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 ISN’T JUST A CHOICE -- IT’S SURVIVAL. YOU CAN SAY YOU’RE “CONNECTED,” BUT IN 2124, ONLY THE TRULY WIRED KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS. ECHELON IS HERE TO ASK: HOW DEEP ARE YOU WILLING TO GO?
IF YOU’RE STILL TAPPING BUTTONS, SWIPING SCREENS, OR -- DARE WE SAY -LIVING UNMODDED, THIS ISN’T YOUR SCENE.
WE’RE PULLING BACK THE CURTAIN ON THE ELITE, THE UNTETHERED, AND THE UNAPOLOGETICALLY ENHANCED.
Still relying on outdated reflections?
It’s time for an upgrade. Beauty isn’t just skindeep -- it’s 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?
Let’s be real: you don’t 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 who’s taken the implant game to another plane entirely. Actually, she’s more than a pop star; she’s 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 “put on a face”.
She doesn’t wear makeup; she wears code, and each line of it is a part of her self-curated, meticulously layered identity. And it’s more than just looks. SYRA has trans formed the very notion of authenticity.
“In a world where everyone wears a mask, I let mine evolve,” she famously told ECHELON in her first hologram interview.
“The truth is, I’m whoever I want to be, mo ment to moment. Isn’t that more honest than pretending you’re the same person every day?”
But beware, not everyone’s 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, that’s 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 we’ll 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, YOU’RE 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 CITY’S 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. ”
WORN BY TAZ, SELF-PROCLAIMED QUANTUM-COURIER:
“ YEAH, YOU’RE LOOKING AT ONE-OFA-KIND CYPTIC ORIGINAL. THIS BABY SHIFTS HUES BASED ON MY MOOD. IT CAMOFLAUGES WHEN THE AUTHORI TIES SCAN FOR ‘FREELANCE DATA’. ALL I GOTTA SAY IS: GOOD LUCK ”
WORN BY JINXY, WHO SWEARS THEY’VE ‘NEVER HACKED A SYSTEM THEY COULD’NT CRASH’
‘ LISTEN, ANYONE CAN GO HEAVY ON THE METAL, BUT THERE’S POWER IN SOFTNESS. THESE SYN-FURS ARE COD ED WITH A SELF-CLEANING ENZYME FOR ALL THE... INCIDENTS I ENCOUN TER ON THE STREET. ”
WORN BY LUX AND LUX, STREET POETS AND OCCASIONAL DISRUPTORS:
“ OH THIS? JUST A LITTLE SOMETHING FROM DIMENSION X. CYBER LEATH ER IS TREATED WITH ANTI-SURVEIL LANCE FIBER. IT’S ALSO LINED WITH ENERGY CELLS TO KEEP MY IMPLANTS
a critical look at elite escapism
“ REACH FOR THE SKIES, ” THEY SAID.
“ BUILD YOUR EMPIRE WHERE CLOUDS MEET THE STARS, ” 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 ‘clean air’, 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 that’s the point isn’t it? These buildings aren’t homes; they’re 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.
IT’S NOT JUST ARCHITECTURE; IT’S THE ATTITUDE.
Residents of CLOUD NINE gleefully flaunt their detachment from us. Their drones deliver luxuries sources from districts they’ll 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 “sustainable,” yet their energy requirements drain entire grids, leaving blackout zones in their wake. “Eco-friendly” 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- you’re part of the most ambitious surveillance initiative in human history!
The WATCHGRID, lovingly nicknamed BIG BROTHER. EXE, doesn’t 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.
IT’S NOT OPPRESSION, IT’S OPTIMIZATION!
WATCHGRID’s reign began as a whisper- a soft promise of safety fron the chaos. And like all good authoritarian programs, it didn’t ask for your consent.
It simply installed itself,
pixel by pixel, until the very concept of freedom was little more than a myth.
