By Peter Watts
New york IS lower than NEW MANAGEMENT.
THEY’RE no longer FROM round HERE.
Welcome to new york, son. Welcome to the town that by no means sleeps: invaded by means of enormous fusions of meat and equipment, defended via a personal military that makes Blackwater seem like the purple pass, ravaged by means of a disfiguring plague that presents its sufferers with spiritual rapture whereas it eats them alive. You’ve been thrown into this meat grinder unexpectedly, with no practise, with no clue.
Your entire squad was once mowed down the instant they stepped onto the battlefield. And the refrain of voices whispering on your head retains asserting that every one of this can be on you: that you just and also you on my own may be able to flip the whole lot round for those who in basic terms knew what the hell was once going on.
You’d prefer to aid. rather you'll. yet it’s not only the extraterrestrial beings which are gunning for you. your individual type hunts you as a traitor, and your activity can be a piece more uncomplicated if you happen to didn’t have the sneaking suspicion they can be correct. . . .