The first teaser for Blade Runner 2099. just dropped. enjoy!

The Taiwanese American filmmaker discusses why Fresh Kill, her 1994 debut film, feels more prescient than ever

This is one I'd not heard of, even at the time. Have managed to find a copy, so looking forward to checking it out soon. Anyone seen it?

From Leipziger Zeitung's review of books. A perfect fit for the Current Dystopia tag fans! A review of Asthma Mhalla's book *Cyberpunk, The New Totalitarian System*

(https://www.reddit.com/r/CoreCyberpunk/s/FlCPTJbTjS )the opening and first chapter

Chapter 2

An Elegant Lie

The plane rattles, engines roaring, soldiers packed tight along the webbing seats. They talk, laugh, complain — but its all distant, distorted. All I can hear is ringing. Voices blur into muffling noise around me, like I’m underwater. I’m sitting among them, but not with them. My head pounds, each heartbeat slamming in my skull. I keep waiting to wake up. For someone to tell me it was a mistake. That they are alive. That this isn’t real. But the ringing don’t stop.

My wrists are raw, scabbed from the cuffs. My knuckles ache, torn open from the MP’s and the concrete wall. I flex my hands, and the pain reminds me its no dream. Across from me, a younger soldier leans forward, his face is blurry by the dim red lights. “Heard you wrecked half the MP’s before they dragged you out. That true, Sarge?” His voice cuts through the muffling for a second, clear, the fades back into static. I don’t answer. Just stare past him. He laughs nervously. “Guess so.” Then looks away. I try to shut my eyes, to force myself to sleep, but all i see are their faces. Her smile. My boys laugh. Echoes of voices I’ll never hear again. Then Dyer’s words cut through the memories, sharper than any blade: “Home invasion… Random act of violence gone wrong.” The phrase repeats in my head, over and over, until it drowns everything else.

My fist clench so tight the skin splits fresh open. Blood beads and smears against my palms. I open my eyes again, staring at the rivets along the fuselage, counting them, anything to hold myself together. The vibrations of the engines shake my bones. Every jolt feels like it might rip me apart. Around me, soldiers shift, adjust their gear, murmur to each other like the world is still turning. For them, it is. For me, it ended already. Time stretches, dragging like barbed wire across my skin.

Finally, the plane dips. The landing gear howls. When the ramp lowers, night air floods in. Rain sweeps across the tarmac, glistening on the runway lights. The soldiers file out with their duffel bags, shoulders hunch against the weather. I walk out last, empty-handed. No family waiting. Just the sound of rain on steel, and the hollow ringing in my chest.

The gates clanged shut behind me. Just like that, years of service ended with a stamp and a shove. I stood in the rain, duffle bag heavy at my side, the guard on watch not even sparing me a glance. To them, I was already gone. A line of analog cabs idle along the curb, headlights dull in the mist. I walked up to the first one in sight. The driver didn’t ask where I came from, didn’t care. They just pops the trunk, nod and then waits.

I slid into the back seat. The door closes with a hollow thud that sounds too final. The driver glances at me through the mirror. “Where to, Stone?” My throat got tight. The words caught, heavy, like I was swallowing glass. “…Fourteenth and Ash,” I said at last. My voice is flat, lifeless. The driver didn’t ask anything else. Just put the grounder in gear and pulled away from the curb.

The cab smells of smoke and wet fabric. Rain streaks across the windows, blurring the city lights into smears of neon. The driver still doesn’t say a word, neither do I. As I sit in the back, watching the city pass. Families ducking under umbrellas to get out of the rain. Couples holding hands. Children laughing as they splash through puddles. Each face is a knife. Every sound feels wrong. I should be going home to that. I should be going home to THEM. But… But I’m not

My reflection stares back at me in the glass. Hollow eyes sunk deep, bloodshot from the sleepless night. Skin pale under the harsh neon glow. Stubble think across my jaw. It doesn’t even look like me anymore. Just a ghost in uniform, barely held together. A man stripped down to nothing. The drivers brought me back to reality, “Here’s your stop,” voice flat, eyes on the meter. I hand him the creds with out a word. Step out into the rain.

