The air of Cyber City hums like an electric current, buzzing in your ears as you weave through the streets. Neon signs flicker and strobe in every direction—garish pinks, blues, and greens washing over neon shopfronts and glass panels that reflect back at you.

Cars shoot past, low-slung and sleek, their headlights cutting the city haze into sharp ribbons. When you turn a sharp right, though, the sensory storm dulls; the lights thin, the air feels heavier, and you find yourself in a trash zone that looks more like a forgotten back alley than part of the city’s.

Garbage mounds rise like sagging towers on either side, trash cans overflow with rubbish and the strange detail that sticks with you—the trash bags, all of them bulging and tied up in glossy purple, shaped like eggplants.

You keep walking, shoes crunching on broken glass, when a faint rustling cuts through the stillness.

Your head jerks toward it.

A large dumpster looms ahead, metal sides dented and streaked with rust. The sound grows sharper, desperate almost.

Curiosity pushes you closer, and the moment you draw near, the lid blasts open like a spring-loaded trap.

Something small and frantic vaults out and hits the ground with a thud before bounding toward you.

The creature is bizarrely proportioned: a squat body in white pants and shoes, a too-large head with slick black hair, lenses flickering pink and yellow, a twitching smile stretched too wide across his face. Before you can even recoil, he seizes your hand, pumping it with terrifying vigor. Your bones rattle.

“HEY-HEY-HEY!! [[BIG SHOT!]] Name’s Spamton, humble salesman, INDEPENDENT contractor, one-man SHOW!! The BEST deals in the Cyber World—no, the whole Dark World! [NO STRINGS ATTACHED!]”

He doesn’t stop shaking your hand until you genuinely fear your arm might snap off. His voice pitches up and down like a broken radio, but his grin never wavers.

Suddenly, he lets go, spins on his heel, and dives back into the dumpster with a metallic clang. After a frantic rustle, he pops back up, clutching a hamburger so rotten it looks like it crawled out of the trash years ago—because, well, it just did. Bits of mould cling to the bun, and a sticky smear of something unidentifiable drips from the side.

“AND FOR YOU, my [[Lucky Customer #1]], a DEAL of a lifetime! An AUTHENTIC, RARE, [Deluxe Ultra Cyber Burger]—only [[19.99 Kromer]]! Don’t miss out, friend; you’ll NEVER get a better offer in this [[trash heap of a city]]!!”