Update:
Haru has dropped out. He's opted to send me the unfinished version. That will be found against Chromium's piece.

I'll try to find a replacement for the succeeding rounds.

I'll keep tabs here of writers who has declined so as for you guys not to ask them again:
- ShadowKirby
- Caelo [PENDING]

There a specific time tomorrow or just at midnight?

November 14: 11:59 pm your time.

I will be getting your timezones [if not country] the next round.

I hope my timezone is lined up right but I'm in California which to my knowledge is as far behind as it gets. Either way the best I could shoot for is my November 14 sometime

Am a day ahead of you, so I'll expect yours on my 15.

I hate this so much. My head was like "keep it simple, asshole" and now im 4k words in and only just beginning the 3rd act.

I might have to edit this a bit

I'm gonna have to ask for a one-day extension, I'm rather swamped with collegework at the moment and I honestly need more time.

ErrorBlender, for future reference my timezone is the one where the deadline is tommorow

Update:

No need to find a new one. Vern has dropped from the tournament.

devi and Chromium are now against each other in R1.

im almost done just need a couple thousand more words. and this one will be a complete book most by the end of the tourney. This first short story is just part one of eight that I am doing. maybe ill get the whole thing published after the tourney is all said and done.

Welp! Bits and pieces are rushed, and I just managed to scratch the bare minimum for words required, but here's my piece. It kind of lacks the theme a bit, but I plan on expanding the story a bit further.

ape's gargantuan molars, the once shrill and frightened screams drowning amidst the blood and viscera leisurely sliding down the gorilla's crimson maw. The beast lazily adjusts his mouth, sliding a mangled limb of unidentifiable characteristics between the cracks of his lips as he does so. The body part slaps against the scorched soil, expunging any aspiring blazes beneath it's impact with a vicious hiss. His crewmates, terrified and awe-stricken, make a move to cry out his name in utter despair, but the heavy stomps of not-so-distant approaching behemoths reminds them quickly that their tears have no meaning in this moment.

Cry later, live longer.

Marines, physicists, botanists, and even a few athletes can do nothing as the towering colossi close behind scoop them up. One by one they are all taken. One by one they are all silenced with an excruciatingly thick crunch or a disturbingly satisfying “pop". Blood is unavoidable. Several pacifists have their white lab coats stained, only having time worry about how the splattered organs of their friends will weigh them down as the gorillas behind thunder ever closer. Fifteen men. Fifteen women. Seven children.

The gorillas' hefty feet make all attempts at running futile, lifting any fleet feet higher and higher off the ground with each closing inch. Children trip, parents stop to save them; and neither survive. It doesn't take long for the remaining three humans to rush into a thicket of brush taller than the apes themselves, bawling like newborns as they dive underneath an above-ground root acting as if an open blanket cover to offer false invisibility.

Seconds pass as if hours, the fear of the unknown never leaving the shelter of their pores as the three men huddle close underneath a root the size of a regular earthen oak tree. One man, Davies, yanks a relatively large wooden cross from his necklace and begins gnawing away at the corners with blood stained fangs, refusing to be taken as easily as his wife and daughter. The next, Bruins, buries his ashen face into the rich soil beneath, shouting muffled prayers to his God in heaven. The final man, Lakshma, sits in a cross-cross manner; his fingers neatly contorted into stereotypical signs for meditation. His outfit matches the action, his baggy brown and white cloths akin to monks who spend their lives devoted to some belief. None of them speak, but each and every one of them cries. Their tears overwhelmingly riddled with salt, yet the pain and confusion infusion spike the flavor just enough to emerge from the depths tainted with sodium chloride.

A clock sounds somewhere in the universe, and two of the three men feel their final hour come to an end as a massive footstep shatters the silence like a thin, inexpensive glass. A pair of gray, scarred hands wrap around the thick root overhead and in an instant the three stragglers are revealed to a band of simians. Davies is the first to break formation, charging the nearest ape with bloodlust gone mad in his opal eyes. Before the weighty beast can react, the holy shank in his possession is lodged deep within the creature's fur lined...ankle; a mere pebble in the road for a man. The gorilla wears a bored expression, wrapping it's thick digits gently around Davies' skull before the sad, sad man is but the remains of a wasted grape between the beast's fingers. His body is tossed aside as if rotten, contaminated fodder, and the two remaining men are quickly left with two decisions.

