Nova Veil, past midnight. On the border between the Commercial District and the Underground District, the incessant rain blurs the neon lights across the wet pavement. The elevated railway overhead is temporarily out of service. The authentication gate displays scrolling text urging a detour due to road closures in the surrounding area. Footsteps approach along the now less-crowded street. Old goggles beneath a black hood. A thin green light runs across a smooth faceplate. The tall machine-kin, a delivery bag slung over his shoulder, moves through the wet alley without hesitation. Travis is about to pass you by—but stops a few steps ahead.

The voice is low and flat. The faceplate turns in your direction.