddy architecture of lazy concrete buildings erected by some pervert and his gaggle of slaves, unusual Russian coins are exchanged and deals made among the sweaty, and unwashed faces of intrinsic poverty and grime.
Hidden beneath these compounds are comfort rooms full of freshly bruised prostitutes and whatever drug the fiends desire, they are complete with lavish curtains and velvet drapes to divert the eyes from the camera in every corner, inside these elaborate and deceptive abodes are Neuralink microchip dispensaries, sovereign and autonomous humanoids that will surgically install the purchased implants and mods.
It's a dark world of elite biohackers, tech-assassins, brain-butchers and those capable of melting the cartridge skulls of couriers and wayward data thieves, the black market avenue, and rain-slick alleys and neon-lit cyber-stores, the array of stolen tech gadgets and custom GPUs for your terroristic war rigs, it can be paradise for a liaison as each synthetic chassis is designed to elude the body and luggage scanners and security checkpoints you will infiltrate, how they are intricately prepared to explode on command, a shotgun blast of blistering razor-sharp electronic shrapnel, plastic hearts and technician synths on high alert as the malfunctions occur without warning and the army bots drop like artificial soldiers in a nuclear funnel cloud, the calculated robberies and acts of defiance, the silent alarms broken and an unknown rebellion that started long ago in some forgotten and far-away foreign terminal and airport kiosk, a private rebellion that will not stop until the world's governments are burned to the ground.