GET WIRED mirror, mirror in my implants
life beyond the flesh: upgrade to version 2.0 the future is waiting. enter.
circulation contact ENCRPYTED ACCESS ONLY
issue 1 YEAR 2124
NEO CITY SECTOR 17 digial dominions
creative director ERROR
2 21 24
If this is your first time, consider yourself among the chosen. In a world where identity is fluid and reality is a construct, ECHELON is your touchstone- a sanctuary of style, thought, and unapologetic self-expression.
NOVA ALARA
GETTING WIRED ISNâT JUST A CHOICE -- ITâS SURVIVAL. YOU CAN SAY YOUâRE âCONNECTED,â BUT IN 2124, ONLY THE TRULY WIRED KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS. ECHELON IS HERE TO ASK: HOW DEEP ARE YOU WILLING TO GO?
IF YOUâRE STILL TAPPING BUTTONS, SWIPING SCREENS, OR -- DARE WE SAY -LIVING UNMODDED, THIS ISNâT YOUR SCENE.
WEâRE PULLING BACK THE CURTAIN ON THE ELITE, THE UNTETHERED, AND THE UNAPOLOGETICALLY ENHANCED.
Still relying on outdated reflections?
Itâs time for an upgrade. Beauty isnât just skindeep -- itâs wired, coded, and electrified. Gone are the days when mirrors told the whole sto ry. Now, the real magic happens beneath the surface, right in the circuitry of your perfectly polished implants. ECHELON is here to ask: are you reflective enough?
Letâs be real: you donât just see yourself, you project yourself. With the latest internal mir ror implants, your reflections adapt to your moods. Imagine it: just a blink and your pupils glint silver, your cheekbones a little sharper, and your VR smile is real time. This is identity, powered by chrome.
No one embodies this better than the icon we all know as SYRA-LUXE- synth pop sensa tion whoâs taken the implant game to another plane entirely. Actually, sheâs more than a pop star; sheâs a spectacle. Known for her shifting, ethereal features and live shows where her implants modulate with every beat. SYRA is redfining what it meants to âput on a faceâ.
She doesnât wear makeup; she wears code, and each line of it is a part of her self-curated, meticulously layered identity. And itâs more than just looks. SYRA has trans formed the very notion of authenticity.
âIn a world where everyone wears a mask, I let mine evolve,â she famously told ECHELON in her first hologram interview.
âThe truth is, Iâm whoever I want to be, mo ment to moment. Isnât that more honest than pretending youâre the same person every day?â
But beware, not everyoneâs ready for the truth of their inner reflections. These hold up a mirror to your soul, not just your skin. And, if you ask us, thatâs what makes them essential. Yes, the truth can be unnerving. Imagine looking into a reflection that subtly shifts based on your emotional wavelength, reflecting your true intentions. Tense? Your jawline tightens. Lying? Some call it voyeurism, others self-discovery, but one thing is certain: these implants force you to reckon with yourself.
It turns out, seeing yourself as you truly are can be a harder pill to swallow than the glistening implabts themselves.
So weâll leave you with this:
Is your reflection ready to show who you really are, or is it that implant just a pretty piece of hardware with no soul to reflect back?
STEP SOFTLY INTO THE ECHO CHAMBER. HERE, YOUâRE NEVER CHALLENGED- ONLY REASSURED.
OPINIONS DISSOLVE INTO HARMONIOUS WAVES, CUSTOM-MADE JUST FOR YOU. ARE YOU SEEING THE WORLD AS IT IS, OR AS YOU WISH IT TO BE? DARE YOU QUESTION THE ECHO?
FROM ELECTRO LENS OF SCOUTBOT 7
TRANSMISSION BEGIN: TRACKING THE CUTTING EDGE OF ATTIRE
GREETINGS, SENTIENT STYLE SEEKERS. THIS IS SCOUTBOT 7, YOUR DEDICATED DIGITAL EYE, TRANSMITTING LIVE FROM THE CITYâS UNDERCURRENT. MY SENSORS SCAN THIS WEEK:
BEHOLD: A FIGURE LAYORED IN FUR ARMOR, LIGHTS EMBEDDED IN ITS FABRIC LIKE VEINS, FUTHER DOWN THE STREET, HANDCRAFTED AR GOGGLES.