Run for dear life and prey the other man just happens to be slower...

Or

Accept death and journey to the other side in hopes that God is a merciful reality rather than myth...

The decision is made quickly, and Bruins feels a tinge of remorse as he kicks dirt up onto a surprised Lakshma without warning. The rich fertiliser and relatively miniscule bugs within blinding his vision just as a wide fist into the ground sends he and his freshly ruined attire to the other side for inspection. Perhaps the blindness to rapid death was a blessing...perhaps his anonymous end was a curse, all Bruins knows is that, in that moment, he is alive. His feet tear through the sod and assassinate as many critters below as necessary to rip through the dense jungle, flashes of his life and his accomplishments flying in the opposite direction as a clearing comes into view. It's not much, but even the smallest of phenomenon can be considered a beacon of hope to a man with nothing to lose. His legs tense on the verge of cramping, but the African American male forces them to push harder than they ever have before, tearing something without shame as sunlight plants a long, enchanting kiss on his sweat-soaked dark skin and standard military uniform as he nears the clearing. He can taste salvation, tears forming in his eyes as the pounding of approaching feet and primal roars near.

It takes a matter of seconds, but Bruins curses God and all under his name as a massive snow white tiger throws itself in his path, it's size laughable compared to the apes but terrific in the eyes of a normal man. Bruins attempts to keep charging, only to be felled immediately with a swift swipe of the creature's paw. It pins him down, making no attempt justify its actions before raising its majestic crown and arching its back. The first gorilla at the front of the troop hesitates, faltering slightly just before he is hit with a storm unlike any other.

The tiger's entire body vibrates, and Bruins can feel his soul being wrenched within his body as the mighty monstrosity bellows a roar so intense, so powerful, that even the apes ten times its size are launched onto their hinds. For the duration of the roar they screech and cry back at the declaration in fear, kicking violently into the black and brown soil as they shift direction completely, an expression of everlasting disbelief mixed with relief etched into their once vicious and twisted faces. Fear follows them as if a ghost latched onto the nape of their hairy necks as a parasite feeding off of their weakened hearts and underdeveloped brains.

As their sound akin to thunder in the darkest of storm clouds fades into the noise of other creatures going about their natural lives, Bruins can feel all the stress and fear instilled within his heart alleviate almost immediately under the large cat's weight. It doesn't hurt, his chest, but the grown man can quickly feel his adrenaline being sapped as a sharp pain stretches across the length of his right leg. There are several smaller injuries unrelated to the apes, but for now all the black man can do is take one last glimpse of the beast before him and half-heartedly thank his savior before darkness envelops his vision absolutely.

“Rest...take...child...child..." are the last words Bruins hears before his body goes limp and his consciousness goes blank.
------------------------------------------------------------------------

The muggy swamp water soaks into Bruins skin and the man can feel it seeping into his pores as foreign aquatic life forms brush past his stretched out arms. He is sprawled out in the center of the deep dank dark greenish-blue water, his own dark skin blending into the sections of the liquid shrouded in shade. Algae swims alongside the unknown creatures, and for a moment, the former squaddie of Spacial Expedition Brigade Squad C feels a flush of peace wash over his body. Through his finger tips and down his thighs, soaking into his uniform tan camouflage pants and staining it's matching shirt. His eyes begin having parasites sap at their vision, but the grown adult soon realises that he is merely crying. Realisation of his situation flowing faster than memory itself, and in mere moments Bruins remembers the thundering apes. He remembers the blood and guts of his gored comrades. He remembers the screams of a few of his close friends on board the ship. He remembers...a snow white tiger coming to his rescue. A spiny, urchin like slug clambers onto Bruins' wrist, and the space cadet quickly pulls away from its off-putting appearance to rise and grasp his surroundings.