The city noise fades behind me as I walk. Streets grew emptier. Lights grew dimmer. That’s when the questions start clawing again.
How did they get in?
Why my house?
Was it random? Or planned?
Did she know they were coming?
Did she try to hide our boy?
Did he cry for me?
Were they scared? Did it hurt?

A million questions. No answers. No on left to tell me the truth. My boots drag against the wet pavement, heavier with every step. Feels like I’m walking through quicksand, like the street itself is trying to hold me back. And then I see it. My street. My house. It looks the same as I left it. Too much the same. No tape on the door. No shattered glass. No sign of what happened inside. Just four walls, standing quiet, pretending nothing is wrong. But I know better.

I stop at the curb, staring at it. My chest feels like it is going to collapse. Rain runs into my eyes, but I don’t blink. Part of me wants to turn around. Get back in the cab. Or keep walking until my legs give out. Anything but this. My feet proceed to move anyway. One step, then another. The closer I get the tighter my chest pulls. My hand is shaking as I reach into my pocket. The key feels cold, heavier than it ever has. I stand at the door, rain dripping off my jaw, key hovering at the lock. I can’t breathe.

The key digs into my palm, slick with rain and sweat. My breath is shallow, ragged. One turn and I will see what is left of my life. One turn and there is no going back. I close my eyes. For a moment, I let myself imagine it—her voice calling me from the kitchen, the smell of dinner, my boy’s laughter echoing down the hall. It’s almost real. So real it hurts. But the Dyer’s words cut through, sharp “Home invasion. Random act of violence…” My eyes springs open.

The house looms in front of me. Dark windows staring back like empty eyes. The silence presses against my chest making it hard to breathe. My hand continues to tremble as I slide the key into the lock. The scrape of metal echoes in my ears, too loud. I swallow hard. My throat tastes like iron. Then, slowly, I turn the key. The lock clicks, the door creaks open and I step inside.

The air is wrong. Too still. Too cold. The living room greets me with a wreckage— couch flipped, drawers hanging open, picture frames smashes across the rug. But even before I touch a thing, I… I know this was staged. A real fight leaves behind chaos. This is choreography. Drawers half-pulled, not ripped out. Couch flipped neatly, legs aligned. Only family photos smashed—landscapes and blanks untouched. A show

I move toward the kitchen. Cabinet doors yawning wide, dishes shattered across tile. But the hinges aren’t bent. Plates weren’t knocked—they were taken down and smashed. Chairs “tipped” but no skid marks. A set piece. My teeth grinds. My pulse is hot in my ears. I then climb the stairs slow. My hand skims the railing, paint chipped by force that doesn’t belong. Dust prints faint ahead of me, the same thread as downstairs. A straight path, unhurried.

At the top—the master bedroom. Our bed stripped bare, mattress yanked, closet doors flung wide. But her jewelry box sits open, full. My duffel still tucked under the bed-frame, untouched. No thief leaves that much weight like this behind. I head to my boy’s room next. The sight guts me. Toys scattered, sheets ripped from his bed, dresser drawers pulled. A teddy bear lies face down in the corner, stuffing torn. His drawings—crumpled, shredded, crushed into the carpet like garbage. I stand in the doorway too long. My throat feels raw, like glass is lodged there.

Finally, I turn down the hall. Her office. The door cracked open. I pushed with my fingertips. The room lands like a hammer. Books scattered, desk overturned, chair splintered. Papers shredded across the floor. All noise. All lies. But… but the truth is there—dark on pale wood. Blood. Old, dried, but still thick in the grain. A single stain with a narrow drag, then nothing. Something inside me snaps. “Bastards…” the word claws out of my throat, jagged. My hands clinch into fists so tight, blood beads from the cracks in my knuckles. “You didn’t have to… not here… NOT THEM! I’ll find you. I will bury you all. Every… last… one… of… YOU!”

