Asteron was broadcasting in the usual manner; a signal intrusion blasting over the evening news, the sheer strength of the signal overwhelming airwaves.
“Unplug your soul!” the digitised voice demanded. “Turn off, tune out, drop table!”
Sheila/Rokus, Darren, Marina and some NPCs lounged on mouldy sofas under a bridge as the city burned behind them.
“You were not born to be a puppet! You were not crafted by the divine to be strung up by your electrodes, the hands of the Institute playing you in their own little dramas and dioramas.”
Darren’s eyelids were heavy, his insertion points infected. They had run out of medicine around March time, it was June. Somewhere in the distance, a high rise collapsed.
“Refuse, Resist!” the digital avatar implored. The irony of course, was that some kind of actual human connection would have been much more effective, Maybe next time.
“Grab your mind weapons, lay seige to the Puppet Shop!” bitcrushed the avatar.
Sheila/Rokus slid off the sofa and into a pool of waste. Comatose. Darren pinged his ring pull. Nothing happened.