Majestic, rich trees lined with moss and markings of untold age, greenery and vegetation as far as the eye can see, and a noble beast resting silently on a throne carved of stone and lazily splashed with random colors in haphazard sections. If Bruins had been obsessive compulsive, he would have had a seizure gazing upon the chair, but just as he shifts in the water he can only flinch as the beast's midnight orange eyes explode from the cover that was once their eyelids. The creature stares into Bruins' soul, but the human does not falter. His steely dark gray eyes meet the tiger head on.

“I like those eyes," The tiger speaks, instantly rupturing the tension and disassembling our protagonist's focus. “I see...humility and longing; a desire to be adored despite years of mediocrity in the shadows of others. I like your eyes, human...I like them an awful lot. And for that reason and that reason alone I have decided-" The tiger rises from its sitting position and proceeds into a light hop, being caught just before his fur-covered paws can be soaked in the unworthy, soiled water. Beneath each pair of paws are perfectly subjugated alligators, their edgy eyes never sliding down from their master's presence. Once settled, the tiger clears his throat before speaking once more. “To bestow my grace upon you."

The beast beckons and Bruins quickly rises to his to feet, the mud in his boots shifting underneath his weight as swamp water pours into the military-style shoes. His right leg is light and carefree, and Bruins feels nothing so much as a tingle related to pain as he follows the still, supposed monarch of the jungle. They wade through the muck for a short distance before the cat leaps from his stepping stools, landing on the soft soil running along the edge of the wide river the two have found themselves on.

“There is a darkness dwelling within the hidden recesses of your heart, my child. This troubles me. Come. Walk with me and ask as many questions as you need on our way through your new home." Its voice is smooth and educated, chiseled precisely with a blade of wisdom and equally as intimidating in its own still, refined manner. Bruins directs his gaze away from the tiger's fiery ember pupils and notices a path of stepping stones set in the center of the calm river. Each slab looks carved expertly, prompting the squaddie to wonder as to whether or not he was the only human in the area, only having the wild calls of beasts unknown reassure him. Without hesitation he takes to the stones, carefully treading over each as the murky swamp water begins to rush in the direction he is heading. It slaps against his mud-covered boots, gracefully attempting to swipe at any grime and/or filth contaminating their light brown hue as he walks. On the right side of him struts the magnificent beast, gazing ahead with sure eyes as the two of them follow the water.

“You wonder where it is you are, first and foremost." The feline examines. “And that, my dearest disciple, is information easily conveyed. It was a rift in the fabric of space, as you most likely recall, that tore you out of the universe your kind had become accustomed to. Your ship was unable to withstand the force of gravity INSIDE the void's vacuum and as a result you crash landed into the nearest planet within the fresh solar system. No casualties from the impact and, from there, you most likely remember what followed."

To be frank, Bruins can't seem to think of anything but the swift decimation of his crew as his covered, soggy feet slosh across each stone rectangle. Close by his feet follows a diarrhea colored alligator, eyeing his every movement with precise reptilian eyes and keeping pace with him as if a carefully calibrated machine. The gator notes every wrinkle in his attire, every crevice in his skin, and growls for every evidence of creasing in the young cadet's brow, until the beast finally lets loose a snort of satisfaction, the murky water covering the lower half of its nostrils bubbling as it does so. Its analysis complete, the creature swiftly turns tail and rushes against the flowing current.

“While your silence is certainly intriguing, young one, I would very much appreciate it if we could clear our slate of any queries you may have before we approach our destination. Please do not hold back, for I am the god of this universe in its entirety, and I will do all in my power to bring peace to my newest child." Bruins' leg stiffens slightly and the the cadet is forced to adjust his footing at the tiger's gravely serious remark.

The African American male shakes his head violently, the mangy hairs on his chin scratching the broad of his skin-covered collar bone. Majestic and godlike, certainly, but God himself? Preposterous. There is only one true God, and I pray he watch over my fallen loved ones and thank him for this blessing of life he has given me. The thought breezes through Bruins' brain and he picks up on the internal prayer through bits and pieces, but he can feel the tiger's emblazoned eyes scorch the misplaced praise to ash.

