"Are you always here?"

My voice murmurs out into the dead of night, a sense of the feeble and a near-desperate insistence to it.  The man to whom I speak turns at the sudden sound of my voice.  It barely registers that I seem to have surprised him, as such was not my intention.

"Verrity?" the Chessman says, relaxing somewhat, "I had not expected you."

"You didn't?" I peer back at him, cocking my head slightly, and this admission of his lets me gain a bit better ground.

My mind has been reeling of late, ever since my encounter with the Prowler, Analise.  I had thought I was becoming successful in my digging, but her reaction to me had thrown me into a strange loop.  Something of anger has tinged my feeling toward the Chessman, but I also know that deep inside I seek some method to mitigate that.  I am not yet ready to make such my main emotional diet.

"What beings you out this evening?" he asks, folding his hands at the front of his waist.

"Prowlers," I almost growl, but I check myself and it ends up sounding like a breathy quip.

"Ah, yes," he nods, "You must have found something disturbing.  I cannot say it is entirely unexpected."

"Well, it was to me," I murmur, still staying in the shadows of the nearby tree.

"What happened?"

I pause, wondering if I should tell him.  Would it be a one way transaction?  He has been rather open and forthcoming with me, though.

"I ran into a prowler."

"Did you?" he asks, letting out his own telling tone of curiosity.

"I suppose that was not entirely unexpected either, was it?"

He glances at me.  I watch as his respiration flows slowly through him.  I wonder how much of the charade of humanity is falsified in him ... and in me.

"No," he finally says, "It was inevitable."

"Two things," I continue, resorting to a laundry list of concerns to somewhat dull their effect, "I remembered her appearance.  I began a short relationship with her to gain her confidence.  I figured out what she was quite easily, and I remembered her face.'

"The other thing is that she thought I was someone else."

"Another prowler?" he bids.

"I don't know," I quickly reply, "She said she thought I was dead.  She also said something about a goddess with some rather unpleasant affectations to that realm of deity."

He watches me, quite still.  Then he lowers his hands and walks over nearer his chessboard.  He picks up a piece, and though it is dark, I see it is the black queen.  He toys with it, pondering.  He then sets it back on the board and turns back to me.

"I had told you of a burgeoning solidarity amongst the prowlers," he begins, and I nod, "It eventually became something of a full-fledge, though soft, rebellion."

"Soft rebellion?"

"Well, they just sort of drifted away from the control of their handlers.  Some still maintain that relationship, though it is generally with hidden agendas.  But there was no bloody slaughter of their former masters and then fleeing to some sanctuary.  They already had their world - this darker side of the Matrix.  They had found it and built it all the same.'

"But to have something like that happen, they needed a catalyst, a coalescing force ... a leader."

"This goddess?" I ask, my eyebrows screwed toward one another in confusion.

"Yes," he nods, "Though she did not begin as such.  It is simple sociology.  Certainly there were those who felt unsatisfied with their lot, those who felt as though they were slaves, or wastes, or worse.  Still, they may have stood around and sipped their cocktails and bitched and bitched and done nothing.  It takes a leader to get the people going, yes?'

"This Exile was a prowler like all the others, but there was still something different about her.  She held a drive and ability that elevated her.  Her charisma also drew the others to her, and before she knew it, whether by will or accident, she was becoming the fulcrum of this new, dark subculture.  She put the fire in their hearts for what they could become and for how they should become it.'

"Inevitably, she attained some messianic status above that of a common sentient.  Whether she deserved it or not is irrelevant.  Some say she was a true manifestation of such a great, ancient power that she really was a demi-god.  That she had been there all along, before the War, before the Matrix, and she simply adapted to it in her own way."

He shrugs slightly.  I say nothing.

"She became their leader, their Queen, if you wish to call her such.  She was not so open as the Merovingian, but she still held suitable power of her own.  She began to manipulate their services to gather information and experience that served them more than the clients or handlers.  The exchange of information became more of a two-way transaction, even without the knowledge of the clients.  And then the exchange became more weighted to the prowlers.  She brought a greater purpose to them.'

"And then she disappeared."

I tilt my head up slightly, having let it drift down as I had become lost in his words.  My chin points at him like a subtle accusation.

"Was she killed?"

He shrugs.

"That's all part of the mystery.  Was she killed?  Did she just die?  Did she disappear out of choice?  Did she go into hiding?"

A quiet moment stretches between us.  I wonder if he expects me to answer, or if perhaps he hopes the night itself will speak up to break the tense silence.

"There is something you should know, though," he remarks, and the seemingly offhand way he brings it up makes me suddenly anxious.

"What?"

"This ‘leader' of the prowlers, their Queen," he begins, and I watch him closely, eagerly, "Her name was Verrity."

I occupy a modern-looking, metal table in the darkened corner of a club - seemingly like all the others, yet with its own style of facelift.  I watch intently as the clear liquid pours slowly over the balanced sugar cube, dripping sweetened contents into the thick liqueur in the cordial glass.  A particular cloudiness roils its calm flow through the nearly iridescent green drink.  When the other lady is done pouring, we four raise our glasses, toasting with something akin to smiles, and we drink.

The other two laugh at the only male in our quartet as he gains a screwed up look to his face.

"Doesn't suit you, Tyler?"

This is spoke by Analise, the one who did the pouring, and I watch her closely.

"Ahh, well, it's interesting," he remarks, putting on a smile for his tablemates.

He is really a quite good-looking creature, but I am not here for him.  He does seem to stand out, though, a well-groomed man of at least a decade more than the three shined and sheened ladies with whom he holds place.

"It's an acquired taste," Analise says, giving him a very seductive grin.

She is also a good-looking creature, and I am here for her.

"I liked it the first time I tried it," offers Charlotte, the last of our group.

Analise looks over to her, and the almost doll-looking, very made up Charlotte seems to shrivel a bit under that blaring gaze.  Analise seems the type of person I would have despised in my bluepill days, though I would have tormented her as much as possible.  There is, however, much more to her than what she seems on the surface.

"To each their own," Analise then says, releasing Charlotte and turning her eyes back to Tyler as she drains the rest of her absinthe.

She sets her nicely-curved glass down on the tabletop, the candy-green leavings sliding back down to collect at the cradled base.  She effects a slight gasp, sending her eyes back and forth between us all.  I suppose it is somewhat subtle, but she seems incredibly intent on making sure she has our collective attention.  Her eyes linger a bit on me, and she proves how inept she is at reading people, because I can veritably see her accept my stare as positive attention.

"The ritual is very interesting, though," Tyler shares.

