Neon Water
Control
Neon Water shimmers with an otherworldly glow, its liquid surface alive with pulsating hues of electric cyan and molten magenta that ripple like liquid light. This isn’t water as nature intended—it’s a synthetic marvel, a byproduct of hyper-advanced bioluminescent nanotech woven into every droplet. In the sprawling cyber-metropolis of Zerova, it cascades down skyscrapers in radiant waterfalls, fuels neon-spewing hovercrafts, and flows through translucent pipelines that vein the city’s underbelly. Street vendors sell it in vials to thrill-seekers chasing the ephemeral high of its prismatic vapors, while corpo elites bathe in rooftop pools of it, their skin glinting under its spectral radiance. But legends whisper of darker depths—those who dive too deep into Neon Water’s glow risk losing themselves to hallucinations where reality fractures into kaleidoscopic static, where the line between code and consciousness blurs. It’s lifeblood and poison, art and addiction, a paradox poured into the heart of a city that thrives on excess.
description
Beneath the flickering haze of holographic billboards, the canals of Neo-Kyoto ripple with liquid light. Neon Water—they call it *Akarui Mizu* here—glows cerulean in cracked pipes, pools in rain-slick alleyways, seeps through the city’s rusted veins. It’s not just runoff from the bioluminescent algae farms. Street docs whisper about neural uplinks, wetware catalysts, black-market clinics where chrome-plated Yakuza lie submerged in glowing tanks. But you’ve seen the overdoses: bodies bloated, skin translucent, veins pulsing like live wires before they burst. Three factions claw for control. The Neon Syndicate peddles diluted vials to addicts in VR dens. The Shinjuku Collective preaches it’s sacred—a key to “transcending the meat.” And the Corp-State? They’re erecting filtration plants, militarizing docks, branding it a public hazard while their execs bathe in privatized reservoirs. You’re caught in the crossfire, a ghost from the Syndicate’s past turned freelance tracer. Last job? Extract a biochemist from a sinking lab complex. She claimed the Water’s sentient. Showed you footage: tendrils of light coiling around a drowned man’s throat, dragging him into the depths. Now your ex, the one who still haunts your neural comms, is offering a deal. A prototype filter. Purify the Water, cure the city—or weaponize it, burn the Syndicate to ash. Your knuckles tighten around the vial in your pocket. It hums. Warm. Alive. Outside, the rain falls neon.
