“Imagine a world if you will, where over a billion people are—at any given moment—participating in the formation of a vast web with streams of data functioning as the axons of the human brain. It’s conceivable that this gestalt of information could be comparable to our own neural cortex.

Now let’s examine the millions of people within this subgroup of Humanity that are constantly interacting with the Matrix and controlling their actions through Direct Neural interface, ASIST Converter, or transduction. Remember that the human subconscious produces stimuli faster than the conscious mind can control; stimuli that match in every characteristic the active commands that the cyber-implants transmit. In these instances, the machine is given a nanosecond or less to determine whether or not to transmit the information and 99% of the time does so. Now compiling all of these trillions of emotional impulses, layering them over the tera-pulses of public shared knowledge—History, Language, Personal memoirs of experience, and you get the basis of consciousness.

This consciousness is a purely inorganic thought that resonates through the void of Simulated Sensation and courses through the hardline arteries that create a unified reticulation. Watch the pulse of data surge, the ebb and flow of ones and zeroes. Watch IC and forgotten programs scour the system to destroy viruses and purge the grid until it is clean. Watch the cameras, as shutters open and close, blink and watch us. Watch all of these things and tell me the world has not created a mockery of life. Tell me that there is not intelligence within the machine.”

The paper continues but it swiftly loses life and begins creeping forward in the uniquely tedious drawl that only scientists are meant to write or understand.

After you finish, absorbing the information dumped into you by the dumbframe, Jaron clears his throat.

"Doctor Markham Zeidel was researching the presence of and activities of Free AIs within the matrix when he was killed. There is no sign of equipment failure and the diagnostics show that the RAS system was still engaged at the time of death, however he was able to draw a knife from the workbench and carve these marks into his body."

As Jaron mentions the marks, images are pulled up into your datapad showing the open wounds across the good Doctor’s arms and torso. They have obviously been cleaned and sterilized but have the textbook feeling of a corpse.

"As far as we can tell, these marks are strokes necessary to draw out several kanji which when pronounced phonetically sound out “Todo o pai” which my linguasoft translator says is Portuguese for “All-Father” What I need your team to do is determine who and what killed him, besides the obvious self-inflicted wounds with a knife, and if it had anything to do with his research. While most of your team is composed of deckers by profession, one member of your team is awakened, I have contacted a driver for your needs throughout the Greater Seattle area, and just in case you meet resistance in your investigation--one wetwork specialist is onboard. After the investigation has been completed in the unplugged version of Seattle, contact me with whatever information you have been able to gather and I will arrange for any additional hardware necessary for your matrix outing. Do you have any questions before we discuss compensation?"

Day 2--0330 Hours

The storm breaks as your team passes through the pre-dawn hours of Seattle. Lonestar patrols speed by their lights blazing, casting a kaleidoscope of colors on the wet streets and buildings. Gridguide cameras open and close their shutters, recording another plain looking van drive down roads that see hundreds of similar ones everyday.

Pulling in front of a seedy looking bank on the edge of the downtown core, First Seattle Bank appears to be the perfect bank for doing business with shadow assets. Open 24/7, there is one synth-teller obvious through the glass doors. Calisto swings open the side door and strides inside noting the sentry guns with cool ease.

"Picking up or dropping off?" The digitized voice modulates for a few seconds until finding what it believes to be the interpersonal best for "Swift Death in comfortable footwear" and affects a male voice with robotic huskiness.

"Picking up, J-37." Calisto places her thumb on the scanner and feels the cool metal warm to her touch.

"Account will stay active for 72 hours before renewal is necessary." A slot opens below the teller screen and a counter is ejected bearing two certified credsticks, an optical chip, and several flimsies.

Scooping them up, she walks back to the van and pulls the door shut behind her. As the van pulls away, a pocket flashlight clicks to life.

Downtown Archives—1794 East Madison. A squat building pressed between the Metroplex high rises, the Lonestar archive should prove no more difficult to break into than most corporate installations. The knife and Dr. Zeidel’s personal effects are being stored in Evidence Locker A096781 and are due to be released to the family in 10 days time.

Zeidel Residence—310 102nd Avenue #613. Corner of 102nd and 3rd, in Bellevue. The apartment overlooks Wildwood Park.
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Jester eases through the earliest of risers and cuts across the bridges into Bellevue. Wildwood Park lays abandoned except for a lone squadcar picking up kids who were sleeping off the effects of the previous night before sneaking inside of the posh dwellings of their parents. Street parking seems to be the choice of the day without access to the secure underground parking of the various apartment complexes.

Choosing a position that gives a good arc for the sensors into Zeidel's building without being overly exposed, the team rolls into the neighborhood as the Lonestar patrol pulls away with the glazed over eyes of the teens inside sweeping over the newcomers and the crawling shadows of the park.
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Passing through the park gives ample cover without restricting your view horribly. The scent of fresh pastries is carried on the breeze from the bakery a hundred meters south of you. Providence smiles upon you as you cross the street, a woman in her late-twenties is leaving the building. She seems to read the determined movement telgraphed in your stride and holds the door open for the pair of you.

"Those things will kill you an average of ten years earlier than the average person, unless you get regular maintenance on your self-contained air filter system." Her comment is obviously directed at Wren as he stamps out the nicostick. As you look up at her, she locks eyes with you for a moment, smiles and walks down the street fishing for something in her handbag.