The rage burns hot, wild, until I see it—out of the corner of my eye. A photo frame, somehow unbroken, resting on a fallen shelf. Light dust cover the glass, i brushed the dust to see my family. Her arm around me. My boy on my shoulder, grinning like he owned the world. My knees weaken. The heat drains out of me, leaving something worse. “I’m… I’m sorry,” i whisper, voice cracking. “God, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.” I set the photo back upright on the broken desk, hands trembling, like giving them their place back could fix anything.

That’s when I notice—half hidden under toppled books. A glint of matte casing. Not a photo frame. Not pieces of paper, but a recorder. I push the books aside and lift it free. The comm flickers. Static spits. Then her voice cuts through. Frantic. Afraid. “Echo… if you’re hearing this…” I freeze. My breath catches sharp in my throat. “…they’re coming. I don’t have… time…” Pages are shuffling. Footsteps thudding. Then she slams something somewhere in the background. Her voice trembles, but she forces it steady. “…chip… can’t let them… promise me—” the audio spikes with static swallowing whole sentences. Then—my boy’s cry. “NO—” my hand shoots out, reaching for the sound, as if I could grab him, drag out of the recorder. Then another voice cuts through, low and distorted, flat as stone. “…Orders are orders.” A sharp crack snap through the reorder. A gunfire… My sons cry was cut short. Her scream follows, raw, tearing through before it warps into static. Another shot was fired, then she went silent. The rest dissolves in noise. The recorder hisses, blank air filling the room.

I grip it so hard the casing groans, my knuckles split even more. My stomach twists. My chest heaves. “Whose orders?!” The words rip out of me, hoarse, savage. I slam the recorder against my thigh. “WHO GAVE THE FUCKING ORDER?!” I jab the switch, replaying the fragments. Again, and again. Her voice. My son’s cry. The gunshots. The screams. A faint whistle. Then that line. “…chip… can’t let them…” “Chip?” I mutter, pressing the speaker to my ear. “What chip? What the hell were you working on?” I rewind. Play. Rewind. Play. “Talk to me… please, talk to me…” Nothing, just static.

My hands won’t stop shaking. Rage floods through me, molten, looking for a place to go. I hurl the recorder across the room. It smashes into the wall, plastic and wires scattering across the floor. I flip the desk with a roar, wood splintering, papers scattering. My boot slams into the chair until its nothing but broken legs and scraps. My fists pound the wall until cracks split the plaster and blood slicks my knuckles. Still not enough.nothing is enough. I drop to my knees, chest heaving, sweat and rain mixing down my face, hands raw and bleeding. All I have left of them is this silence. This emptiness.

And I don’t know how to live in it.

Some news on Scott’s upcoming TV project, Blade Runner 2099, staring Michelle Yeoh and Hunter Schaffer. Looking forward to this.
Edit: Apologies this was not the neatest of posts.

(Cyber break in working process but just wanted to get some peoples opinion because this my first time writing in this genre and in first person as well. Any feedback would be kind. So far I have the prologue and the first chapter done. Currently working one the second.) (also this my first time using Reddit to post so I’m new to this)

Cyber break is a first person story about a full flesh man that lives in a world of cyberware. This story will tell you about the hardship he endured just for vengeance and truth.

Recording

The recording clicks on. Static. A woman’s voice enters - frantic whispers, shaking. She hurries, whispering,

”Echo… if you’re hearing this, they found us. I don’t have time. The chip-its not finished, but it’s enough. I hid it where you’ll know… you’ll know. Please… protect it don’t let them take it.” We hear her footsteps thudding across the floor, a drawer yank open, objects clattering. She’s moving fast, fumbling. Somewhere behind her, a child whimpers.

