by [Your Name]
The dome of the Grand Assembly cracked with strobes and pulses of pure algorithmic light. Hexsound tunneled through the crowd like a virus—compressed, modulated, fractal-burst into flesh. In the center pit, on a circular dais of jury-rigged silicon and scrapmetal chrome, the Sceners were at war.
"Sectorjam’s up," said Ryn, thumb twitching on her neural-ink interface. She sat in the mezzanine shadows above the compo pit, visor lenses flickering with debug streams. “Running custom synthmods on a gutted Triarc Z80. He’s bending opcode like origami.”
Below, Sectorjam—neon mohawk, skin like a failed BIOS boot—drove his fingers across a ghostboard, each tap spitting machinecode into a corrupted 8-bit memory space. His demo was alive: vector forests blooming in real-time, synced to audio generated from nothing but electromagnetic ripple and clever abuse of voltage.
“Watch the sync chain,” muttered Kaz, Ryn’s partner, hunched beside her, his spinal jack trailing