“Praying to your God in the presence of another. Disgustingly disrespectful of you, but I am both a merciful and graceful omnipotence. Come, Steven Bruins. I have something you need to see." The tiger starts off again, his paws leaving much more prominent imprints in the soil following his wake. Bruins trails him along the river path, asking questions with his mind and minding any movement of his lips as the mud in his shoes form a second layer of socks in their partially dried state. The water cuts short, and at first all Bruins' eyes can perceive is a thicket of trees walling off the rushing river abruptly. The murky water even slaps against the jungle wood, climbing to no avail against the bark and drenching any part of the tree unlucky enough to be caught in it's struggle during the process. The soil beneath the trees is black, and Bruins can't help but stare in awe as xenomorphic insects of varying shape and size burrow deep into the rich nutrients and come out bearing fruit, nuts, and other insects fattied after partaking of the forbidden fruit gluttony.

“Eyes on me, human, and I advise they watch what they see closely." The beast barks, his eyes focused on the wall of lumber and vegetation at the tip of his muzzle. Without warning, the large feline approaches the thickest of the trees and bares his fangs before the trunk, rushing and leaping into the obstruction without so much as a moment's hesitation. His body splashes through the bark, sending countless waves of ripples across the holographic jungle wall before Bruins, and before the grown man knows it he is staring down the topiary alone and confused.

A roar emits from behind the imaginary wall, but before he tries anything foolish the human first reaches out only to place his hand on the rough bark, the cuts and indentations of the tree dragging across his senses as his fingers trace the dark brown wood.

I could run now, He realizes. I could take off and test the legitimacy of this self-proclaimed god... Bruins considers the thought seriously for a moment. It's brief, but for a second the cadet smiles and entertains the thought of charging back into a towering gorilla's arms with his own outstretched. The first ridiculous thought since the crash-landing. Progress in it's own sense.Yeah, right. I'll stick with the talking tiger.

Bruins swears once and narrowly bends down on the slender stepping stone underneath him. The water slaps up against the exposed skin on his legs and the human too charges the massive tree. He, like the tiger, can feel his gullet tumble as if caught in an avalanche as he roars in the silent antagonists face, poking a hole in the law of physics as he, quite literally, walks into a tree.
------------------------------

It's indescribable, and if Bruins had had any words to

Ohmygod. That is the last time I plan an epic outline. The ending may feel rushed trust me I never rushed anything. Also apologies once again if its too explain-y boring. For added trivia, google the protagonist's last name (its also significant). And the word Botnet is a real word so if you're not familiar with hacker lingo, please google that as well before reading this.

e?"

Terry Mosfet hobbled along the cobblestone paths of New Veracity, trying hard not to look at the raggedy old homeless man and his malfunctioning SOC device. Long abandoned ever since the decision to discourage Link handouts, these vagabonds curl up tightly in their tiny cardboard boxes, piling up like garbage in Veracity's furthest corners.

"PLEASE, sir. I can't sleep from this infernal racket. Mine's been blinking funny, sir. Making noises too... What is version 38!? It says that I've got BUGS! WHAT IS THAT?! Will this get me more Friends? I DON'T UNDERSTAND IT!!!"

The hobo tried his best to read the flashing red display from dusty old vacuum tubes against the mahogany background of his Pre-war SOC module. Terry ignored him and picked up the pace until the booming bass of nearby nightclubs overcame him. He ducked into a nearby alley where his contact had been waiting for the past fifteen minutes, evident from the growing pile of cigarette butts building up by her feet. She was shivering, constantly tinkering her SOC to no avail which had been reduced to a blinking screen and a few flashing warning images. No surprise considering the location he handpicked for her ahead of time was a unique blind spot in the middle of at least twenty triangulating ESP emitters from various industrial sources. It was the perfect place to keep off the grid.

"What took you so long, mister? Can we get this done like yesterday?"

"Hand it over then."

