30 minute freewriting exercise. (Cyberpunk)

Mason removed a slick pair of black mirrored shades from within his steel-plate lined trench-coat. Deftly, a single hand flicked them open with a turn of the wrist. Adorning his cold, stern, mangled-with-violence-kind-of-a-face; a smile slowly conquered his grimace as his world grew a few shades darker in accompaniment. The overbearing neon lights danced off the lens, reflecting the visage of a cold techno-industrial city; rife with lost and living souls and enveloped and interlaced with even colder commercialism. He neared the edge of the building and calmly glanced downward through a plume of smog bilowing out a janky exhaust pipe that was crudely affixed to the apartment building he stood atop. His bio-modified eyes granting vision so sharp it pierced the smoke with ease, like a bullet meeting soft flesh. His eyes narrowed on the holo-sign floating over the bustling street below. Noting the time displayed between the intervals of the inane, random, bull-shit advertising that mindlessly chattered on and flashed away. People, places, and products assaulted the virtual screen in rapid sucession, casting a senthetically oppressive glow that distorted the shadows of the unlucky transients below; all driven by sex and fueled by violence with a single goal in mind: money.

The very nature of the city broadcasted from the screen, the stifling advertising emblazoned on the holographic display was in contest with the hundred other virtual billboards that sought to collect money and corrupt the youth. Each piece of advertising- a world off and to it’s own; struggling to be top dog; king-of-the-hill, head hancho of the stinkin’ junkpile we call life. To this notion Mason had easily related.

“Ten minutes left…”, he thought, as the bill-board once again transitioned into depicting the time.

That’s nine minutes and fifty six seconds until dire consequences take their toll; Nine minutes and fifty four, until unseen hands push pawns and tip over kings in the invisible war that our protagonist Mason had found himself knee-deep in. Lives would be changed and lost in a matter of mere moments, and he, Mason Havok would be center stage at it all. He was disturbingly calm for an occasion such as this, some might even say he was on a different wavelength, and they’d be right on two accounts. Mason is the product of centuries of research; the offspring of science that history held secret, fed by the blood of scientists of days gone past. He has within him the solution to the many questions and problems that had ever existed surrounding body augmentation. He was half-man, half-machine; all bad-ass.

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