"Yes, that's all part of the experience," Analise explains, leaning forward, and as she does, she takes a breath and brings her shoulders forward, pronouncing the display of her chest for his attentions.

"Yeah, almost like the drink is a stimulant for the imagination."

I turn my attention to Tyler as he utters this.  It almost just seems too planned.  Did I not know better, I might be suspicious, but as it is, he is just a poor boy hooked on the end of a string.  Analise looks back at him, smiling, then she sort of generally focuses on the table and drops her shoulders in a huff.

"What does it make you think of?" she asks, cutting her eyes back to him and putting the seductress into high gear.

"Oh, I don't know," he muses, grinning, "Art, dark and smoky interiors, something very gothic."

She nods, pressing her lips together in agreement, "It's like something vampires would drink, don't you think?"

She angles this last bit to Charlotte, and the poor girl jigs and jerks to Analise's conduction just as easily as Tyler.  She seems to openly happy to have been brought back into the conversation.  It is quite pathetic.

"Yes, yes," she eagerly agrees, "It always makes me think of that."

"I thought vampires drank blood," Tyler says, playing along.

"Well, is that all they have to drink?" Analise returns, letting her long, thick eyelashes close together slowly.

"Hell, I don't know," he says, "I guess it depends on what book you read."

He chuckles, looking at the three of us.  I can tell he feels as though he is on the edge of dangerous territory.  He is not as much an explorer as he makes out.  There is something, though, inside him, that wants to know more.  There is also something that lets him feel as though he may find it, and yet, there is a sufficient lacking of strength and confidence for him to be taken advantage of.

"What book we read?" Analise retorts, grinning openly, "Darling, some people read books, some people write them," and here she leans in again, getting closer to him, "And some people live them."

"Okay," he returns her grin, trying to keep up, "I understand what you are getting at, but some things in book are impossible."

She purses her lip and tilts her head, casting her eyes down, and she reclines back in her chair.

"What?" he continues, subconsciously showing his willingness to be a victim; he looks at Charlotte, then at me, then back to Analise, "You don't believe that stuff, do you?"

"Belief doesn't matter," she answers, leaning back toward the table, "Whether or not vampires are really out there, the true question is can we experience something reasonably like it to satisfy our own curiosities?"

I watch closely, because this is the money question.  She has dropped the juiciest bait.  Charlotte is rapt with attention, and I can almost feel the waves coming off Analise for the other girl to not say anything and spoil the moment.  However, Tyler does not bite on this, and Analise shows her own inexperience when she turns her eyes to me and becomes the next to again speak.

"Right?"

I let the moment draw out a bit, letting her feel anxious.  She turns her eyes to Charlotte, and I can tell she is finally giving up to pull her weak card.

"I don't dig other peoples' graves," I respond just as Analise is opening her mouth to the other girl.

She turns and drills me with her eyes.  Then she laughs.

"So serious," she teases, furrowing her brow and shaking her head, "So stern.  Ah well," she breaks from looking at me, "If you will spare me a moment."

She scoots back her chair and departs.

Silence descends upon the table in her wake.  Almost like a void created by her leaving, and I know she would not have it any other way.  Tyler keeps his eyes unfocused as his fingertips toy with his own empty glass.  Charlotte seems the most uncomfortable, looking back and forth between us.

"What was that all about, anyway?" he finally says.

Charlotte looks at me, expecting me to field that inquiry.  One could not ask for a better sidekick, I suppose, and she is all the more convincing, because even she does know she has been recruited as such.

"Maybe I should go check on her?"

"No," I speak, reaching over with a tightly gloves hand and placing it atop his wrist, "I'll fetch her."

I rise with a swooshing of the vinyl fabric of my blood red cloak.  I assume there is no real harm in leaving the two of them alone together.  They could not do much damage, well at least not any real damage.  Analise did not say where she was going, but I have a strong feeling.  I move past the bar and turn into an alcove which might lead to the restrooms but instead eventually paths it way to a rear, lesser-used door.  It opens out into a thin alleyway.  The metal door announces my arrival upon its worn hinges.

"I wondered when you'd-," Analise begins, turning at the noise, but then her voice is halted when she sees me, "What are you doing out here?"

"Is this not a public place?" I respond, flicking my lighter and setting my black cigarette aflame.

"You know, they do allow smoking inside?"

I look sidelong at her, putting my lighter away.  I speak around the cigarette, "Yeah, I know."

"I guess I'll head back in-," she says, making to move to the portal, but I move quicker, pressing my hand against the door.

"No."

She glares at me.  I simply stare back at her, calmly, plucking the cigarette from my mouth with the fingertips of my left hand, exhaling a deep plume of smoke.

"What are you doing?" she tries again.

"You in a hurry?" I ask, taking my time, letting the thin tendril of smoke drift up between us like some quiet signal of alarm, "Don't want him to forget you?"

"What?"

I see a sudden, underlying sense of confusion on her features, something that threatens to hinge into fear.  I put the cigarette again between my lips, taking a deep drag.  I let the smoke waft from between my partially open lips, as though hazy feelers were trying to test their fledgling wings from within a soft, fleshy nest.  She watches, waiting, and I breathe out the rest of the smoke.

"Do I know you?" she asks.

"Don't try that," I quip, "I recognize your face."

"How?"

"That's a good question," I sort of shrug, then I flick away the cigarette, "But I don't really care about him.  I care about you."

She simply stares, and I can see the fear growing.  I am somewhat amazed she does not try to run.  I have my silenced handgun inside my clothes, and I will hurt her if I have to.  Some more moment pass, moments where I admit I expected more questions from her, but she seems to have taken to this newfound mute side.

"So, why him?  What's the point?" I begin my interrogation, "Where will you go with what you take?"

I notice that she begins to slightly tremble.

"How do you know me, but I do not know you?" she asks, her voice barely contained from wavering.

"As I said, that's a good question, but not one that's going to be answered," I continue, stepping closer to her, and she instinctively moves herself closer to the unyielding wall, "But I know what you are, and I need information."

I raise my eyebrows, bidding in a patronizing way for her agreement.

Her lower lip begins to shake, and she murmurs, "Goddess ..."

"What?" I screw up my brow in confusion.

"Mother of Filth," she continues, whispering as though lost in some sudden mantra, "Queen of Sexual Impurity ... destroyer ... redeemer ... drinker of innocence ...."

I lean in closer, slitting my eyes as though it may aid my understanding of her strange babble.

"What do you want of me-e-e-e?" she suddenly peels with her voice, crumbling to the ground and leaking out the end of her question like the final throes of a tattered fan blade.