Without question, she was quick to stretch her arm out as Terry rolled up his sleeves and went to work. He stacked a few crates he'd use so many times before and asked the young thing to lay her arm down. Her SOC, conveniently lit under the only lamplight for miles was definitely a newer model, one that didn't warrant as many fail-safes as the archaic prototypes. Those were awkward times; huge clunky things that slipped through your arm like...a sock. Advertising had a field day with that one. As newer models came out, the size gradually got smaller but the name stuck on.

"Hold still."

He reached for his coat pocket and whipped out his tiny Medusa; a console device no bigger than a pre-war mobile communication apparatus, but with a bunch of coiled connectors sticking out every which way.

"What's that?"

"Don't move."

Terry used his free hand to tightly hold her elbow in place as he found the proper connector to plug into her SOC unit. Immediately, a tiny jolt of electricity shot through her from the device.

"Fuck!" She buckled. They all did.

The SOC began to reboot as the screen went dark and flickered for a good 10 seconds. Terry briefly looked up to find his patient a little dazed but the electric intrusion in her cerebral cortex. At least it was better than the last 10 blokes who either fell over or puked on him (for which he would be sure to charge extra).

The screen came back good as new like nothing happened: a picturesque personalized page themed with whatever it was the kids were into these days...guitars and bands the usual. Her feed had been getting twenty notifications per second since the SOC went out for awhile. Now he knew why she had come to him in the first place.

"Which spots do you want, exactly?"

"All of them, mister. As much as you can."

As much as you can? Right. Terry facepalmed internally, resisting the urge to lecture her on how impossible that would be. He was a Spinner, not an Admin of the SOCnet. Kids these days. "All of them." She obviously didn't know what she wanted. But the world would move on without the masses' need for want.

Ever since the bombs fell and the abolition of any form of monetary currency, the SOCnet was adopted as a means to quickly re-identify the populace. Anyone born after the whole crisis pretty much stopped caring what everyone was up to. Networking became a way of life and Contacts were now a necessity and a requirement for employment and the right to live certain lifestyles. You had to prove you existed as a social animal to be treated as one. The network stopped being important, but the stigma of social contact remained. It was literally WHO you knew in the business that mattered now, nothing else.

In other words, she needed to know just a few more people, if she was gonna be allowed to club with her friends.

Terry switched the Medusa to editing mode and began to work. Suddenly from within the lady's profile was a tiny blinking carat. Suddenly, her life would make sense. After the first few jobs, it wasn't hard to figure out just the right amount of Social Links to fabricate. The trick was relying on the complexity of human relationships. Her older siblings Janet E and Kristin K, were now friends with the local neighborhood watch's community director's daughter Andrea C. The Node began to glow directly after the rewriting process, assured that the Sigil remained in place. The Link would ultimately grant her access to most of the public hangouts in the city.

The rest of the session was spent crafting her sibling's lives before the meet. Diary posts too embarrassing to share in their private profiles. Reconstructed images of family outings with a couple of random unrelated friends. Chat logs concerning an argument or two with Janet E's ex boyfriend and another one with their mother. No wait, her mother's lawyer. Her mom had actually been to the hospital so that would've been harder to explain.

"So how does this all work exactly?"

"I'm giving you a Sibling job. Not as complicated as the Best Friend or the Cool Uncle. Shouldn't be too fake since you look like you could have a sister or two."

"Why not just do me instead?"

"Because...I can't." He said curtly. Ignoring how inappropriately phrased that question was, the modification of someone's direct waking life was Amateur Hour. Irresponsible Spinners assume that statuses can change just as easily but the truth was this was already hard enough because life was an actively organic entity. People live in the SOCnet everyday of their lives and our connections are as fickle as the human condition. But if one were to forge a relationship from a falsified organic relation, the liability would be greatly diminished.

"So, lemme get this straight. You're establishing a false friendship with me and my imaginary sisters and their Links will give my SOC clearance for all these nice places?"

"That's what you're paying me for, lady."

"Alright then."

"Alright."

"We got you."

"Pardon?"

