A DM Stash & Nerikson Collaboration
[Presupported in 32mm and 75mm scale]
[LYS Files Included]
Crime and the Chrome Coast go hand in hand. Like two batshit psychos-in-love who hate each other’s guts, but are completely dependent on each other to function. The hellish couple that you hate, but you know they both deserve each other. Does the Chrome Coast deserve its rampant, unbridled crime? Maybe. But it sure as hell hasn’t done anything substantial to curb the enthusiasm of crims setting up shop here over the last few decades. Police exist, sure. But don’t mix up their roles: since they got bought out by ePower their pay and bonuses rely on crims turning the city into a neon slaughterhouse, and God forbid they ever act out of anything but self-interest. Enter Vincent Falcone: a man who thought he could make a difference, who thought being on the frontline was all it took to break up the Chrome Coast’s dependence on the drugs and depravity the fuelled the city.
But that was the young, naive Falcone. The one who hadn’t yet had his boss try throw him into a meatgrinder, setting him up for an ambush from a Red Belly hit squad. The Falcone who hadn’t yet seen what truly lecherous shit the city could churn out. The Falcone who hadn’t yet done truly lecherous shit himself. That Falcone went the way of the Dodo and antitrust laws some years ago. Life’s easier now working for himself, rather than working for the people and ePower Enterprises, neither of which gave a shit if he lived or died. P.I. work was never how Vincent imagined his life would turn out, his mother always wanted her son to become a priest, but the 21st century is a godless age, and any prayers being sent up above are falling back down on deaf ears. Falcone’s beheld a pale horse, and the rider that sat upon him was the new age, and all the hell that was following with it. The end times were here, humanity just wasn’t ready to reach the “acceptance” stage of their grieving yet. They’d been stuck in “denial” for half a century instead.
So now he drifts through his days as a detective-for-hire, looking into the occasional missing person’s case that the police don’t have the time or care to solve, or playing confidant to wives eager to bleed their cheating husbands dry. The work kept him under the radar, low-profile, until now. This latest case should’ve been like the others, a neon dollhouse broad who took one too many hits of some cheap synthcooked shit she bumped off a two-bit client. But Carmen “Molly” Smith’s gone missing, and nothing about it adds up. Now the Mob, Chrome Coast Police, and ePower Enterprises are all gunning for him, all spiders in one web, watching him slowly spin himself into a cocoon while he finds their missing doll. But now he’s at a crossroad: he’s aware the search for Molly is probably gonna get him killed, but the nature of his anonymous client makes him think not searching for her might get him killed anyway. Hell, he’s not even sure he’ll live to spend his client’s advance at this rate. Becoming another tally mark in the obituaries is looking more likely every day.