"I told you," I speak, trying to overcome my own confusion at her behavior, "I want information."

"I'm trying to get it for you," she whimpers.

I stand there, almost like an imposing tower, looking down at her.  She finally manages to look up at me.  Her overdone make-up runs with tears.  What a strange offering.

"We all thought you were gone .... dead."

"What?" I ask, blinking my eyes quickly, and I take a step away from her.

She nods, her head failing to move smoothly with the quivering.  She takes in a hitching breath.  She notices my own retreat, and she presses herself up, using the wall to aid her in again standing.

"Where did you go for so long?" she persists.

I begin to shake my head slowly, not understanding at all.  I take further steps away, watching her, and then I turn and run.

"We are the music makers... and we are the dreamers of dreams."

Uhm, yeah .... determinism.

I sit, sipping espresso.  The Chessman and I are continuing our conversation, and we are actually at the chess board.  I ironically realize that this is the first time I have seen him sitting there, moving pieces.  I am not playing against him.  He simply ruminates during our talk, playing both sides and seeing if he can best himself.

"Have you thought more of what I told you?" he asks, though his eyes stay on the pieces and seem to see inward.

I nod, sipping my strong coffee.

"I presume you have also been looking more into it," he continues, and I slowly nod again, "And no one will give up anything, will they?"

He stops what he is doing and looks up at me, smiling.  I look back at him, then shake my head.

"That's part of it," he comments, "Last time I told you about Exiles who had begun to serve as strange proxies for the decadent experiences of bluepills.  I am not sure if you appreciate the depth of such a thing.  Once those experiences get inside the bluepills, they have a hard time distinguishing between them and real memories.  For all intents and purposes, they are real memories."

"Wait a minute," I say, holding my bone white ceramic demitasse in mid air, "Then you could implant whatever you want and use it to manipulate the recipient."

He grins back at me, then he looks down and moves a piece on my side of the board.

"Exactly," he finally speaks, "Though that was really not the original intent."

I raise my eyebrows at him, letting my body language speak the obvious question.

"Well, things evolve," he purses out his lower lip slightly and tilts his head; I am amazed at the human-like minutiae of these sentient programs.

"Mhmm?" I lead.

He grins, chuckling softly.

"I never told you, did I, what they called these entities that were used for going out and harvesting experience," he continues, going back to his board.

"No."

You know you didn't, I think, but I will play some of his game.

Still not looking up at me: "Prowlers."

"Interesting."

"It is, isn't it?" he agrees, now looking back up toward the tops of some of the gray, towering buildings outside the expanse of the park, then he again sends his eyes to me, "They were specially modified for this function, as you might imagine.  One curious thing they did was make them hard to remember."

"What?"

"Something was done to the code of their R.S.I.'s.  They were all generally striking, beautiful creatures, which seemed important for the job, but they had to bear just the right mix of allure and anonymity to seduce and promote the vicarious thrill at the same time."

I slit my eyes a bit, gaining shallow wrinkles of confusion at the sides of my face.

"You see, they could not be too beautiful, or they might be distracting to the client, but they had to be beautiful to impose a background sense of allure and pleasure.  They also could not be so beautiful that they made it impossible for the client to bond with them as a proxy, but then they still had to be beautiful to make the client want them as a proxy."

"Okay, stop saying ‘beautiful'," I bid, holding up my free hand.

He chuckles.

"There was a simple solution to this problem - make them forgettable."

"Uh-huh."

"A striking creature slinks into your field of vision," he narrates, "And while they are in your proximity, you most definitely notice them.  But then, after they are gone, you are left with the lingering memory of an alluring vision, but you cannot quite remember the exact make-up of that same thing."

"Like a sort of stealth," I say.

"Yes," he nods, smiling, "Incidentally, it also helped them because they were getting their hands dirty, so it didn't overly matter that they may be seen and noticed, because they were able to easily hide in memory, or one's lack thereof."

"So, they were beautiful creatures," I make an attempt at summary, smirking at him for my chosen word, "And they pandered memory while they themselves could not be truly imprinted on that same recollection they were manipulating."

"Yes."

"Interesting."

"Yes."

I bring my mug up, noting there is very little left, though it is still hot.  My sleekly-gloved fingertips hold it just below my mouth, letting the scent rise up to my nose.  I am enthralled by such things still and will probably always continue to be so.

"What else is interesting is what eventually happened."

"You mentioned things evolving," I lead.

"That I did," he says, like a suitably impressed professor, "One evolution was that the prowlers began to ply their trade to others besides bluepills."

"Really?" I manage to ask just as I take what may be the last sip of my current espresso.

"Of course it was highly predictable, as much as the prowlers' handlers may have acted surprised," he adds, "For even we sentient beings who jack in out of choice still have our morality, our limits.  It was still relatively secret, but such a thing cannot continue and grow on any scale without developing something of an underground notoriety."

"I'd never heard of it," I offer.

He does something curious then.  He stops everything and peers at me, really looking, giving me a more obvious focus of his attention than I think he ever has.  It unnerves me a bit.

"Of course not," he finally says, coming to some conclusion and glancing away.

I watch him, and he moves the black queen toward a more secluded position from the action on the board.  He then props his elbows on the table, clasping his hands, and he looks back at me.

"Another change, which in retrospect should also not be surprising, was the culture of solidarity that began to develop between the prowlers."

"Oh?"

He nods: "Well, they were generally isolated, being what they were, pretty much interacting with their various clients and handlers and not much else.  Of course, they knew each other."

"They did?" I ask, not letting him get away with something so important veiled as utterly casual.

"Not sure if it was intended, but the modifications to make them forgettable did not work between them," he effects a slight shrug, "And so some of the danker, dingier bars and clubs and cafés began to see a gathering of these shady types from time to time."

"What were they doing?" I ask.

"Talking shop," he shrugs again, "Lamenting the tedious, shallow demands of their unimaginative clientele.  I am not sure, but the main point is that they found each other.'

"Think of bluepill law enforcers," he says, leaning in a bit closer, "They have a very specific role in society, and they are treated simultaneously with respect and disdain because of it.  They are in something of a unique position, and it separates them from others.  Any common sociologist could tell you that is why they eventually develop friends that are also law enforcers; they congregate at the same places, which they may eventually dominate.  Virtually their entire existence is somehow associated with their colleagues.  Well, the prowlers were in an even more niche role, and so their solidarity was inevitable.'

"They also developed something of a taste for power because it was them going out and gaining the experience.  Their handlers did not do it, their clients surely did not do it.  They began to feel slighted as the middleman and cheapened by the thrill-seeking demanded by their clients."