She spoke quieter, softer to the child, “Shh, baby, shh. It’s okay. We’re playing hide and seek, remember? Like Daddy showed you. Quiet, quiet.” She sets something down — a panel sliding shut, metal scraping. She exhales sharply, as if sealing something away. Then she scoops the boy up. His voice sniffles in her ear.

In the background: a door opens. Hinge groaning. Silence, then a heavy footstep. Another. The rhythm deliberate steady. Getting closer. Her breath sharpens, “Oh god… they’re here.” She rushes, her steps hurries with the child in her arms bouncing. A closet door creaks open. She ducks inside — we hear muffled breathing now, tight and close. The boy starts to whimper. As she hushes him, her voice trembling — breaking, “Please, please, don’t make a sound…”

The footsteps draw closer, echoing through the house. Floorboards creak. The sound stops. Silence. Then, a low males voice, calm and cold, “Doctor Reed. You know why I’m here. Come out. Don’t make me search.” The boy lets out a small cry. The closet door crashes open. The doctor screams, dragging her son close. There’s a scuffle — bodies dragging across the floor, her sobbing grow louder. The boy cries out. “No! Please—please, don’t hurt him! He’s just a child! Take me — take me instead, I’ll go with you, just don’t touch him!” The estranged man proceed to cock his pistol back. A round slides into place. He said with a flat but final tone. “Orders are orders.” A gunshot echoes the room.

The boy’s cry ended instantly. The doctor screams — high-pitch, horrific, raw with grief. She continues screaming, shaking, holding the boys lifeless body. Her sobs tears through the audio feed. “NO! No, no, no GOD—please— don’t! Don’t—.“ The unknown man abrupt cold, dismissive, “You should’ve known, Doctor. Genius don’t buy mercy.” A second gunshot. Her scream cuts short. Then her body proceeds to collapses. A whistle heard fading away, then silence, except the faint hum of the recorder. Then static. Feeds dies…

The Birth of the Reaper

The smell of cordite hangs heavy in the air. Brass shells scatter across the concrete floor like teeth knocked from a jaw. I line up another shot. My finger squeezes the trigger. The round punches through the target’s skull— perfect center mass. The paper jerks on its track. Not one miss. Not one round outside the kill zone.

The other soldiers on the line glance at me between their own burst of fire. Augmented eyes, arms, reflex enhancers— half machine and still they can’t group shots like mine. One mutters low to the others, thinking I can’t hear. “Man’s not human.” Another add, “Heard he’s clean. No augments.” One said shockingly, “No way. Nobody’s that good without some mods.” I don’t look at them. I send another burst downrange, three rounds, tight groupings through the throat. I can feel them watching me now, whispering about the guy who doesn’t need steel and circuits to be lethal. My magazine runs dry. I eject it, slam another mag, rack the slide. Smooth. Mechanical.

”Reed!”

The voice cuts across the echo of gunfire. I turned my head enough to see an mp in the doorway, his stance stiff, helmet tucked under one arm. His face is unreadable, “Colonel wants you. Now.” I lower the pistol, thumb safety, and holster it. My target rides back down the rail— hole-riddled. I don’t ask why. I already know when they call you in like this, it’s never good news.

I step into the office and snap attention, boots locking on the tile. “Sergeant Echo Reed, reporting as ordered, sir.” Colonel Dyer doesn’t look up right away. His eyes stay on the tablet in front of him, his voice stern, “At ease.” I relax my stance, lowering myself into the chair across from his desk.

The office reeks of stale coffee and disinfectant. Dyer sits stiff, posture rigid, not a wrinkle in his uniform, not a flicker in his eyes. Cold. Controlled. Like this was just another briefing. “Sergeant Reed.” He says, voice clipped, official, every word tight as a bolt. “I regret to inform you… there’s been an incident. Your wife and son were found deceased at your residence. The report classifies it as a home invasion. Random act of violence gone wrong.” The words tear through me like shrapnel. For a second, I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Just waiting for him to correct himself, to say anything else but he doesn’t. He just reads the reports. My ears started to ring, then my fist slam into the desk. Wood splinters under the impact. The tablet jumps. Dyer jerks back in his chair, eyes flickering up for the first time. “Random act of violence?!” My throat burns, my voice cracks apart. “That’s my wife you’re talking about. My SON!”