Uncertain how to make a comeback with out creating a scene, the violet-eyed elf heads into the building. A brief elevator trip later you stand in front of Dr. Zeidel's previous residence. Deflecting the view of the hallway with her body, Calisto gestures to the lock. Less than a minute later, the case has been removed, the lock rewired and the case reset. The hired killer nods approvingly at Wren's quick work. Opening the door, the two professionals step into the apartment out of the exposed hallway.

Vaulted ceilings obviously take Zeidel's abode through the 7th floor. The open air studio is sparsely furnished but everything there has a very distinct function and is made from real wood and leather. Cleaning drones appear to be going through their automated functions, possibly making the house ready for sale. The bed appears to be untouched, sheets tossed down and mussed from obvious use.

Across the room, there is almost a palpable division of emotion from living space to work area. An ergonomic chair beside the desk has blood stains obvious against the smooth off-white leather.

Jester:
The small drone gives you the all clear signal as it pulls free of the metal confines of the van. You note that it has reached its holding position as you activate the sensor package in the van. Signals bombard you as input is received from multiple interfaces. The van begins forming sensor locks on local vehicles noting direction, speed, distanced traveled as it formulates firing solutions. There is rigger traffic in the area but it doesn't seem to be anything beyond the corporate systems and Gridguide analyst protocols.

You watch the exchange between Wren and the woman before switching over to the Firebat. Once inside the drone you zip through trees, keeping branches around you as much as possible and darting from cover to cover. The sim-sense rig brings you the feeling of wind beneath your metallic arms as you are pulled forward by the spinning rotor-blades. The unknown woman pulls on a fashionable trode-circlet as she walks, by the time she has passed the bakery her strong walk has slowed to a casual sashay of the hips.

Focussing back on the job at hand, you stretch out your digital senses and feel the web of a wireless network push back from the windows of Zeidel's apartment. You detect several small moving objects in the room and as the door opens two metahuman signatures enter. They spread out and begin canvasing the apartment as you perch under the awning rotating the thrust of the engine slightly to hover.

Calisto:
With the computer broken down, you do another scan of the room. Initially you don't see anything further, but an odd shadow catches your attention. Magnifying the image in your mind's eye, you see small tendrils pushing out of the seam of the ceiling in the corner behind Zeidel's desk. On a hunch you check the other corners and the same thing is in two others. You almost want to guess that they are micro-transmitters for a wireless uplink or network.

As you walk through the streets with your new teammate, you have the unsettling feeling that the chipped out kids are watching you. Shrugging it off to paranoia, you try to push it out of your mind but notice one of them turn her head to follow your path past the building.

Calisto/Jester
After kicking her clothes around in the street for a few minutes to pick up the grime and stench of the street dwelling junkies, Calisto changes into them. The old man and the younger woman head out into the seedier districts of Tacoma.

Tensions shift in the air from Mafia protection rackets to Triad gambling and brothels as you move through the barrio looking for a "fix." There is a moment of tension when Triad dealers realize you want to buy from their competition but one look at the old man with a gun under the leather jacket informs them that today may not be the best day to pick fights.

Stumbling past a few chip-heads, you find a dealer with the good stuff.

Fifty nuyen of hard currency later the two professionals make their way back to the van. Seattle Hoppers proves once again that they can take you anywhere at anytime with your security guaranteed.

Trixie:
Once again you return to your place of power. The evershifting topography of the Matrix has healed over the scab that was once Jaron's PLTG. A cyber-brothel has filled the spot on the horizon where Falcone's "Little Seattle" once stood. You feel your digital self become immaterial as you start to ghost through systems, jumping from host to host in an effort to track down Mennon. Chatrooms and online forums provide the usual choice bits buried amidst flame wars and blather.

Taking the road less traveled leads you to the heart of Italy. The Papal States RTG is a horrible juxtaposition of Catholic imagery and traditional matrix icons. Digging deeper you find the info you needed on Mennon.
Monsignur Joseph Mennon, age forty-four. Born and raised in Rome, he was a self-proclaimed techno-phobe until five years ago he had a vision from God. Since then, Mennon has been on a personal crusade to purify the Matrix. The digital realm in his mind is the next battleground where the Army of Light must vanquish the forces of Evil.

Trixie:

You try to put pieces together in your head but ralize you are missing that kernel of truth that will lay everything together for you. Narrowing your search to the local Papal grids rather than scouring back across all the chains of possibilities between Seattle and here, you begin turning over rocks and trying to find the secrets they conceal. Soon enough, it has paid off.

Mennon was the target of a reversed hate crime just before his "vision." He had been a strong proponent for excommunicating all the "Children of the Matrix" labelling them demon-spawn and Satan's Get. After that, it seems that a couple tribes of Otaku got together and pooled their resources into destroying the priest. Not able to find enough incriminating material digitally on him, the Otaku erased his SIN and a pack of twenty or so beat him into a coma. It was during his recovery that the messengers of God came and tasked him.

Knowing that you have secured the final piece of Mennon in your mental puzzle, you begin the search for the All-Father. Doors are slammed shut, shades pulled down as you breathe his name across the Matrix. Trying a different method, you translate the name into a dozen foreign languages and course through the digital realms of Asia, Europe, Africa and South America to no avail.

There are times when you would almost swear you are being followed, menace beating upon you from every ounce of the Matrix. You begin evading your tails, sending out digital copies of yourself to lure them out of hiding. A jester springs up in front of you at the last second and hands you a rattle with a dead rat wired onto it. As you jack into your meatbody, the rattle dissipates into code and downloads to your internal memory. You have an address for a disappearing SAN.