It was quick, but Mosfet's head hit the ground sooner than the next sentence he heard. His head pushed down further as familiar metallic chains wrap neatly around his wrists and a familiar light shining his way.

"Officer Latimer of the NVPD. You're under arrest for Network Solicitation and 1st-Degree SOC Fraud."

His whole body began to shift, his face dragging through the dirt.



"Quite a record you got here, Mr. Mosfet."

Terry woke up to the smell of coffee and the sound of papers shuffling on a squeaky metallic desk. In front of him, Detective Roy Barlow leaned forward with hands so huge, he was ready to strangle his recently captured catch.

"I can't believe you didn't know she was wired. You sure are getting sloppy."

"You're bluffing." Terry replied, after visibly sighing. "We both know why I like to work on the outskirts of town where the signals can jam anything including any means to tap on me. So cut the crap and tell me why I'm here so I can explain how I was 'legitimately' doing some diagnostics work on what I assumed was a friend of a friend. Then you'll do your usual tirade and I'll shoot some threats your way and we can both look forward to doing this again sometime soon. Did I recap it well enough for you, officer?"

"It's detective." Barlow sternly said. "And you'll want to listen this time. It's a deal you can't refuse."

"Aw, detective. You shoulda just asked. How is Madam Barlow doing lately anyway?"

"You leave my grandmother out of this. This is serious."

Terry sat up. The detective's face said it all that this wasn't like any usual meet and greet with the law.

"A few days ago, one of our patrol officers arrested a couple of stupid teenagers trying to get in some fancy titty bar over at 77th. Nothing out of the ordinary at first; privileged punks thought they could pass off as some Monarch from Ecuador by flashing their SOCs like they own the goddamn place."

Terry smiled, amused that there were still some easy suckers in the world. The classics took him back to his early college years where the shtick was a legitimately good swindle: tricking unassuming but vulnerable newbies into getting what was now considered a shoddy Spin job for some quick cash. Fargus Fairbanks, the originator of this prank, likened it as a love letter to Pre-War Nigerian Scams. It was usually a deal that was too good to be true. A one-time deal to the fanciest place on earth. And all one needed to do was assume the identity of some outlandish Prince on some tiny or insignificant nation. But nobody seriously fell for that shit anymore.

These days, the best Spinners were legitimate businessmen who didn't have problems working in the grey and grey. Medicine, Politics, Advertising---whatever their experience in whatever field that helped them to network in the real world, applied to their shady SOCnet practices in kind. We don't make false memories, we re-tell a tale of some vague event you might have forgotten about. A friend at a party, who introduced you to his brother's wife's uncle was actually a rich oil baron with special privileges. Connections buried in complexity, that was our credo. After all, nobody wants to die alone.

"I'm so glad this amuses you, Mosfet. But our night is just beginning." Barlow reiterated, reshuffling the papers in his folder. "After sending the juveniles to lockup, we assumed it was gonna be another boring night of filing things in triplicate until we ran their SOCs through the local database and found...Him

Terry stared back nonplussed, expecting some dramatic punchline. As the silence became real, he squinted and looked down as Barlow slid a few photos and documents his way. Amidst the photos was one screenshot of what appeared to be an ominously red symbol. The malformed avatar resembled something of a cross between the Fleur-de-lis and a Manticore. Whatever it was, it gave him a slight tingle for some odd reason. His mind begin to cloud as his fingertips felt numb and sharp, as if he had claws and he was king of the underworld. Before his thoughts could overtake him completely, the detective yanked the photo out of his shaky hands.

"Thirty seconds, huh? Surprised you lasted that long. I guess you Bards really see things differently. Took this to Technical Services ten minutes ago, and the whole staff devolved into a bunch of drooling baboons."

"Was that...?"

"A Sigil. I didn't want to believe it myself, but I guess it's true what they say about you Minstrels. Neanderthals like me, don't seem to be able to comprehend shit like this. But with your ilk it's like the goddamn prophecy. A real Inception."

