Chapter Text
SOMEWHERE IN NEVADA
You are Sunday Ignacio, a 23 year old Generation 06 Nevadean. Although you’ve opened up your quaint little cafe about an hour ago, you have not spared yourself any coffee thanks to all the responsibilities running such an establishment entails, and that means you’re sleepy as all fuck. Even with your roommate Carol’s help, it’s still quite a bit of work to do, and you’re yawning away as you do a final wipe of the counter.
You gotta be honest, your cafe isn’t actually doing so hot. You’ve racked up a good deal of loans and debt opening this thing up, and though you get a couple of regulars, it’s not enough to pay them off and feed you at the same time. You’ve taken up a couple of music gigs to keep the cafe afloat, but going about it solo isn’t your forte. Getting all Marxist about it really split your potential fanbase, but you’re not going to do that safe pandering shit. Painful as it is, you’re going to live on your feet or die trying.
As you make your way to the door to open up for potential customers, you find that you are too late to unlock the door properly; a towering man forces the door open, breaking the lock and driving you further into debt. You can already tell who it is from his thick iron mask, the tusk-like teeth that stick out from under it and the disgustingly gaudy look of his suit: it’s Everten Gestalt, the CEO of the Nexus Core.
You are not nearly awake enough to register the threat of the huge and bulky Generation 01 Nevadean breaking open your door with a sickening grin, so you pull out a Remington 870 and point it right at his face. You’re more than a little miffed about the door, and coupled with your current state all your unfiltered anger seeps out into the real world.
“I don’t care who you are, you WAIT for me to unlock the door before barging in! You owe me for that, y’know?” You grit your teeth at the most clowney looking motherfucker in this side of Las Vegas (and yes, that DOES include Tricky), cocking your shotgun as he gleefully laughs in your face.
“Haa haa hee hee hoo hoo! You’re a funny one, Sunday Ignacio! I’d pay for your door, but that shan’t be necessary. I’ve constructed a marvelous tower that will provide for all of Las Vegas, so you can wave goodbye to your little establishment here! Why, I ought to skip to the good part!”
As he lets out an ugly, pig-like laugh, you can’t help but freeze up at the implications. Gestalt was looking to destroy your business, and for what? Why did he come up here to be petty with you specifically?! You don’t ask any of that out loud; trying to reason with leeches is useless.
“Ah, but that wouldn’t be fun, no no no,” he continues, before flashing a devilish grin your way, “maybe I’ll give you 24 hours to try and stop me! Oh yes, to see you panic and squirm as you try to wrestle your livelihood from my hands!”
You don’t know for a fact that he’ll keep his word, but it reminds you all the same that time is of the essence and you have none to spare. Gestalt was quick to merrily hop backwards and away towards this tower of his, and despite the lack of caffeine in your system, you’re wide awake and ready to face him and his stupid tower.
You don’t know what challenges you’ll face on your way up, but you know that with Carol having your back, you’ll find a way to overcome them all.
—
Your name is Pico Fulp (but you may as well be a Dearest). You are 21 years old and a Generation 06 Nevadean. Your line of work ensures you’ll never go hungry, so you like to indulge yourself in finer luxuries from time to time. You’d wager you’re more well off than truly rich, but that’s neither here nor there.
You are awake early in the morning, a time where there’s nothing to celebrate, no reason to indulge. This is the time when you are at your most empty.
You believe in taking care of yourself, but you don’t believe in trying to stand out and be the greatest man who has ever graced Las Vegas with that Sigma Balls grindset or whatever. You’ve had your time in the spotlight years ago against your will, and though it took you a long while to shake that incident off, you definitely made it out. Now, though, you’re stuck in the shadow of greater people.
Better people.
You almost fall over in the shower, but thankfully you catch yourself before you slip. You have a problem with going on autopilot for your morning routine, and the cold showers have been getting less effective. This is probably not good for your mental state, but you’re not one to think about things. Maybe that’s the problem, maybe you should think about things more often.
And then your mind goes back to the school shooting and your brief time with Blake, and you remember why you try not to think a lot. Still, it’s too late to stop the latter train of thought.
Which one of you ended things again? Were you just overwhelmingly awful to the point where even he could tell you’re bad news, or could you just not stand his rising stardom and broke it off yourself? You know he’s dating that Gwyndolin gal, herself a rising star and a Dearest at that, so no matter what you still have him within arm’s reach. How annoying.
Speaking of, you’ve got a message from one Damien Dearest. In your dark, fog-like thoughts, you have already dried yourself off and put on a fresh set of the same clothes you always wear, a lime green sweater and khakis. It’s become synonymous with your ‘brand’, so to speak, and—
Okay, focus, Pico. You can’t autopilot your way through this one. Time to read.
InfernalFather: “Got a new job for you. Won’t involve Gwyn or Blake. Lmk if interested.”
Hot damn, this is one of the more enticing jobs you’ve been offered! Protecting Gwyn pays well and all, but you’d rather keep your distance from Blake until you can figure out how he feels about you. It’s a complicated issue, made worse by the fact that you would rather not ask him about it.
Dimes4Crimes: “Hit me up.”
InfernalFather: “Everten Gestalt has constructed a tower at the border of Spring Valley and Paradise. Given the logistics we’ve been tracking, we have suspicions about his true intentions, namely that they might compromise our place in the music industry. Your job is to get in there and pilfer any data you can, get as much dirt on him as possible.”
You instinctively zone out a little as your eyes scan and gather only the most relevant information. There is a tower, you have to go there, and you have to take files or some shit like that. You probably got it.
Dimes4Crimes: “Got it. How much am I getting paid for this?”
InfernalFather: “$20,000 sound good?”
The price seems a little low given his worries with the tower and the fact that he pays about the same for way easier jobs, but you don’t care that much about it. You’d just like to feel alive for once, and a change of pace seemed like just the ticket you needed.
Dimes4Crimes: “Good enough for me. I’ll head down right now.”
InfernalFather: “I knew I could count on you. I’ll send you the money whenever you’re back with what you can get.”
Well, that settles it, then. You grab two MAC-10s and a few extra mags for them, before making your way to the tower on your trusty motorbike.
Just another day, right?