The Future is for sale.
"With the OP(im) implant you can be the master of your own space and time!" - Advertisement
We can rebuild him. We have the technology. We can make him better than he was. Better…stronger…faster. - The Six Million Dollar Man
Mercenary. Hacker. Charm school graduate. Teddy bear collector. Raver. Troll.
"What, never heard of it? I thought a young hacker like you would already know. Well let me tell you…"
Every soldier knows he may be called upon to make the ultimate sacrifice. What he doesn’t always know is the depth of the other sacrifices he may be called upon to make.
“She’s dead, Jim.” “We have the technology, we can rebuild her.” “... Yes. But should we?” “We must, in order to counter his scheming.” “Then we’ll do it.”
Sometimes, gentlemen, you must find yourself a location beyond the reach of the law. I’m sure you understand. Those dreadful precautions, the endless nagging, sometimes it’s simpler to just do what you need to do.
The RJD2 series virus, affectionately known as The Red Scribble, is the scourge of cyberspace.
The road has never been more than an overgrown mud track, little travelled and little cared for, petered out to nothing more than a flattened earthen line, barely distinguishable from the rest of the landscape. The soil is dark and fecund and dark oaks stand like sentinels at the forest edge, their branches high and leafy. From them hang grizzly human bones, skulls and shiny precious stones. Who put these strange totems there? Are they warnings? Do the PCs dare to take the stones?