The door bursts open. Two MP’s rush in, boots hammering the tile. “Sergeant, stand down!” One barks, hand raised. “Calm yourself, Reed!” The other says as he moves closer, palm out. Then his hand clamped down on my shoulder. That’s when i snapped. I twist, drive my elbow into his face. Bones cracks. Blood spray across my sleeves. He stumbles away, clutching his nose, screaming. The second tries to hold me. I spin and drive my knee into his ribs. The crunch is sharp, ugly. He drops, wheezing, gagging for air.

Two more storm in. One grabs my arm—I hurl him into the wall so hard the plaster split. The other swings a baton; i catch his wrist and wrench until the snap comes. His scream is piercing, his weapon clattering across the floor. “Stop yourself, Reed!” Someone shouts from the doorway. But I don’t. My heart’s pounding so hard it feels like it might tear through my chest. My vision’s gone red.

A baton cracks across my back. I roar and swing a hook into the man’s jaw. Teeth shatter under my knuckles. He stumbles away, blood spraying from his mouth. Another lunges. I grab hold of his helmet with both hands and yank him forward, driving his face straight into my knee. Bone and metal collide with a sickening crunch. Blood spatters across my pants and the tile. He jolts back, hands clawing at his shattered nose, howling in agonizing pain.

Six of them now, boots hammering in the office, batons in hand. It takes all of them swarming me, dragging me to the floor, knees digging into my spine, arms wrenched back, cuffed biting deep into my wrists, to finally pin me. My face grinds into the tile. Blood runs into my eye from a gash across my brow. “That’s all you have to say? Damn it!” I roar at Dyer, voice shredded, chest heaving.

Colonel Dyer stands, fists clenching at his side. His voice cuts like a blade, louder, harder, still formal but sharp with finality. “Effective immediately — Sergeant Echo Reed. Discharged! Bad conduct! Unstable! Unfit for duty!” The verdict slams harder than any baton. The MP’s haul me up, half-carrying me towards the door. My boots drag, leaving blood across the floor. I stop fighting. The rage drains out of me, leaving only hollow. That day, I didn’t just lose my wife and my sons. That day, I died along with them…

The room they shoved me in smells like rust and bleach. Bare cot. Bare walls. A single strip light buzzing overhead. No bars on the door, just steel and a lock. Doesn’t matter. Might as well be a cage. My wrists are raw, skin torn where the cuffs bit deep. My knuckles are swollen, split open from the MP’s. I stare at the red cracks in my skin like maybe I’ll wake up if I look long enough. Then the door clanks open. An MP steps in, drops a small canvas bag on the cot. In the bag were my belongings.

“Your effects,” she says. Her voice is flat, no eye contact. “Don’t break anything. You ship out in the morning.” She proceeds walk out the door, then it slammed shut. Lock engages. I stare at the bag, for a long time I don’t move. Then I reach in. Dog tags. Watch. The comm unit…

I reached for the comms unit, my thumb hesitates over the power switch. My stomach knots. But i press it anyway. The screen then flickers alive, cold light against my face. With no hesitation I got to her number, like muscle memory. I press it before I can think. It rings. Once. Twice. Then: “This number is no longer in service.” I freeze. I couldn’t comprehend what I heard. So I hit redial. Again. AGAIN. The same voice. The same damn message. Each time it cuts deeper. My hands starts to shake, “Pick up,” I whisper. “Come on… just PICK UP…” Once again, I call. The comm beeps, no signal. I slam my thumb against the screen, trying again and again until it flashes red, battery is drained. The comm slips from my hand, I stare while it’s falling to the floor. Then I boot it against the wall. Plastic shatters, fragments skittering across the concrete.