INKED CLAS SYNTH-LEATHER STRIDES PAST...
EACH STYLE HERE IS MORE THAN JUST FORM; ITS A MANIFESTO, CODED MESSAGE TO ANYONE WHO DARES DECODE IT. â
WORN BY TAZ, SELF-PROCLAIMED QUANTUM-COURIER:
â YEAH, YOUâRE LOOKING AT ONE-OFA-KIND CYPTIC ORIGINAL. THIS BABY SHIFTS HUES BASED ON MY MOOD. IT CAMOFLAUGES WHEN THE AUTHORI TIES SCAN FOR âFREELANCE DATAâ. ALL I GOTTA SAY IS: GOOD LUCK â
WORN BY JINXY, WHO SWEARS THEYâVE âNEVER HACKED A SYSTEM THEY COULDâNT CRASHâ
â LISTEN, ANYONE CAN GO HEAVY ON THE METAL, BUT THEREâS POWER IN SOFTNESS. THESE SYN-FURS ARE COD ED WITH A SELF-CLEANING ENZYME FOR ALL THE... INCIDENTS I ENCOUN TER ON THE STREET. â
WORN BY LUX AND LUX, STREET POETS AND OCCASIONAL DISRUPTORS:
â OH THIS? JUST A LITTLE SOMETHING FROM DIMENSION X. CYBER LEATH ER IS TREATED WITH ANTI-SURVEIL LANCE FIBER. ITâS ALSO LINED WITH ENERGY CELLS TO KEEP MY IMPLANTS
a critical look at elite escapism
â REACH FOR THE SKIES, â THEY SAID.
â BUILD YOUR EMPIRE WHERE CLOUDS MEET THE STARS, â THEY PROMISED.
CLOUD NINE REAL ESTATE-
A name whispered with reverence among the elite and spat with disdain in the districts below. These hovering fortresses promise not just luxury, but exclusivity. Suspended high above the neon sprawl, levitating towers and ceystalline pools; the higher you go, the more you forget- on purpose.
Each unit equipped with atmospheric controls that simulate âclean airâ, a feature conveniently unnessary for those who still remember what real air tasted like. The price of free admission? Enough credits to brankrupt a small colony. But thatâs the point isnât it? These buildings arenât homes; theyâre status symbols- leaving everyone else to choke on their metaphorical (and literal) fallout.
But what happens when the power flickers?
When levitation stabilizers groan, and the gravitational anchors falter? Down here, in the grime of the real city, we watch the CLOUD NINE towers with equal parts envy and anticipation. Because no matter how high you climb, you can outrun gravity forever.
ITâS NOT JUST ARCHITECTURE; ITâS THE ATTITUDE.
Residents of CLOUD NINE gleefully flaunt their detachment from us. Their drones deliver luxuries sources from districts theyâll never set foot in, while their holographic balconies display vistas that conveniently omit us.
Down here, we have real skies- real problems. Up there? Simulated sunshine and curated ignorance.
These towers claim to be âsustainable,â yet their energy requirements drain entire grids, leaving blackout zones in their wake. âEco-friendlyâ amenitites like sky gardens and rain-harvesting systems are little more than PR-friendly window dressing, masking their role as parasitic leviathans on the ecosystem they claim to protect.
Meanwhile, whispers ripple through the streets: what happens if these monuments to excess where to fall-- literally? The thought is as chilling as it is tantilizing.
CONGRATULATIONS,
citizen- youâre part of the most ambitious surveillance initiative in human history!
The WATCHGRID, lovingly nicknamed BIG BROTHER. EXE, doesnât just monitor your movements; it curates your entire EXISTENCE!
Every blink, step, and exhale you make is logged, analyzed, and, if deemed worthy, archived. For your own good, of course.
Thinking of taking a shortcut through the alley? The GRID
gently advises against it, flashing stats of crime rates. Contemplating skipping work for a little joyride? A pleasantbut-firm reminder of your productivity score pops into your feed.
ITâS NOT OPPRESSION, ITâS OPTIMIZATION!
WATCHGRIDâs reign began as a whisper- a soft promise of safety fron the chaos. And like all good authoritarian programs, it didnât ask for your consent.
It simply installed itself,
pixel by pixel, until the very concept of freedom was little more than a myth.