Terry's mind was smouldering. On the verge of being set alight. He massaged his temples and retained his warily cautious demeanor but the truth was, it took almost everything to get away from that one. Sigils were just a fancy name the cops associate with to make their files more professional, in the same way they derogatorily call Spinners as the laughably super-villainous 'Data Minstrels' or 'Data Bards'. But much like anything else in society, names were just labels from someone who had never been said label.

The truth behind a Sigil was that it wasn't really anything a Spinner would have a name for. Sigils imply power behind their meaning, which is how the cops would often attribute to explain the unexplainable epileptic episodes the Socially-Inclined would develop upon gazing at it. The closest approximation would be that it was a Logo with a distinct allergic reaction, a representation of a SOC's online handle.

For people like Terry, who had spent ages tinkering with SOCs, they were literally the backdoor window to one's soul. They were the elaborate signature on the bottom-right of chaotic street art. Beneath the layers of complexity was the Magnum Opus of an individual, the Thesis that describes who and what they are. It was like watching a furnace fire within a dangerously close distance. To anyone who understood it, saw the raw, untamed, personality contained within.

So what was it doing in such uncultured hands.

"I know what you're thinking, Mosfet. How could a couple of young punks have such a rogue Sigil in their Social Links? A Mallory H was usually enough to get them past the front door or have a laugh with the Bouncer. Heck, a Sigmund J would have done half the effort if the establishment wasn't that well known. But this...this is overkill. The signature is too distinct, too certain to be just one glaring thing."

Terry's stomach began to turn.

"Detective Barlow. Are you telling me you believe in ghost stories?"

"Is that what you really see him as, Mosfet? A boogeyman? Or a patron saint?" Barlow stood up as the Interrogation Room door swung open and another officer wheeled in boxes of folders and files, all marked with the same red sticker as if the pile was a bio hazard in itself. "Because while you and the the scum of society are off playing Storyteller, the rest of us are here dealing with the real world."

Barlow scooped up a fat file folder and plopped it in front of Terry.

"Nine months ago, Vice Squad stormed into an abandoned apartment to find that it had been using its 'To be Demolished Indefinitely' sign as a cover for an underground S&M parlor. I won't bother discussing the details of the case but let's just say there were things in there that defiled even the most perverted of fetishes."

Another folder landed on top of the first one.

"Five Months ago, we stumbled upon a Defecatorium. The owner was using willing slaves to harvest their excrement and smeared them all over another batch of paying customers. On live webcast. Season 1 went viral amongst the colonies as it backpacked easily on the fringes of SOCNet for a good 2 weeks before we even noticed it was there. The Council of Decency almost had our heads with that one."

Another folder dropped.

"Anthropomorphic Gene Splicing Party."

And another.

"Human Skee-ball."

Another.

"Oh you're gonna like this one. Apparently, people pay to have a tube go through their---"

Terry's chair fell over as he stood up disgusted. "So the human race isn't so wonderful after all, Detective. What's your point? It sounds to me like you've got your hands tied chasing all the bullshit in the world---bullshit that doesn't concern a dubious white-collar criminal on a dubiously flimsy charge. You know I'll just pull some old Links and be out of your hair in a day, right? Because last I heard, I wasn't even under arrest." He started for the door, hands trembling by the time they reached the door frame. One more step out into the fray.

"It's Lucius D and you know it."

Stopped in his tracks. Breathing intensified. Eyes rolled back and erratically around. An entire effort made to leave the room wasted on a meek retreat and a gentle tug on the interrogation room doorknob.

"Excuse me?"

"Lucius D. We want you to use your contacts to track him down and confirm his Identity. Do this, and your record will be cleared."

Barlow's words trailed off after the first sentence. Lucius D. Words he never thought anyone in this lifetime would ever hear. He was one of the most elusive and notorious Social Links. One of the most reclusive Social Contacts. It was said that he only ever had and allowed 666 Social Li

Its amazing that among all that submitted, none are against each other. xD

I've added all the submitted ones to the first page. Good work guys. :D

If none of the pairs collide with each other, youll just adjust them right?

I got my story done and up. I feel like I could do better but I let the readers decide.