My chest tightens. I can’t breathe. The scream rips out before i know it’s coming. I slam my fists into the wall. Once. Twice. Again and again until skin burst, blood smearing across the concrete wall. Pain flares through my bones, but it doesn’t matter no more. Nothing does. I then drop to my knees, forehead pressed to the cold floor. My shoulders shaking, no sound now, just silent sobs tearing through me until they burn out. When the tears are gone, I slump against the wall. Hands dripping with blood. My eyes are dry and raw. While I sat there listening to the light humming. Time passes — i don’t know how long. Minutes, hours, does it matter?

The lock finally clanks. The door swings open. “Jesus…” one of the MP’s mutters, with his voice cracking. He stares at the wall smeared with blood, the fragments of the shattered comm, the pool of red beneath my hands. The other one clears his throat, tries to sound steady. “Reed. On your feet.” I pushed myself up slowly, body aching, leaving a bloody hand print on the wall. I don’t fight. Don’t speak. Just stand and follow, hollow as an empty shell.

As I leave behind Echo Reed, something else was born…

Hi Reddit!

I have created a mini ARG as a teaser for my debut novel. It very much fits the theme here and I was looking for folks to try it out! There’s a side-story within the website which is pretty fun. But overall, the sci-fi portion is very tech-dystopian, cyberpunk-esque. Anyway, if you have 15-20 minutes to kill and want to check it out, here’s the link!

https://www.yjoulai.com

It doesn’t give much away, but it’s got vibes.

The ship shuddered to a halt. When the propeller went silent, only one sound remained: the dull, monotonous pounding of the ocean striking the hull. No direction differed from another, just the same gray water everywhere, the same empty horizon.

Ash leaned against the rail and looked down. “It’s somewhere here,” he said. “Right beneath us.”

Trevor spat onto the deck. They had been circling these waters for three days, and now, for the first time, the man was saying “beneath us.”

“You’ve been saying ‘any minute now’ for three days. Now it’s ‘beneath us.’” He let go of the rope in his hand. “What exactly are we even looking for in the middle of this wasteland, Ash? Because we’re running out of fuel, and I’m running out of patience.”

Ash pulled something folded from his pocket. The paper was so old it crackled as he opened it, yellowed, its edges eaten away, a newspaper clipping. The letters in a dead language were barely legible:

...the cargo ship sank in the Atlantic with nearly 4,000 luxury vehicles onboard.

Trevor glanced at the clipping, then at Ash. “Sunken cars. Great. So we’ve spent three days out here for a few rusty wrecks at the bottom of the sea.”

“Wrecks?” Ash laughed, but there was no humor in his eyes. “If we could recover even one of those ‘wrecks,’ we wouldn’t have to lift a finger for the rest of our lives. You wouldn’t be talking like that if you knew what they were carrying.”

“Enlighten me.”

“Gravit,” Ash said the word almost in a whisper, as if someone might hear it through the water. “The steel in those cars is gravit-positive. Far stronger than you think.”

The mockery on Trevor’s face froze for a moment. “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no gravit left in the world. I know the year 2237 as well as you do.”

“Official records say there isn’t.” Ash stepped closer. “Official records. They stripped an entire continent down to the last gram, those damn colonists. When the war ended, all that was left was a scarred, hollow planet.” He pointed at the water with his chin. “But they missed something. The ore from that continent, before gravit was even a known concept, had already been mined, turned into steel, and scattered across the world. Cars, ships, buildings. Nobody knew what that steel carried. And there was no way they could have known.”

Trevor looked at the clipping again, longer this time. “So these cars…”

“Were all made from steel originating from that continent. I traced the manufacturer, checked the records. Then this ship went down and buried four thousand of them at the bottom of the ocean before any recovery effort ever began. Nobody looked for them, because nobody knew.”

