The Rattleheads have been mainlining Tooth Fairy again, skirting around the edge of a Sanctity Zone, kicking out localised EMP blasts. A Signal Cop unholsters his interrupt gun and fires a heavy dose of shutdown at them and you seem them fritz and go dark; puppets with the strings cut.
Willy Pete, a tulpa born from the Vietnam jungle dreams of re-inking Transmitter, runs through the crowd painting everything in monochrome of dead news stories. Kevin Carter manifests at the edge of the furore and click click clicks himself under.
A zip car peeling through the middle fastens the Fly Hole that had opened up and allowed the Tower to intrude from the unter-dimension that kept breaking through when the frequency stablisation fields flickered on and off in the early morning dew sprinkled from the half-awake weather system.
They say John Dough, a set of private eyes, haunted by the money-rich voyeurs of outer-city loved this journey, and did it daily. Kid on Booter Scooter touches Rev-Sneaker to piezoroad, and pushes along, threading through ped-zed-heds who are zombying on Walk, so they don’t have to look at the scenery along the walk. You can only dig this if you are slumming it. Living here is no fun.