"They felt they should have a greater purpose," I posit.

He nods: "That and greater power."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I must give credit where credit is due.  This concept is quite heavily borrowed from K.W. Jeter's amazing novel, Noir.  I am simply adapting it to our scenario and hopefully opening up some interesting RP possibilities in the process.

Strangeness .. ...

You'd think I'd get used to it, but then perhaps I feed on it like the perfect drug.  I let it swirl around in my mind, giving it greater life than its own.  Yes, I think I do that.

I am learning more and more about those who are not connected.  The word even seems to bring new meaning to me.  Those who are still plugged in are looked down upon.  Even if it is the Zionists who are only out for the good of humans; they still have an underlying superiority about it, just as the knight in shining armor subconsciously treats his powerless ward in the tower with a sense of disdain and casual dominance.  So those who are still connected up are basically *CENSORED*. 

I have made new friends though, and I am feeling much more comfortable in the realization of my shell.  I spent a wonderfully delicious evening at Club Duality with members of the Connection.  I suppose it was something of a nice, spontaneous gathering to celebrate my joining.  It was great fun, and it really allowed me to reminisce about my pre-awakened life.  To be honest, even though I was in a very different metaphysical skin, I felt more empowered than I ever would have when I was a bluepill and felt I was "in the know".

Still, can't party all the time.

I am learning more and more interesting things.  I actually found out that even programs engage in the use of narcotic substances, or at least what would equate to such in the Simulation.  Without letting myself feel too much like a street gangster, I fetched some of this substance and moved for a particular person from another club.  I did not engage in any temptation to try it myself, but it was quite the revelation to me to find out of such things.  I suppose it makes sense, though, as it's still all reduced to code in here, and no matter our biological or mechanical origin, when we're in here, we're all connected.  Oh the joys of being constantly at risk for a good pummeling of one sort or another.

This got me thinking and wanting to delve further into the secrets and dark places of the sprawling metropolis.  And then, like the masochistic welcoming of some throbbing pain, I received a message from the Chessman, bidding for me to meet him.

"So, how have you been doing?" he asks, all smiles.

"Cut the *poop*," I say.

"Come on, Verrity," he replies, still grinning, "I know you don't have to be so stern all the time."

"I know that, too," I reply, and it isn't that I don't like him, but along with my respect for him comes a heaping, burnt-up spoonful of caution.

"I've heard you've been digging around."

"Don't we all?"

"Well, let's just say you are dropping your spade in some of the more secret gardens."

I roll my eyes and cross my arms.  I can even see myself as I do it, knowing how bratty it seems, but I do it anyway.

"Calm down," he says, "I'm not here to warn you or chastise you.  I'm here to give you what you want."

"What?" I ask, dropping my arms to my sides and leaning in a bit closer to him.

"Well, now, it isn't that easy," he says, and he keeps that *CENSORED* grin on his face, one that tries to play upon some cheap show of wisdom; is it meant to be deliberately disarming, or does he really know all he suggests, "I'll want something in return."

"What?  More vampires you need slain?" I throw back at him.

"No, no, nothing like that," he shakes his head slightly, looking like he is suppressing a bit of laughter, then he gets a bit more serious and focuses on me, "We're all part of this simulation, right"? he continues, looking up at the sky for some reason, and I nod, "Whether or not we know it, we're still all a part of it when we're in here."

"Connected up," I say to him, tasting my newly found other meaning of the word.

"Right," he nods, and I am secretly pleased with myself, because he doesn't deduce the double meaning, "We're all after the same thing in here - experience.  You can talk about choice, cause and effect, information, whatever, but it all boils down to experience."

"Okaaay," I give him.

"And we're all in on the secret, right?  We know it's a simulation.  We know about the Matrix, but there are millions upon millions who don't know."

"Bluepills."

He nods: "And I suppose it wouldn't surprise you to know that there are Exiles that are not above manipulating bluepills to their own ends."

I shake my head, thinking why would such only apply to Exiles.

"Now what is experience, if it is not a series of stimulations to the brain?  And those of us who are aware of the Matrix realize even more so that the experiences we have in here are simply thorough simulations.  Well, what does that mean to bluepills?  It means they can really have any experience if the proper code is downloaded into their brains."

"Okay."

"Well, then enter these Exiles, who trade on information, experience, and they begin to pander experience to bluepills."

"What?" I ask, letting incredulity suddenly coat my stoic exterior.

He nods slowly, grinning.

"You get it?  It is like a strange form of prostitution," he continues, "Say you have Mr. Executive, and he is a powerful, wealthy man with a wife and two kids and  a nice house, etc., etc., and he wants to know what it's like to be with another woman, or a man, or be tied up and whipped, or whatever."

"There are people who provide those services," I quip.

"Of course, but what if your sense of morality allows you to fantasize of those things, but you would still never do them?  And then what if someone comes along who basically says they can be a proxy for you and they can go out and find those dark things and then deliver them back to you, so you can have the experience without any of the direct risk?"

"What would be the point of that?"

"Oh, come on now, don't get stuck in your own box," he replies, "Of course there is a point.  Everyone has their limits, but if someone could offer you the experience of just about anything that is possible, would you not take them up on it?"

I simply stand there, looking, waiting.

"And of course, once you get these people hooked on this trip, they want more and more."

"I still don't see the point.  So, what?  They pay money to someone to go out and get them a vicarious thrill?  Just doesn't seem worth anything."

"Oh, my dear Verrity," he says, smiling and drilling into my eyes with his own, "It is worth something ... control."

He leans back, as though he has delivered the coup de grâce.  I can see in his eyes though that he sees he hasn't sold me.

"That's what this is all about," he says again, waving his hand out to encompass the ‘world'.

"Okay."

"You are an interesting one," he chuckles, then, "It really doesn't matter if you see the point or not, but the whole reason I even brought it up is because you are finding out things on your own about the vices and explorations of those who have known the secret.  Perhaps it occurred to you upon your Awakening that those things didn't really much happen anymore, and now you know that not just the bluepills engage in such things.  You began to wish to find out about the dark underbelly of the city, and that is where this leads."

((Thank you, XElite.  It is kind of my way of getting into my character's head.))

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In retrospect, it seems inevitable. They really only told me about the two ‘main' sides - the Machines and Zion, even though they always alluded to the third major power. Someone like me only needs that much of a little whisper of something lingering outside and within the generally accepted boundaries to dig deeper and deeper. When I learned more about the Merovingian, it was easy for me to decide where my independent concept of loyalty would lie.

