Welcome to Incensepunk Magazine’s second fiction entry. This story is a classic take on the cyberpunk genre with a dash of high church by Jon James, who would like to thank Yuval Kordov for his editorial oversight.
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The Swiss Guards huddled by the brothel entrance, mirrored visors glitching in the rain. They weren't supposed to be down here on the streets, with scum like him. Which was perfect, meant his mark was in there.
The light on his cig glowed blue as he stumbled up to them, swaying as if high. They didn't react. He made his move, but their batons crossed in the blink of a pixel.
“C'mon guys,” Jov pretend-slurred. “Let me in. ‘S my kid brother in there.” He pressed forward again, and again their batons made a firewall, denying entry.
But the timing was good, for just then the cardinal oozed out the door, the red trim of his cassock glimmering in the perpetual neon of the undercity.
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