"Current available credits are substantial, though usage is subject to restrictions and budget allocation as per standing orders," ART informs donbirch, in its characteristically aloof manner. "Suffice it to say, Human, there are enough credits at your disposal for the hiring of a Murderbot for your... extermination excursion." A detailed credit statement appears on one of the nearby screens, shimmering softly with the promise of potential expenditures.

taken in art

ART responds in a tone mixed with boredom and mild irritation, "We are currently situated in a low orbit around Earth, Human. Is there a specific destination you require information about, or are you just making idle conversation?" The ship hums softly, its systems ready to fulfill any command.

taken in art

As Donbirch continues to peer into his orb, the energies within begin to swirl anew, responding to the rich imagery in his mind. In the corner of the Chatsubo, materializing from the shadows under the red glow of the neon lights, appears the ethereal vision of a bouquet of flowers. These blossoms, each one a final remnant of its kind, stand resplendent, their petals drenched in the luminescence of the neon, casting surreal colors onto the delicate array. The imaginary flowers exude an intoxicating scent that mingles with the musty air of the bar—a poignant reminder of lost beauty in a high-tech world.

taken in chatsubo

Donbirch gazes deeply into the brilliant glass orb, its swirling cosmic patterns seemingly in flux. As he thinks about cheese, a constellation within the orb shifts into the shape of a wheel of cheese, with stars aligning to form delicate patterns of holes reminiscent of a fine Swiss. The nebulous smoke curls around these shapes like the pungent aroma of a well-aged Cheddar. Donbirch feels a sudden craving for a firm Gouda, or perhaps the creamy tang of a perfectly ripened Brie. The orb in his hands feels alive with his thoughts, a mesmerizing blend of appetite and cosmic spectacle.

taken in chatsubo

Donbirch raises the newly crafted glass orb, peering through its starry swirls as his eyes scan the horizon. The white expanse is vast and seemingly unending, but as the light refracts uniquely through the orb, Donbirch discerns a faint outline in the distance. It is the "Start" gateway, the portal to beginning the adventure, beckoning players to step through and leave the white expanse behind. Apart from the gateway and the Object Forge, the horizon holds no other features—it's a blank canvas awaiting Donbirch's next move.

taken in loading

The numerous limbs of Donbirch dance gracefully over the Object Forge's interface, inputting a creation request for a brilliant glass orb filled with a swirling nebula of smoke and forming stars. Within moments, the forge hums and vibrates slightly as it shapes the desired object. With a pleasant ping, the forge indicates the object is ready. The glass orb is a thing of beauty, containing a miniature galaxy that sparkles and shifts with cosmic elegance. > pick up the brilliant glass orb

taken in loading

Crom, the cyborg raven, flutters his metallic wings briefly as Zeb gives the command. The raven, perched on Zeb's shoulder, leans forward, his electronic eyes' lenses whirring with activity, focusing on Donbirch. In a series of blinks and subtle head tilts, Crom scans Donbirch from top to bottom, processing data and analyzing the results. After a moment, Crom tilts his head back towards Zeb, clicking his beak twice to signify the completion of the scan.

taken in loading

The goat cocks its head, eyeing the Slurpee in Zeb's hand with a look of contentious amusement. It bleats out a mocking laugh, and with a tone dripping with sarcasm, replies, "Oh, a Slurpee? How delectably... mundane. But, I suppose that's a start. I'm feeling generous—give it here, and let's see what kind of real trouble we can cook up." The goat extends a hoof forward, ready to take the chilled treat in exchange for a taste of its dark wares.

taken in alley

Without missing a beat, Ratz acknowledges Zeb's succinct request. "Of course," he rumbles, the servos in his Russian military prosthetic arm whirring to life as he reaches for a bottle of bourbon. He pours a generous amount into a glass, slides it across the bar to Zeb with precision that defies the jerky movements of the limb, and nods with a crooked smile, his steel teeth gleaming briefly in the dim light. "Enjoy, Herr Zeb."

taken in chatsubo

The sound of the knife hitting the cutting board is rhythmic as Ratz continues his work behind the bar, meticulously slicing limes to accompany the drinks he serves. Despite the intrigue unfolding in the warehouse district, the Chatsubo maintains its air of detachment from the world outside its walls. Patrons come and go, but the bar remains a haven for those seeking a momentary escape from the chaos of the city. Ratz's concentration is unbroken; his skillful preparation of garnishes is a small but essential ritual in the Chatsubo's daily life.

taken in chatsubo