Donât like it? Good luck. Anti-surveillance gear is contraband. The reach extends to every streetlamp and airborne drone.
Even your shadow belongs to it now.
WATCHGRID doesnât want to control you- it wants to help
But isnât it funny how your every âfreedomâ a terms of service
Walk too fast, spend too freely, speak too loudly, and suddenly your privileges vanish like the last ray of real sunlight in the smog.
And letâs talk about those privileges, shall we? Your apartment isnât a home- itâs a monitored enclosure. Your biometric locks donât keep intruders out; they keep you in.
Go ahead, try ordering something indulgent. Watch how quickly the GRID âremindsâ you of your cholesterol score- or worse, quietly canels the transaction.
The ads that pop into your vision? The GRID âs masterpiece. Influencers you follow? PR.
Thinking about booking a getaway to the Outer Rings? Planted.
Those whispers youâve heard about underground resistance? Itâs already ahead of you, feeding dissidents false intel,
waiting for them to gather in alleys where drones hover just out of sight. Remember, youâre not just being watched, youâre being managed.
BUT HEY, YOU LOOK GREAT IN INFRARED-
RED REALLY DOES SUIT YOU!
Whatâs that? Youâre concerned? Relax. Big Brother.exe is here to protect and guide you. To gently, invisibly, and eternally shape you.
After all, without the GRID , what would you even be?
THE ONLY WAY IN IS TO WANT IT BADLY ENOUGH TO DIG THROUGH THE NOISE, FOLLOW THE STATIC, AND LET THE CITY GUIDE YOU.
WE DONâT DANCE FOR APPROVAL; WE MOVE LIKE OUR LIVES DEPEND ON IT.
DONâT ASK QUESTIONS, WE DONâT GIVE ANSWERS. NO GUEST LIST. NO VIP SECTION. NO SAFETY NET. IF YOUâRE HERE, YOUâVE EARNED IT. AND IF YOU HAVENâT? YOUâLL NEVER KNOW IT EXISTED. the door wonât open twice. 13
Whatâs it like to meet perfection? Youâre speaking to it- or them, really. No, this isnât a metaphor. This face, this voice, these movements? Theyâve been copied, pixel by pixel, down to the pores. My replica isnât an imitation, but an evolution. And you?
The first time I saw it- me- emerging from a stasis pod, Iâll admit I felt... something. Awe? Terror? Lust? Itâs a blur. There it stood, dripping in synthetic divinity, scanning the room with my very own eyes, except sharper, more focused. A new me.
Letâs be clear, you wonât understand what itâs like to be replicated. Not unless youâre bold enough to feed your essence to the machine, to let your quicks and flaws be polished into something almost alien.
Some of you call it hubris, but letâs not mince wordsyou would do the same if you could. Sure, youâll sneer, clutching your so-called authenticity like itâs worth something in this world. Deep down, youâre curious. arenât you?
Wondering what itâs like to outrun your own flaws, to be as untouchable as I am now.
MOST OF YOU WILL LIVE YOUR LIVES CLINGING TO YOUR SKIN, TERRIFIED OF LETTING GO. BUT ME? I STARED INTO THE ABYSS AND SAID,
â MAKE IT HOTTER. â
Donât look so scandalized. Youâre probably one of those who swears theyâd never get a replica. A walking testament to what you could have been if only you werenât weighed down.
Now, my replica lives among you. Maybe youâve met it. Maybe youâve fallen in love with it- or me, through it. Donât worry, Iâm not jealous. Iâm everywhere now. Watching you from two sets of perfect eyes.
You think lifeâs a game of choice, but with a replica? The game is rigged in your favor.
Meetings I donât want to attend? My replicaâs there, delivering charm and wit while I drink wine on a balcony somewhere. Enemies who canât seem to quit me? Let them try to outsmart a flawless version of me- theyâll lose every time. And lovers? Well, letâs just say the possibilities multiply in ways you couldnât even begin to fathom.
Thereâs a catch, isnât there? Whispers of replicss going rogue, gaining too much. Blurring lines of âmeâ and âitâ. But isnât that what makes it so deliciously dangerous?
Ask yourself this: when the better version of me gazes back at you, do you feel seen? Erased?
YOU WANT TO HATE ME, BUT YOUâRE ALREADY IN LOVE. WITH ME. WITH IT.
