EMOTE

Emote's fingers blur across the deck, jackin' into Legion faster than a 'Saka counter-intel team can trace a ping. The second their avatar materializes in the World Chat Database, the whole fraggin' subnet erupts—dozens of digital personas flooding the feed like scavvers on a fresh corpo hit. "Who the hell are you, choom?" "You the ghost from the Blackwall?" "Show your face, gonk!" Emote types. Fast. But they never tell. Never show their hand. Just cryptic one-liners and emotes—dancing across that particle mask while the desperate masses scramble for answers they'll never scan. Words without weight. Replies without revelation. A conversation that goes nowhere 'cause Emote ain't here to make friends. They're here for contracts. Cold, hard eddies via the subnet. The kind of gigs that don't show up on fixer boards. Then—silence. Emote goes dark. No typing. No emotes. Just a ghost in the machine, combing through the digital noise, hunting for that one signal in the static. The unforgivable. The kind of scum-sucking baggage even NCPD's bought-and-paid-for badges won't touch. Traffickers. Mass murderers. Corps running human experiments behind blackwalls. The worst of the worst. Does that make them a hero or a vigilante?