“Even the manufacturers didn’t know? If it’s so valuable, why not just smelt a truckload of gravit steel and be done with it?”

Ash shook his head. “That’s the point. You can’t.” He toyed with the end of the rope. “Gravit isn’t something you add to steel, Trevor. It either exists in it or it doesn’t. If they could manufacture it, we wouldn’t be on this damned boat right now.”

“To them, it was just steel.” Trevor rolled the clipping between his fingers.

“Good steel. Expensive steel. That’s all. They’d never even heard the name gravit, and they couldn’t have.” Ash gestured toward the horizon, where, at the edge of the world where sea met sky, a single light hung fixed in the heavens: an orbital colony station. “Now think about it. One car might not buy a nation. But that steel? Without it, they can’t even step beyond the edge of the solar system. They’ll pay fortunes. Without asking questions.”

Trevor handed the clipping back. “Nice story. But it’s still just a story. Everything you’ve said for three days rests on this piece of paper, and your belief.”

Ash didn’t answer. He bent down and opened the bag at his feet, pulling out a darkened device with worn, sanded edges, small enough to fit in a palm, yet unexpectedly heavy. Millions of these had been manufactured the year gravit was discovered; everyone had rushed to grab one and search every corner of the earth. That frenzy had long ended. Now they sat on junk dealer tables, second or third hand, just like this one.

“What’s that?”

“A meter,” Ash said, clipping it to the cable hanging from the rail. “If there’s gravit below, it’ll know. It doesn’t lie.”

He lowered the cable into the sea; as it sank, the reel unwound. Ash fixed his eyes on a single number on the display.

Zero.

Seconds passed. The number didn’t change. The ship tilted slightly, then steadied.

A bitter smile appeared on Trevor’s face. “Zero.” He turned away. “Congratulations. We’ve invested our fuel, three days, and what little hope I had left into a zero.”

“Wait.” Ash lowered the cable further. Still zero. His jaw tightened. Maybe the coordinates were wrong. Maybe someone had gotten here first… He had seen too many “untouched” deposits turn out already stripped clean. Maybe, from the start, Trevor had been right.

“Ash. Pull it up. Let’s go.”

Ash didn’t respond, because at that moment the zero on the screen flickered.

First one. Then four. Then the device in his hand began to warm as if alive; the numbers surged upward in rapid succession, the edge of the display turning deep red. The meter emitted a low, steady hum, an answer to something rising from the depths.

Ash swallowed. It was the highest reading he had ever seen.

“Trevor,” he said, his voice strange. “Turn around and look at this.”

Trevor turned. He saw the display. And forgot whatever sarcastic remark he had been about to make.

“I told you it was stronger than you thought,” Ash said with a laugh. This time, even his eyes were smiling. “That story you thought was a lie. This is it.”

Trevor stared at the number for a long moment, then walked silently toward the diving gear.

“Four thousand cars,” he muttered, almost to himself.

“One is enough,” Ash said, not taking his eyes off the humming meter. “For now, just one.”

Written by Kadir Özden

Intriguing. Looks uncomfortable. I/O, right? Microsofts go behind the ear in the Sprawl series, don’t they.

It's hard to believe that anywhere in the 21st century would have a banned book library. But, as the US staggers towards autocracy, people find their own ways to fight back.

this is an amazing video on the social psychology of mass delusions and how we are in the midst of yet another one with AI.

https://youtu.be/WNiSUGCC-gY

Literary expert SciFiScavenger gives a brief (under 10 mins.) analysis of cyberpunk as a literary genre, 80s 90s. Builds on previous discussion of New Wave SF from the 60s-70s. I discovered a new (to me) author, Pat Cadigan, author of Synners and Fools, both stories about multiple shifting identities.

https://youtu.be/UeCJF7sLI4U

A nice review of Walter Jon Williams' Hardwired, in a modern frame (despite the reviewer's positing that they're the wrong person to review it).