I must admit, I already had heard of Flood the first time he contacted me, and though I surely did not display any outward school girl squealing, I was quite happy to take that call. I even tried to fool myself a bit that he was the one taking the bait, but whatever, why fight what I feel to be my own inevitable conclusion?

And so it was that I become a ‘traitor' in the eyes of Zion.

The scariest part for me is that my ‘real' body still ostensibly resides in their city. Even though those of my new affiliation seem remarkably resourceful, it is still very anxious for me. I must confess that when I am jacked out, I feel weak, exposed. I suppose it will be almost like a second rescue, though this one I am bidding for more actively.

Of course, once I passed through that initial crossroads, more things started to happen.

I began to try to figure out the inner socio-political situation within the Merovingian's organization. Much as I had done as a promoter in the seemingly viperish, decadent club scene, I needed to do now. I needed to find a place where I could not only learn more of the intricacies but also find a group with whom I could feel a sense of belonging. Regardless of my thorough independent strength, I still had the human need of some close, intimate contacts. I had been ripped from one complex web I had helped to weave, so now I needed to get in on another.

I sought out hints and whispers, giving out my own as I could. I searched through information, spoke with people, programs, sentients, whatever, to try to indirectly divulge what they might know. I played something of an amateur psychologist, trying to get what I wanted without being too direct and without taking direct answers at face value. Doing so, I had managed to come across a place where others seemed to sometimes congregate - a sort of indoor/outdoor café-bar place going by the horribly uninspired name of Camon Central Café, because that is where it happened to located in the Richland District of the dismal megalopolis.

I stand here, with a shiny, jet demitasse filled with equally black espresso. Three exquisitely crafted chocolate cordials hold place like sweet sentinels about the small mug. I am not sure exactly what is inside each one, but I don't really care. I hold place just inside, but I am looking out the open French doors. I suppose the weather is good enough for such a venture. Personally, I prefer gray skies and rain. I don't have the power to control the weather here, though, so I just go with the flow.

I hold the delicate curvature of the mug's small handle in my gloved hand, sipping of the bittersweet brew. I suppose that once I found out about "the Secret", I became even more indulgent in such things. What difference does it make now? I had never had trouble maintaining my figure before I was unplugged, but what care I may have taken before seems thrown out the proverbial window. No better purge or buzzkill than jacking out, right?

I am in something of an exposed state, because I had let fly some more overt whispers of seeking information and others who had made a similar choice and perhaps held similar values as myself, such as they are. Is that not the sociological way of most humans; a breeding ground for solidarity? It is quite possible, though, that others of a different bent might have also picked up on my intentions, so I decided to position myself in this pseudo-public place, hoping it might provide some protection.

I then notice a man looking at me. He seems like a quintessential character from a neo-noir scene with his black, impenetrable shades, smoldering cigarette, and dark leather trench coat. He studies me for a bit, not seeming to care at all that I may notice. Ah, well, I find it even somewhat refreshing. I continue to sip my coffee, looking outside from behind my own amber-tinted lenses. He takes a good drag on his cigarette, flaring up the ember on the end, then lets a generous exhalation of smoke plume out from his nostrils. As though this has fueled him, he chooses that moment to give further animation to himself, and he walks over to me.

"Oh great.  Another cake eating exilist.  I don't get it with you people...  you break free from the Matrix, and then you just want to lounge around in it drinking with your pinky fingers extended," he says.

His voice is quite nice, and despite the insult, he really does appeal to me in some strange way. Nevermind, though, I am not in that shop at the moment. I look up at him, peering over the top of my sunglasses with eyebrows raised.

"Anyhow, if you absolutely must work for the Frenchman, then you'd probably at least go and work with the best.  Look up the Devil's Advocates or the Connection," he continues.

"Thanks for the information, and cake's really not my thing," I grin shortly in response, then delicately pick up a chocolate cordial from the small, ebony saucer, placing it in my mouth and chewing thoughtfully.

We simply stare at each other as I eat it.

"I've heard of them both, and some others.  I have done some of my own investigating, but I just wanted to know what things were current," I add, pursing my lips and tilting my head slightly to the side, "I've even heard some rather interesting whispers about Sin, Incorporated, but I daresay that really isn't your thing, no?"

He still doesn't respond, so I sip of the glossy, black liquid from within the demitasse cup, making sure my pinky is quite extended as I do so.

"Oh, and thanks for that fine redpill trip you Zionists sent me on.  Nice rush, but I have other things to do now.  No hard feelings, really.  I just don't make a lot of choices from a dogmatic perspective."

I smile and saunter away.

It is then I notice another - a young woman of short height, perhaps a bit above five feet tall. Though she has the body of a one in their mid to late teens, she carries herself with an awareness far beyond what years her RSI might suggest. She is garbed in form-fitting dark clothes, a black fedora atop her head. It is obvious she has also been watching, and I am sure the conversation has been overheard. She offers me a slight grin.

"That's Fen," she says, "Don't mind him. I'm not much into the cake myself, and I'm known for shaking my head and rolling my eyes at those who over-indulge in it. I think of myself as a paladin in the service of the Red King of the Exiles. Not to say that I have no appreciation for the finer things in life, I just find it wise to enjoy them in moderation. Give me a call or contact Recession, one of our crew captains, or BlackVanilla, my first mate. Oh, and if you should happen to cross paths with a freaky little Exile called Morraeon, chat with her and get on her good side. I have a feeling you'll find it easy to do."

I am quite taken by this sudden outpouring of information, but it seems I have found exactly the type of person I am seeking. She grins again for good measure then slips me a business card as she makes to leave. I watch her depart, then turn to the piece of stiff paper.

Seems I have work to do.

Was my first Live Event, hence my standing around and keeping my mouth shut after I somehow managed to survive the tail end of the Accelerated Program rampage.  Now, I just need to figure out what the hell was going on.

~Verrity
Very newly awakened

Thanks for the continued compliments!

Will keep an eye or an ear out for you, Vanil.

Yes, Seiges, I don't know what it was, but he appealed to me, too.  Some of the contacts are either forgettable or so rude I cannot bring myself to run their missions, but I enjoyed his.  Not to mention the specific situation described in the tale was quite exciting.  I have decided to develop this quite a bit and have come up with something I hope goes over well.  If you will still wish to contribute, please do let me know.

More to follow .. ...

Wow, nice answers!

As a newb to the game myself, I very eagerly read through this thread.

((Thank you!))

