#CYBERPUNK. we shouldn't fear change itself. only what we might change into.

[n1ghtwarden]

there is something about the way the synth-beat mimics gunfire - rushing through her ears and sound processors; a war on her mind, a war on the dance floor. the night warden had always preferred blades to guns - no matter how practical they claimed to be, were impersonal. easy. any soul off the street could use them - a blade, though - it took skill. discipline. years of training; balance and poise. there was an art to it, a grace to it - and no sound could compare to the clean cut of metal though bio-mod flesh and wiring. no, minthara is still standing in the battlefield of a war that had never ended - didn't matter that the papers read honourable discharge. didn't matter that her employee access had been revoked. she'd been born in the middle of it all; a cog in a machine - destined for greatness. here, now, in the middle of the atlantis with a drink in her hands, minthara baenre knows that she still is - but not the sort her mother had planned for her.

" i had little doubt that you would still be here. have you bothered to sober up from your long finished revelries? " she knows him before she sees him - high end audio processors picking up the heavy, all-too confident footfalls of @silverhandj. she can admire him - she does. won't say it, of course. his drive, his anger - but it is misplaced. mishandled. in all her dreams she sees the mega towers crumble, and it is her that would rise from those ashes. johnny screams and sings of the end of it, the tearing of it - she has not heard him speak about the after. red eyes glance sidelong, head turning to bring him into focus; and a smile cuts through her face sharper than any blade. " you look terrible. "