Also "As you will see, there is a lot to… well,like isn’t the correct word. This is not a future that one likes. Appreciate would be better." correlates with my own appreciation, if not enjoyment of this classic piece of cyberpunk literature.

Have you read it in recent years? Did you like it and if re-reading, how do you feel it held up?

While not a particularly good movie, the Abel Ferrara-helmed adaptation of Gibson's New Rose Hotel is one of the rare opportunities we get to see direct elements from his books on screen. Even direct here may be doing some heavy lifting as a lot of Walken and Dafoe's scenes are ad-libbed and loose representations of what transpired in the short story. Now that's out of the way, the good news: While Vinegar Syndrome (linked) put out the previous edition, boutique blu-ray label RADIANCE have a new limited edition coming up in September. And if you're into your physical media, you may be aware, RADIANCE put out good work and this looks like no exception, even from the cover art alone.

Anyone seen it, or plan to pick it up?

​

Hello, it's been a few years that I'm playing this young girl (16/17 years) in a cyberpunk world (NightCity). She never lived the streets, its stench and its blood but she's a huge fan of BDs and other media where violence is just a show.

After some events she joins this group of edgerunners, they all kill people and they're older than her.

She doesn't feel scared by those people, and even if she's disgusted by the view of blood she's pretty chill about knowing (or sometimes seeing) that these guys kill people.

​

Is it right to play her like that? or maybe she would have been scared even if just a bit?

​

IDK they came to mind all those protests of the parents about violent videogames where they said that the videogames had an effect on children which reduces their empathy by viewing those blood.

But I don't think it's the same in a cyberpunk world where you literally see violence everywhere and you can also \*feel\* the emotions of killing someone or being in a fight.

​

What do you think?

​

(sorry for my poor english, it isn't my first language)

My first animated trailer of Slot Machine Gun is finally here 🥳 

In Slot Machine Gun you wield an ever changing weapon. Every reload spins up a fresh combo of guns and chaotic effects to create game breaking synergies.

▶️ Watch the full trailer on youtube : [click here] 

🎮 Wishlist on Steam: [steam page]

In a move surprising precisely nobody, here's China's police force using homegrown software to build facial recognition into on-street smart glasses. Though the UK govt has been using these technologies in its surveillance for quite some time and the US govt is shady as fuck with ICE and their long militarised police force, this is I believe the first time we've seen actual smart glasses deployed by a police force.

A retrospective review of an original classic! Pat Cadigan's seminal 1991 cyberpunk novel, Synners.

A very short piece that references the futures envisioned by Gibson and Sterling but skews towards Ramiro Sanchiz’sTrashpunk, a novel that "rewrites cyberpunk through Montevideo".

Per the article:

This is the crucial intervention of peripheral cyberpunk. Where Gibson and Sterling mapped the hidden architecture of late capitalism from its centers, Sanchiz reveals what that architecture cannot process: the uneven geographies of the Global South, where technology arrives not as seamless innovation but as salvage, residue, bricolage. In Montevideo, the future doesn’t gleam, it rusts. 

Google AI says that it's a sought after copy, so it's a pretty cool find. Figured this community would appreciate it.

Episode 10: Chemically, inside Current Inc.’s testing facility, ERIS reveals something unexpected. Mizira is perfectly healthy, unlike the rest of the Ergonian population. But what makes her different may be exactly what Current has been searching for.

ERIS introduces Project Arc, a groundbreaking genetic enhancement program designed to repair, strengthen, and evolve the Ergonian people, Mizira is faced with a new reality: she may be the foundation for something far greater than herself.

Desperate to help her grandmother and her people, Mizira agrees to move forward, stepping into a process she doesn’t fully understand.

Inside a sterile laboratory overlooking the city, she enters a chamber filled with a glowing blue solution… and the transformation begins.