I came around, eventually.  I couldn't just sit there all the time, drowning in my morose introspection.  Even I can only stomach so much self-pity.  They had even started talking about whether I might just wither and die, but I finally opted to begin communicating with them.  They were thrilled, of course, but still guarded, still reserved.  They even prodded me gently with invitations of staying in their city, opting for a calm, peaceful life as a mere citizen.

I could have retched acidic bile in their face for that suggestion, but I simply gave them a seemingly thoughtful ‘no'.  It was hints that I could get back ‘in' that lured me out of my reverie.

So my training began.

It was really quite a rush, quite powerful feeling, and I cannot even speak as though it is over.  I still stand just beyond the brink, barely beginning to drink in this new evolution, this continuing spike in my new understanding.

They told me much of this secret history, about developing machines that became self-aware, of an eventual schism between humans and machines, a following war.  And then we all became batteries.  I cannot but help to smirk at this when I am alone.  Serves us right, I think, but then do I really believe that, or am I just giving full reign to the cynical demon within me?

Then they told me about some person named Neo, and how he had special powers and abilities, and he saved us all and brought a tense truce to the major powers of the world.  It all sounds great, rosy, fairytale stuff.  I sure am glad and thankful for all the sacrifice.  It is all just so much detached history to me.  Just like some two thousand or so years ago there was this other guy who had special powers and abilities, and he saved us all.  Good job there, Jesus!  Well done, Neo!

It really doesn't mean much to me on a deep, emotional level.

But that's okay, I have learned to carry on in the face of my own nihilism, dodging that horrid, tooth-gnashing demon as much as I can rather than giving it a nice, drooling embrace.

But here I am, back in the Matrix, and it feels like home.

The Zionists, as they call themselves, also gave me some slick new abilities after they filled my head with the history of what had been going on in the world outside the simulation, the Real.  I know they didn't intend it, but this appeal to my vanity has worked more wonders than any salvation or dogma.  I can get back to myself when I am jacked in and portraying my Residual Self Image.  In a way, this resonates on a much deeper level and more so now that I know the Truth.  This is the real me, not that simpering, near-hairless, plug-bearing frail thing in "the Real".

I am also continually amused with the self-righteousness of those who rescued me.

They jacked me in after some time of preliminary training, and I must admit, I was quite a bit fearful of what to expect.  Would I feel disjointed, would this whole revelation have taken the entire zest out of life?  But it didn't.  If anything, after getting over the initial disorientation, I felt like I was back in my skin.  Not only that, but I felt a surge of power.  Not from my new abilities, which I really had yet to truly test, but from knowing the secret.  Hmm, well, I suppose my trainers are not the only ones who possess the validity of a smug smirk.

The voice in my head, or in my ear piece, or cell phone, or whatever, was quick to point out, though, that there were many, many entities out there who also knew the secret, and they now knew that I knew, and so there were some new rules.  After the war had ended and the truce had been declared, many programs went exile and chose to live in the Matrix.  These formed concepts of gangs, and many of them would not hesitate to attack me on sight if they felt powerful enough to do so.

So what did they have me do?  What did the Zionists ask me to undertake for them after having "freed" me and told me this Truth?  It seemed they were turning me into some cheap assassin.

I met several others, and I don't really even know or remember if they were unplugged humans like me or programs with a different conscience.  These ‘people' had me test myself on some roving bands of meager gangsters, some of these low level programs that had chosen exile.  I was asked to "delete" them.

Odd.  If I understood the explanation correctly, they fled into the Matrix to escape deletion, which is their death.  Now here I was being asked to go ahead and hand them this final destruction.  Me?  Someone who had been freed from the Machines' oppression.  I would carry out the solution desired by the Machines but they themselves had failed to do so.

I shake my head when I think about the irony, the hypocrisy.  It also made me feel a cheapness of the value placed on the life of something that was still sentient however non-human.  Was this like some sort of weirdly protracted long-delayed abortion?  Ah, well, such moral musings are interesting enough for me on an abstract, detached level.  But it had obviously been time to spread my new wings and get to killing.

And I had done it well.

Now here I am, lingering in some park.  I spy several of those Exiles in the area, sauntering around with a certain sense of defiant ownership.  They are part of some ‘demon' gang, as they call themselves.  I can respect the cliché of such a thing.  Hell, if you are going to embrace it, embrace it all the way.

I have grown skilled enough now that they do no more than send scowls and begrudging respect in my direction, if not outright attempts to appear to be ignoring me.  I am here to see another program that calls itself the Chessman.  At least, I presume he is a program.  I find myself pretty much just giving in and thinking and treating all of them like humans.  He stands there in his unassuming clothes, hanging out in the highest point of this low park, and he begins to chatter to me in a way I pretty much expected - some self-important tone regarding manipulating people to do his bidding.

Boy, is he ever subtle.

Ah, well, since I've become an ‘Operative', I guess I have these new jobs to do.  It is kind of exciting, and I prepare to head out to dispatch some old colleague of his that has seemingly outlived his usefulness.  I receive the information, and it is uploaded, so my Operator knows it as well.  I just can't get used to that, but so it goes.  Before I leave though, the Chessman speaks.

"Oh, this may come in handy."

I take the wrapped parcel, pulling the worn cloth back to reveal what seems to be a polished and somewhat well-crafted wooden spike.  I look up at him, letting my raised eyebrows and slightly furrowed brow ask for me.  He smiles lightly, but says nothing more.

I find the location easily enough.  That is another thing I love about this new life - basically having a built-in GPS inside my head.  Now that is convenient.  I have to avoid some potential trouble on the way, but all in all, I get to the fairly non-descript apartment building and head up the elevator.  My cell phone buzzes.

"I am picking up the target's signal inside," my Operator tells me, "But it is a bit strange." 

"What does that mean?"

"Not sure.  Just keep your eyes peeled and be ready."

"Right," I roll those same eyes I am supposed to keep peeled; glad he was there to tell me to be wary.

The door to the apartment is unlocked.  That is another thing I find interesting and quite convenient, namely, that these basic security systems can be easily bypassed with the information we get or through the intervention of my Operator.  Another nice perk.  I go in to find no one waiting for me, but I spare caution to the empty room, anyway.  The television is on, some channel I do not know nor care to watch - anonymous people, useless voices.  I look around, noting a general dinginess to the kitchen, old wood paneled walls that could use some sort of care.  I fight the urge to open the fridge to see if any food or drink is in there at all.  Now is not the time to indulge my curiosity as to the banal habits or needs of Exile Programs.

I go into another room, and there he is.  He immediately curses me and the Chessman, and before I know it, a large assault rifle is pointed at me.