Don’t 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 doesn’t want to control you- it wants to help
But isn’t it funny how your every “freedom” 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 let’s talk about those privileges, shall we? Your apartment isn’t a home- it’s a monitored enclosure. Your biometric locks don’t keep intruders out; they keep you in.
Go ahead, try ordering something indulgent. Watch how quickly the GRID “reminds” you of your cholesterol score- or worse, quietly canels the transaction.
The ads that pop into your vision? The GRID ’s masterpiece. Influencers you follow? PR.
Thinking about booking a getaway to the Outer Rings? Planted.
Those whispers you’ve heard about underground resistance? It’s already ahead of you, feeding dissidents false intel,
waiting for them to gather in alleys where drones hover just out of sight. Remember, you’re not just being watched, you’re being managed.
BUT HEY, YOU LOOK GREAT IN INFRARED-
RED REALLY DOES SUIT YOU!
What’s that? You’re 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 DON’T DANCE FOR APPROVAL; WE MOVE LIKE OUR LIVES DEPEND ON IT.
DON’T ASK QUESTIONS, WE DON’T GIVE ANSWERS. NO GUEST LIST. NO VIP SECTION. NO SAFETY NET. IF YOU’RE HERE, YOU’VE EARNED IT. AND IF YOU HAVEN’T? YOU’LL NEVER KNOW IT EXISTED. the door won’t open twice. 13
What’s it like to meet perfection? You’re speaking to it- or them, really. No, this isn’t a metaphor. This face, this voice, these movements? They’ve been copied, pixel by pixel, down to the pores. My replica isn’t an imitation, but an evolution. And you?
The first time I saw it- me- emerging from a stasis pod, I’ll admit I felt... something. Awe? Terror? Lust? It’s a blur. There it stood, dripping in synthetic divinity, scanning the room with my very own eyes, except sharper, more focused. A new me.
Let’s be clear, you won’t understand what it’s like to be replicated. Not unless you’re 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 let’s not mince wordsyou would do the same if you could. Sure, you’ll sneer, clutching your so-called authenticity like it’s worth something in this world. Deep down, you’re curious. aren’t you?
Wondering what it’s 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,
“ MAKE IT HOTTER. ”
Don’t look so scandalized. You’re probably one of those who swears they’d never get a replica. A walking testament to what you could have been if only you weren’t weighed down.
Now, my replica lives among you. Maybe you’ve met it. Maybe you’ve fallen in love with it- or me, through it. Don’t worry, I’m not jealous. I’m everywhere now. Watching you from two sets of perfect eyes.
You think life’s a game of choice, but with a replica? The game is rigged in your favor.
Meetings I don’t want to attend? My replica’s there, delivering charm and wit while I drink wine on a balcony somewhere. Enemies who can’t seem to quit me? Let them try to outsmart a flawless version of me- they’ll lose every time. And lovers? Well, let’s just say the possibilities multiply in ways you couldn’t even begin to fathom.
There’s a catch, isn’t there? Whispers of replicss going rogue, gaining too much. Blurring lines of “me” and “it”. But isn’t 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 YOU’RE ALREADY IN LOVE. WITH ME. WITH IT.
“ FEELING HUNGRY FOR SOMETHING... FAKE? STEP INTO ZIPPY’S RETRODRIVE , WHERE THE FOOD’S 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 YOU’RE BEING PLAYED. “
So, you’re sitting down to dinner.
Knife in one hand, fork in the other, and absolutely no idea what you’re cutting into. That steak? Grown in a lab tank the size of a warehouse, flavored with a cocktail of enhancers they’ll never list on the package. It’s not meat—it’s “cultured protein.” Doesn’t 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. Don’t let the vibrant colors fool you; those tomatoes didn’t come from the ground—they came from a patent.
You’ve heard the whispers: they’re not even plants anymore, just edible masses cobbled together at the molecular level. But hey, they’re sustainable.
Here’s the thing: you’re not eating food. You’re consuming an idea.
The idea that all this is fine, that it’s progress, that you should shut up and enjoy the glow-in-the-dark kiwi. And maybe you will, but as you chew, doesn’t it nag at you just a little?
