file access ://

Last call, last train out.
Here we are, here and now. Perhaps there was life before, and if we’re lucky- there may even be life after. Such things are as unknown as the moment we share now. The lines between them seem to grow fuzzier by the day.

In demanding more than the earth could bear, Soburne stands in the barren desert as a last bastion against crumbling soil. Her people have long forgotten the world before them, though relics of their past tend to glitter through the whipping sandstorm winds.

Beyond her limits lies little at all- lucky for you, you’ll never have to leave!

Bigger is, of course, always better. Make no mistake- this is a culture of perversion and corruption run rampant- extremity granting cause for celebration. There is no room for moderation in a life of excess, no tasteful consumption, no healthy balance or discipline in her ideology. Streets and signs littered with flashing advertisements, a constant scream to buy more, do more, be more. The transition into digital brings myriad issues- most notably, how they have forgotten the humanity of their peers. It is often far easier to simply play the puppet, and dance as their whims see fit.

Those who thrive reap fortune, glory, all they could ever want- that is, until someone a bit brighter comes along. Should you manage to fashion a reputation, do try not to sacrifice any more of yourself in maintaining it. Matters of surveillance are something of an open secret- You are being watched.

Better to make the most of it!

The towers and lights of the megapolis crack through the heavens, extending just as far beneath the ground. Soburne and her architecture are concrete, tangible, and logical- though it often does not feel that way. Crowds that feel like one mass of gray, with blurred faces and slurred speech. Cables and televisions that form reflected arrays, roads that lead into infinite horizons. There is a liminal, dreamlike feeling to this place, growing stronger for each resident that begins to lose their grip. Colors fade, the geometry and lights blurring into psychedelic haze.

Honestly... sometimes, it feels like I’m the only real person here.

> There doesn't seem to be anything here at the moment.

TO ME, YOU ARE INSTINCT.

I can hear the beat of your heart. I can hear the crack of your voice as you scream, and I can hear the splinter of concrete underfoot as you stomp. The earth buckles to the force of your presence, knowing how it failed to cradle you when you needed it. You have long since abandoned efforts to keep up with your hair, choosing instead to sever only what gets in your way. I can hear the wind as it howls through the gaps in your soul. I can offer you this and no more- but that’s all you want, isn’t it? To be heard?

An import from the world beyond, or what’s left of it. Personifications of scorched earth and ripping desert storms, crying louder, louder, and louder. Though no one can choose the conditions they are born into, to abandon the chase of something ‘more’ is an affront to the human spirit.

Adrila has fought tooth and nail to cross the city threshold, auditioning over, over, and over again to bring his spirit to the mechanical scale. Is it better to care too much, or not enough? How does one stay [ composed ], when their life is on the line? Adrila’s place now within the division is as volatile as his temperament- any more mistakes could cost him his contract and prized Bellicosa.

The story of an ‘underdog’ is popular for good reason. To come from nothing and claim what is neither promised nor given- it evokes hope and optimism. Those who fail to rise beyond their stature, however, are pitiful to watch if not outright painful. Perhaps such tales are better cut short.

How many chances are you worth, really? There are countless others in line with all the rage, and more of the potential. Step aside, now. Your time is nearly up.

> Odd. A missing file, perhaps?

> Contact network support for any routing errors.

Something that should be so obvious, yet often only the experienced may hope to fully perceive.

In the same way that our fingerprints remain where their tips brush, or our breath fogs the window of a car, so too do traces of life remain on the technology we use. It is incredibly abstract, and hardly as clear-cut as the aforementioned examples- best explained as DEJA VU .

While Soul Residue is much, much stronger when left by diffusion, bits and pieces of it may persist in the average person's interaction with technology. Hardly any sort of clear-cut browser history, but rather an echo left behind; growing distant as it reverberates, mutating further and further from the original wavelength. To open a page, and feel your hand drift where another's did before, to hear idle mumblings behind you of a voice whose body no longer remains- residue is fleeting, and impossible to nail down specifics.

Residue follows no logical system in its preservation, methodology, or presentation. Where it exists, it exists. It may operate as a replay of actions and thoughts past- caught in constant loop- or something even more conceptual. Things grow particularly muddy when examining the residue left of pilots on the cores of their ⁠Arbiter (s)- though this phenomena is only truly understood by those that experience it, and most do not return the same, if at all.

All in all, it’s hard to organize research on a topic that most do not even know exists. Many have different interpretations and explanations of the echoes that they witness, some conspiracy theorists going far enough as to claim that some devices are “haunted.” Simply stay alert- and if the machine is trying to tell you something, listen.

A piece of "you" is left behind. Where I try to step, I sink like mud into your echo. You are where you are, and you are here. Replicated, duplicated, preserved, trapped. An invisible thrall of cobweb strung up in a dust-covered hall. You have not visited in ages. One misstep into the web, and I grow tangled up in threads of your frozen essence. Even had I the desire to, I cannot get out.

Not all nostalgia is kind, and not all memories need be revisited. One of the lesser-understood complications of SOUL RESIDUE, "DYSLOCHALIA" vaguely refers to the bleed of frozen memories atop a visitor. Where most cases are mild- perhaps a digital traveler who stumbled over an echo now believes the memory to be their own- some rare few spell disaster. Of course, such changes happen far beneath the eye- beneath even the perception of the individuals subconsciousness. Most would never have a clue.
Subatomic, submicroscopic, subnervous and subcutaneous... where does the soul reside, really? And where would one cut to remove a tumor upon it?

Cases of dyslochalia grow more concerning on the matter of "CORES". When an individual plasters the code of their own essence over an isolated item- firing its nerves like their own, inhabiting the space as though it were their own mind- that stain cannot be removed. As such, pilots are well-informed to never plug into another's core. It is unimaginably dangerous, not just physically but psychologically. And more importantly, never worth it.

Was more information available on the matter, we would share with urgency. It is unfortunate, but as with anything, time may bring more insight.