As alarming as that is, I have now had many such weapons pointed and fired at me over the past few days as I acclimatize myself to this new existence.  Sure, I still feel a surge of adrenalin and fear every time it happens, but I have learned to overcome it.  I move in immediately, drawing upon my own internal knowledge to draw out an amplification of my new martial skills.  His initial wild shots miss, and he drops the rifle to engage me in direct hand to hand combat.  I see him grin as we lock into this more private and personal confrontation, and I see his canines seem to draw down to points over the edge of his bottom lip.

What the hell?

He attacks me in a manner I have not yet before seen.  There is something wanton, lusty about it.  He holds his hands like claws, and he hurls himself into the air and topples me.  He swipes at me, finding purchase and doing some painful damage, but I manage to press him off and rolling with own burgeoning agility, I quickly spring back to my feet.

"Boring human," he grates from his voice, "You didn't expect that, did you?  Are you sure the Chessman didn't send you here to die?"

My eyes widen a bit, and I wonder if it was foolish of me to undertake this task.  What kind of strange trust convinces me to accept these jobs and then go about trying to end the existence of others who are just about as much a stranger to me as the one who did the asking?  Ah, well, no time for such ruminations now.

I go into a bit more of a defensive role, trying to block his incoming attacks and draw up the reserves of my own inner strength.  I get in a few of my own hits, but it is obvious to me that his resistance is greater than others I have faced.  This is not going well at all.  He swirls about with seemingly preternatural dexterity, dodging my attacks as though he knows them as his own, then comes about, throwing me.  I brace myself, but he does not get atop me, instead he simply stands there, grinning, waiting for me to get up and resume.

"I'll drink from you soon," he says suddenly, "And I am sure you will taste good."

And then like a textbook folklore weakness, it dawns on me.  The wooden spike the Chessman gave me, no the wooden stake.

I pull it from the rear folds of my clothing and holding it with both hands, I lurch up and stab at him with all the speed and power I can muster.  I seem to move suddenly with my own suprahuman flow, and it seems he recoils in slow motion.  I bury the weapon in his chest, and he drops, screaming, blood gushing out in a near-black escape.  I watch with a passivity born of a realization of sudden and complete dominance as he dies.

Welcome, Balletic.  Glad you joined us.

They stand there, watching me.  Sometimes they are not so obvious about it.  I simply sit on the edge of this meager bed, not much more than a cot really.  The rooms they have given me are not much better than the little hole they stuck me in on that hovercraft.

I again fight the urge to suddenly just scream out.  I run a hand almost mindlessly over the back of my head, feeling the stubbornly growing stubble.  I pull it away with a sudden recoil when I feel the thing in the back, the ‘plug'.

What ... the hell?

Oh, boy I have taken some drugs before in my short life, but nothing, nothing like that redpill Avatar gave me.  So I guess I have been spending the last several days in a quasi-catatonic state, and it has worried them.

I am not sure I even know what to make of them.  They sometimes stand there talking about me as though I were not there.  Perhaps it comes from some self-righteous position of being ‘in the know' on this elaborate secret and having spent so much time being able to observe us without our even knowing of the observation.

I say ‘us', but I suppose I don't fit with that group anymore - the ones still connected up to the Matrix.  I suppose I am now one of them - the ones watching me.

My brain is having trouble with this, but not for the reasons they think.  I hear them talking about me, discussing my situation.  They are not necessarily pleased with the way I have reacted.  They speak of some ‘Agents' and their regret at having to pull me out ‘too soon'.  Seems I may not have been ready for this.  How could anyone be ready for this?  They cannot observe my exasperation, though; they simply see someone in a deep state of shock.

But I am thinking about this much more than they know.

It was all a lie, they tell me.  They rescued me, saved me.  They unplugged me from being a passive source of power and eagerly swallowing force-fed lies.  They brought me here to their city that seems some bizarre amalgamation of a hive-industrial structure and simple, primitive culture.  It is so blasé.  I am torn from one system of slavery and brought here and assigned a small alcove and told I have been freed.

What freedom is this?

And so they watch me, wondering if I shall mentally survive this change.

They seem relatively familiar with dealing with this awakening.  They speak to me of wars and intelligent machines and some messianic figure that forged a truce and how life has progressed during the generations of blindness.  They try to explain to me that everything I thought I knew was simply part of a beautifully elaborate, utterly convincing simulation.  I also thought that was how one described insanity.

The strange thing is that even though my brain reels in this, I feel I somehow always knew.  I felt like there was something meaningless, something off about life.  They think I am like this because I can't handle their truth.  I am like this because I wonder if this has brought further meaning at all.

> I don't think there's as many [lesbian vampires] as there used to be

Aww.

I had the pleasure of meeting the 'lovely lesbian couple' Sieges mentioned during my first night of being in The Connection.  They were very nice.  Nice to see such an open-minded attitude seems prevalent within the Matrix.

Happy Birthday, Legos!

Though I do not play the Legos games, I have watched my cousins play the Legos Star Wars.  Very cute and very neat.  I see now they are also getting ready to release a Legos Indiana Jones/Raiders of the Lost Ark game.

The Explorers.. Oh man that was the greatest flipping movie ever


Here is mine-

That's Donnie Darko. 

Next ...

My panic place .. ...

I stand there, trying to breathe deeply.  I suppose to an observer it might seem I have simply lost myself in thought.  How could I tell anyone I feel most at home and most frightened in my own mind?  These people with whom I associate could never be allowed to know of such a weakness.  Social vampires, all of them.  Meaningless meat bags.  Yet I still occasionally get this sense of fear.  I wonder from where it derives?

The door opens, and I straighten myself, putting on a much different face.

"There you are."

It's Phoenicia, dressed exquisitely in varying shades of vinyl that go from glossy black to translucent violet.  I cut my eyes over to her.  I have never been much for the overly layered, feminine look.  I prefer more uniform outfits that cling tightly to my body.  Perhaps there is something nihilistic in such an expression, but I know I am partly fooling myself with such thoughts.  Okay to fool them, but I really shouldn't fool myself.

"Is it about time for you to join us?" she asks.

I like the way she coats her summons in a question, like a reaching hand suddenly cut to a warm stump.  I wear no watch, and there is no timepiece in this room, but I look at her squarely, letting a bit of a pause stretch out.

"Yes," I say.

She turns and departs the spartan, sparsely lit room.  I pop a small pill from a tiny container I manage to hide on myself despite any apparent lack of such places, and I head out into the main aerie of the nightclub.

