Take on the role of Karl Carbon, an ex-cop turned social worker charged with helping needy humans, hybrids and sentient machines AKA 'Silicanths'. Dishonorably discharged from the Coastlandia Police Department for disobeying an order to shoot an unarmed alter-human, Karl has been helping the poor and downtroddent get back on their feet at the Department of Sentient Services. Till one day a case goes horrible sideways and and Karl is drawn into a sordid conspiracy that could threaten the very fabric of Human-Robot-Hybrid civilization.
An unmistakable, tuberculoid cough sends a wake of echoes through the stale air, heavy with Vogue-sanctioned perfume, embalming fluid, and catered brioche. The source is a hot mess rolled up in a filthy retro PI coat. He sidles up into the personal bubble of a dilettante in a swan dress, begins hitting on her. The distressed gamine elf staggers off diagonally, clopping her Dolsace gilded stilettos towards the nearest somber Italian suit, feigning to be his wife.
Failed Don Juan catches your eye, starts bee lining for you. On closer appraisal: mirrored glasses worn unapologetically indoors, rusty occipital brainjack sprouting nematodes of purple infection. Antique trench coat checkered in monofilament patching, preserved with otaku zeal, like a cloistered Irish monk maintaining the papyrus-scribed key to Civilization. He’s decked like the goth-superman protagonist of an early-noughties action film or single-A video game, who’s been unemployed, boozing and smoking away his dwindling royalties for the past half-century. You haven’t seen your brother Drake in years, and now you’re wishing you hadn’t.