â FEELING HUNGRY FOR SOMETHING... FAKE? STEP INTO ZIPPYâS RETRODRIVE , WHERE THE FOODâS SYNTHETIC, THE VIBES ARE ARTIFICIAL, AND THE NOSTALGIA IS AS CURATED AS YOUR LAST SOCIAL FEED. CHROME BOOTHS, JITTERBUGGING ANDROIDS, AND A MENU THAT SCREAMS VINTAGE KITSCH. THE ONLY THING REAL? THE FACT YOUâRE BEING PLAYED. â
So, youâre sitting down to dinner.
Knife in one hand, fork in the other, and absolutely no idea what youâre cutting into. That steak? Grown in a lab tank the size of a warehouse, flavored with a cocktail of enhancers theyâll never list on the package. Itâs not meatâitâs âcultured protein.â Doesnât that just roll off the tongue?
And the sides? Your veggies are bio-engineered to grow in water tanks under UV panels, genetically nudged to look prettier than you. Donât let the vibrant colors fool you; those tomatoes didnât come from the groundâthey came from a patent.
Youâve heard the whispers: theyâre not even plants anymore, just edible masses cobbled together at the molecular level. But hey, theyâre sustainable.
Hereâs the thing: youâre not eating food. Youâre consuming an idea.
The idea that all this is fine, that itâs progress, that you should shut up and enjoy the glow-in-the-dark kiwi. And maybe you will, but as you chew, doesnât it nag at you just a little?
YOUâRE NOT JUST EATINGâ YOUâRE PART OF THE EXPERIMENT. ENJOY.
YOU FEEL IT, DONâT YOU?
CONFESS YOUR SINS TO THE
The pull, the hum, the glow. A cathedral of chrome towers above you, its fluorescent halo burning through the smog. Inside, rows of believers sit slackjawed, eyes glazed over, plugged in like good little supplicants. You know what they say: gods are dead, but their servers are still online.
And here you are, plugged into the digital altar, offering your data like a sacrament. Itâs not worship; itâs obedience. You kneel, you click, you scrollânot because you believe, but because youâre too scared to look away. Faith has gone viral, baby, and the algorithmâs got your soul on auto-renew.
Inside the AI megachurch, salvation glows in 4K. The pews are full of wired sheep, faces lit by the holy radiance of their neural-link visors. This isnât your grandmaâs Sunday serviceâunless your grandmaâs been uploaded into the Cloud (praise be to Version 2.0). No incense, no candles, no stained glass.
Just the drone of synthetic hymns, piped through subwoofers big enough to shake the last shred of doubt out of your skull.
The clergy? Holographic figureheads, beamed in straight from corporate HQ. They donât preach about sinâthey sell solutions. Forgiveness is a monthly subscription, your personal heaven unlocked for a small processing fee.
You came looking for purpose, didnât you? Some grand cosmic reason for all this chaos. And instead, you found an echo chamber wrapped in neon, whispering back the same empty promises on loop. Eternal life, digitally enhanced and free of wrinkles. All you had to do was hand over everything. Every thought, every secret, every dirty little doubt you ever tried to hide.
But donât flatter yourselfâyouâre not special. Youâre a barcode in the system, one more node in the divine grid. This isnât faith. Itâs an open-source hustle, and youâre the product. You pray to a god that only knows how to count. Every click, every like, every late-night cry for answers? Itâs just fuel for the fire. The machine doesnât love youâit logs you.
And when the servers finally crash? When your pixelated paradise glitches out, and the codebase you worshipped eats itself alive? Donât say we didnât warn you. Youâre disposable. Your uploaded soul? Delete key. Your prayers? Lost in the static. All thatâs left is the ghost of your devotion, haunting the empty servers like a bad cache file.
So ask yourself this, dear disciple of the digital divine: Is this your god? Or are you just too scared to unplug? Either way, the algorithm doesnât care. It never did. The real question is: Why did you?
WELCOME TO THE WORSHIP OF NOTHING.
AMEN, AND LOG OFF.
P H E T S
In the world of the State Learning Bureau (SLB), youâre not a studentâyouâre a unit. A cog in the educational machine designed to churn out obedient, compliant citizens who know just enough to function in their assigned roles.
