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You are the heir to a defamed, bankrupt megacorporation. As CEO, rebuild your empire: wage financial, PR, and shadow-military warfare to regain market share. Build alliances with rivals, buy them out, or wipe them out. Marry your children off to the right "houses" to assure a truce. Restore your family dynasty to glory and infinite quarterly profit!
An unmistakable, tuberculoid cough sends a wake of echoes through the stale air, heavy with Vogue-sanctioned perfume, embalming fluid, and catered brioche. The source is a hot mess rolled up in a filthy retro PI coat. He sidles up into the personal bubble of a dilettante in a swan dress, begins hitting on her. The distressed gamine elf staggers off diagonally, clopping her Dolsace gilded stilettos towards the nearest somber Italian suit, feigning to be his wife.
Failed Don Juan catches your eye, starts bee lining for you. On closer appraisal: mirrored glasses worn unapologetically indoors, rusty occipital brainjack sprouting nematodes of purple infection. Antique trench coat checkered in monofilament patching, preserved with otaku zeal, like a cloistered Irish monk maintaining the papyrus-scribed key to Civilization. He’s decked like the goth-superman protagonist of an early-noughties action film or single-A video game, who’s been unemployed, boozing and smoking away his dwindling royalties for the past half-century. You haven’t seen your brother Drake in years, and now you’re wishing you hadn’t.