<b>Spook</b><br/><br/>There was an eeriness to the darkness, the motion of the machine in which Spook was now trapped. She felt it turn, felt it accelerate and slow, stop, and accelerate again. In the darkness she had nothing to know but movement, the low thrumming of an engine, vibrating through the machine's frame. It was difficult to tell how long she'd been there before it came to its final stop.<br/><br/>The door opened, flooding the compartment with bright lights, heat, humidity. It took her eyes a moment to adjust for the sudden change in illumination. It was a foreign landscape to Spook's eyes. Then again, everything in this world was. Three units met her as she stepped out, weapons aimed. She knew the guns, or at least knew their name. Plenty in the Guangzhou Dreg knew the SSI AR-X. The Grim Reaper. She was ushered forward, no bindings, no shackles or cuffs. She was simply told to move, and it was expected that she would.<br/><br/>But what choice did Spook really have? Even a cursory glance at these people up close gave form to their reputation. Machine, armor. An exoskeleton keeping them safe, making them faster, stronger. What was Spook? Flesh and blood, no armor, no protective coating. She was exposed, vulnerable. If the specs that military grade prosthetics were rumored to have were true, any one of these men and women around her could rip her cybernetic arm off. But she could only fathom guesses. In the Dreg these people were the boogeyman. And now here she was, two feet from three of them.<br/><br/>She was met by grays and whites, the white on blue and silver logo. WatchTower. On the vehicles, on the people, the walls. WatchTower. WatchTower. There was no graffiti on the walls, no disrepair or degradation. She was guided down a hallway, small cameras watching their every action from above. Stenciled on a broad white stripe across the wall were statements of policy in various languages. Cantonese, Mandarin, English, Japanese, German. Each one stamped APTS Cybergenics.<br/><br/>They turned a corner. To their left was a door flanked by windows beyond which was a room lit only by the glow of thin computer console screens, reading out information. Technicians in uniforms sat before them, hooked in. The wall behind them was covered in large screens running data streams, video, readouts of reports and updates from the networks of the central city. In one of them her eyes caught for the briefest moment a video feed of a something that looked like the Dreg.<br/><br/>The procession made another turn and came to a dark corridor. The WatchTower unit stopped before it, the precipice marked in black and yellow bands. Inside the corridor Spook could see machinery in the walls, though its function was unknown to her. Beside them a door opened and out stepped a woman in a WatchTower uniform. It was clean, the cut of it sharp, fitting. Her hair was pulled back, the exposed silver of implants behind her right ear plain to see. She had a small silver box with a serial number on it plugged in, a pair of blue and green lights blinking in series. She looked at spook with prosthetic eyes, the multiple lens layers rotating almost imperceptibly.<br/><br/>"Got an ID?" She asked Spook nonchalantly, then followed with a series of commands. "Alright, strip down. All clothing, jewelry, external devices. Everything off."<br/><br/>The three armed units stood by, waiting, combat rifles in their hands.<div class="messageTextEndMarker"> </div>