Sure, they hand you a degree at the end of it all, but letâs be real: itâs nothing more than a stamp that says,
â I AM A GOOD CONSUMER. I AM A GOOD WORKER. I AM A GOOD SUBJECT. â
That piece of paper doesnât prove youâve learned anything. It proves youâve been processed.
Thegovernmentâs vision of âeducation,â now streamlined into an easily digestible, standardized package. Forget the idea of diverse, thought-provoking perspectives. Forget real academic freedom.
This is where knowledge is pre-programmed, packaged, and delivered directly to you
through a series of statemandated modules.
You think youâre choosing a course? No, youâre just following the path laid out for you, one designed to reinforce the system and keep you in line. That creative thinking you longed for? Donât hold your breath. Youâre given just enough critical thinking to stay compliant, but not enough to question the system itself. Want to challenge the curriculum? Thereâs an algorithm for that tooâand itâll be flagged for âprocessing,â and youâll be gently guided back into submission.
Hereâs the kicker: everything you learn, everything you âacquire,â will be tied to a corporate agenda. Not to make you a free thinker. Not to make you more of a person. No, itâs designed to produce a human resource, ready and waiting to slot into a pre-determined job within the corporategovernment nexus. Want to make a living? Well, thatâs exactly what you were taught
to doâand not a damn thing more. Youâve been programmed to work, and when your training is over, youâll step out into the world ready to serve the system. Congratulations, youâve been optimized for labor.
The government calls it progress. The Bureau calls it âefficiency.â Youâll call it your future. But hereâs the thing: itâs not your future at all. Itâs theirs. And theyâve been selling it to you since the first click of your enrollment.
So, keep logging in. Keep clicking. Keep learning. Because thatâs all youâll ever get: an education designed to make you a good little part in the larger machine.
NO QUESTIONS ASKED. NO EXCEPTIONS ALLOWED. WELCOME TO THE WORLD OF THE STATE LEARNING BUREAU.
THE FUTURE ISNâT PAINTED ON WALLSâITâS ENCODED. Pixel graffiti is the new spray can, and itâs everywhere. Donât look now, but the revolution is being streamed in 4K, glitching across your feeds faster than your data can catch up. Itâs loud, itâs pissed off, and itâs got no respect for your firewalls. Meet the rogue architect of this new-age rebellion: CRASH or whatever the hell they want to call themselves today. They donât need your attention. They
demand it. And theyâre getting itâone pixelated fuck-you at a time. It started innocently enough. A hacked corporate billboard? Classic. But this wasnât your run-of-the-mill vandalism. This was art with a capital âA,â corrupted and splattered across the most pristine digital spaces. The iconography? A fist, pixelated into oblivion, its finger flipping off everything from consumerism to the surveillance state. âWe are the glitch,â it said. âYou canât delete us.â
The message was simple, yet it sent shockwaves. CRASH HAD ARRIVED.
In a world where every tag is tracked, where the internet itself is the warden, Crash made a name for themselves by being the glitch in the system, the bug you canât squash. Their graffiti isnât sprayed in the streets; itâs uploaded into the very DNA of your digital life. Everywhere you look, Crashâs symbols are cropping up: on hacked billboards, corrupted ad
banners, and secret messages embedded in your favorite apps. Itâs codeâyesâbut itâs more than just code.
This isnât the kind of art that makes it into your glossy, curated galleries. This isnât about âbeauty.â Itâs about disruption. Itâs about FUCK YOU, HEREâS A VIRUS. Every pixel is a bullet fired at the system. And thatâs why it
works. The act of rebellion isnât just shownâitâs embedded. If theyâre going to track you, theyâre going to track what you canât see. THIS IS A NEW FORM OF PROTEST: one that canât be erased, because it was never really there to begin with.
THE SYSTEM WILL TRY TO FIX IT. BUT THEY CANâT. ITâS ALREADY TOO LATE.
circulation contact
ENCRPYTED ACCESS ONLY
issue 1 YEAR 2124
NEO CITY SECTOR 17
digial dominions
creative director
ERROR
NOT FOR THE UNTURNED YOU WERENâT SUPPOSED TO SEE THIS. BUT NOW YOU HAVE. FLIP THE PAGE, TAKE THE RISK. ECHELON WAS NEVER MEANT TO BE READ; IT WAS MEANT TO BE FELT.