It is quite an event - full of flash and flesh.  One of many I have orchestrated, all seeming to fall together in a domino-like line of similar simulations, all becoming just another fancy mote in a hungry, empty line of black.  I almost keep walking, ignoring the eager, predatory faces and exit the building, just walking and walking until I come to the end.  But what is the end?

Instead, I let that particular self-important grin take my painted lips, and I play the hostess.  I manage to carry on conversations despite the driving, powerful music.  I manage to remember people's names, though I do not always give them the pleasure of using them.  I accept iridescent blue drinks bought for me, and I try to lose myself in the stimulation overdrive, trying to feel something amidst all this impotent effort.

"Seems a waste, doesn't it?"

I look over to see a very smartly dressed young man addressing me.  I do not know him.  I do not even recognize his face.

"Oh, I suppose," I offer him, then I suck gingerly on the narrow cocktail straw in my drink, "But what else is there?" I asks after he chooses to add nothing further.

"What else is there?" he muses, nodding "That's the money question, isn't it?"

"Shall we discuss philosophy, then?" I ask him.

"If you like, but it still won't get to the heart of the matter."

"Oh?"

And it is like a game, like some sort of modern day swordplay.  Though I am not sure at what he is driving.  He doesn't come off as though he is hitting on me, and he doesn't come off as though he is trying to impress me.  And as I mentioned, I don't even recognize him.

"Are you new here?" I ask after a pause in which he does not answer my last question.

He grins, and I am simultaneously drawn to him for it and a bit fearful.

"I suppose my face is not familiar to you, but I have been watching for some time, and this ‘scene' of yours is not new to me at all."

"Okay," I veritably purr, though I allow a tinge of pretension to coat it, "That is quite interesting.  Are you some kind of ‘lurker in the shadows'?"

"What do you think?" he asks, holding out his arms a bit, and I get the point - one does not look and dress like he does and remain hidden.

"Alright," I let out a short chuckle, "I'll bite, then.  How have you been ‘watching'?"

"Another money question."

I roll my eyes.

"I'm not the only one watching, though," he says, getting suddenly serious and moving in closer to me, "But once you have the first answers to the money questions, just remember to seek the Grail."

"What?"

My face loses its composure, confusion etching out over the generally smooth, porcelain canvas.  He walks away, leaving me in this wake.  I do not like being put off-balance, and he has done an eloquent job of it.  I watch him leaving, and he does not look back.  I wonder if I should follow him, despite the obvious show of weakness it would bring.

"Verrity?"

I look over and see another young man - a thin, darkly garbed fellow with white-bleached hair.  I am very familiar with him.

"What is it, Nyka?" I ask, because it seems obvious to me that something is bothering him, and being that he is part of my promotions team, I suppose it should concern me.

"We have some strange visitors."

He points, and I see two men in finely-tailored black suits entering the large venue.  They peer about, looking for something or someone, and they seem well capable of spying whatever they like even from behind the dark sunglasses.  I glimpse an ear piece in one's ear.

"*poop*," I say, "Who are they?"

"I don't know," he exclaims, seeming even more tense, "They look like F.B.I., but geesh, why would they be here?"

I watch them for a bit, having a slight advantage in that I am peering down from the second floor, and that I know this place so well.

"Are you going to go talk to them?" Nyka asks, impatience laden in his high-pitched voice.

I cannot reply, though, because I feel a familiar buzzing near my left hip.  Just as with my pharmaceuticals container, I manage to keep a sleek cell phone on me without seeming to have a place to put it.  I seem to have a call.

"Yes?" I ask, and it only then occurs to me that I didn't even check from whom the call was coming.

"We don't have long, and this is not a secure line," comes a voice, "We have briefly spoken before, but not like this.  Do not go down and speak to the Agents."

"What?  Who is this?"

"Avatar."

I feel a coldness creep over my flesh.  I have indeed exchanged communication with the curious entity that chose to go by such a cliché moniker.  But the things he has alluded to are far from expected.

"Verrity, are you still there?"

"Yes."

"Our timeline has been unfortunately rushed," he continues, "I will be there soon.  Can you meet me outside the private back entrance?"

"It's locked," I say, and I know this because I always have to get the manager to unlock it to let me get my things and people in before he locks it again.

"It won't be.  Just go," he says, and then he hangs up.

I re-focus to see Nyka staring at me with wide eyes.  I return the look for a spare moment.  He opens his mouth, but before he can ask the obvious question, I turn and leave.

Thanks for the further info!  I may need to experiment with a crafter loadout to see for myself.  It sounds very interesting.

I am on Recursion, and there is a clothing crafter in my Faction.  What actually spawned this thought was he asked what I might need.  I had sufficient clothing from a stats point of view, but I liked the look of my old boots, so I was just curious as to the flexibility of crafters to make a specific style of clothing with decent enhancements.  Being that I am still so new, I wasn't able to even really tell him what style, though, because other than my Industrial Boots (which I loved the look but have outgrown), I don't even really know what else is out there.

I have played other games (SWG, for example) that had resource sites that showed what the different styles looked like, so I was just curious if there was such a thing available for MxO.

So, obviously one attractive aspect to the Matrix is the cool clothes we all get to wear.  I am wondering, though, is there a way to see what crafters have to offer by way of the look of enhanced clothing?  I am just at Level 11, and I have a nice pair of boots, but I just don't like the way they look.  The Market pretty much only has high level stuff, so I was wondering if there is a resource where we can see what crafters can make?  For instance, I really loved the look of my industrial boots, and if I can get something like with good stats, I would love it.

Thanks,

Thanks for all the helpful comments!

((@Fen))

Thanks for the information, and cake's really not my thing.

*grins once, sarcastically as she delicately picks up a chocolate cordial from a small, ebony saucer, then places it in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully*

I've heard of them both, and some others.  I have done some of my own investigating, but I just wanted to know what things were current.

*purses her lips and tilts her head slightly to the side.  She then glances at Chemuel, but continues speaking to Fen*

I've even heard some rather interesting whispers about Sin, Incorporated, but I daresay that really isn't your thing, no? 

*Sips from her demitasse cup of glossy, black espresso, making sure her pinky is quite extended*

Oh, and thanks for that fine redpill trip you Zionists sent me on.  Nice rush, but I have other things to do now.  No hard feelings, really.  I just don't make a lot of choices from a dogmatic perspective.

*smiles and saunters away*

Wow.  This sounds fun!

I am a brand new Level 10 player.  Is Zia way out of my league?  Also, when you say "-Minimum Bet: 50.000 Information", does that mean fifty thousand?  And Blackjack is against all players, not each player versus the House?