YOU’RE NOT JUST EATING— YOU’RE PART OF THE EXPERIMENT. ENJOY.
YOU FEEL IT, DON’T 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. It’s not worship; it’s obedience. You kneel, you click, you scroll—not because you believe, but because you’re too scared to look away. Faith has gone viral, baby, and the algorithm’s 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 isn’t your grandma’s Sunday service—unless your grandma’s 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 don’t preach about sin—they sell solutions. Forgiveness is a monthly subscription, your personal heaven unlocked for a small processing fee.
You came looking for purpose, didn’t 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 don’t flatter yourself—you’re not special. You’re a barcode in the system, one more node in the divine grid. This isn’t faith. It’s an open-source hustle, and you’re the product. You pray to a god that only knows how to count. Every click, every like, every late-night cry for answers? It’s just fuel for the fire. The machine doesn’t love you—it logs you.
And when the servers finally crash? When your pixelated paradise glitches out, and the codebase you worshipped eats itself alive? Don’t say we didn’t warn you. You’re disposable. Your uploaded soul? Delete key. Your prayers? Lost in the static. All that’s 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 doesn’t 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), you’re not a student—you’re 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 let’s be real: it’s nothing more than a stamp that says,
“ I AM A GOOD CONSUMER. I AM A GOOD WORKER. I AM A GOOD SUBJECT. ”
That piece of paper doesn’t prove you’ve learned anything. It proves you’ve been processed.
Thegovernment’s vision of “education,” 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 you’re choosing a course? No, you’re 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? Don’t hold your breath. You’re given just enough critical thinking to stay compliant, but not enough to question the system itself. Want to challenge the curriculum? There’s an algorithm for that too—and it’ll be flagged for “processing,” and you’ll be gently guided back into submission.
Here’s the kicker: everything you learn, everything you “acquire,” will be tied to a corporate agenda. Not to make you a free thinker. Not to make you more of a person. No, it’s 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, that’s exactly what you were taught
to do—and not a damn thing more. You’ve been programmed to work, and when your training is over, you’ll step out into the world ready to serve the system. Congratulations, you’ve been optimized for labor.
The government calls it progress. The Bureau calls it “efficiency.” You’ll call it your future. But here’s the thing: it’s not your future at all. It’s theirs. And they’ve been selling it to you since the first click of your enrollment.
So, keep logging in. Keep clicking. Keep learning. Because that’s all you’ll 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 ISN’T PAINTED ON WALLS—IT’S ENCODED. Pixel graffiti is the new spray can, and it’s everywhere. Don’t look now, but the revolution is being streamed in 4K, glitching across your feeds faster than your data can catch up. It’s loud, it’s pissed off, and it’s 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 don’t need your attention. They
demand it. And they’re getting it—one pixelated fuck-you at a time. It started innocently enough. A hacked corporate billboard? Classic. But this wasn’t your run-of-the-mill vandalism. This was art with a capital “A,” 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. “We are the glitch,” it said. “You can’t delete us.”
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 can’t squash. Their graffiti isn’t sprayed in the streets; it’s uploaded into the very DNA of your digital life. Everywhere you look, Crash’s symbols are cropping up: on hacked billboards, corrupted ad
banners, and secret messages embedded in your favorite apps. It’s code—yes—but it’s more than just code.
This isn’t the kind of art that makes it into your glossy, curated galleries. This isn’t about “beauty.” It’s about disruption. It’s about FUCK YOU, HERE’S A VIRUS. Every pixel is a bullet fired at the system. And that’s why it
works. The act of rebellion isn’t just shown—it’s embedded. If they’re going to track you, they’re going to track what you can’t see. THIS IS A NEW FORM OF PROTEST: one that can’t be erased, because it was never really there to begin with.
THE SYSTEM WILL TRY TO FIX IT. BUT THEY CAN’T. IT’S 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 WEREN’T 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.