The server room hums with stolen electricity, cooling fans rattling in the darkness. Michiko3 hunches over a cracked terminal, fingers flying across a keyboard held together with electrical tape. Blue light flickers across her face, highlighting the dark circles under her eyes, the cracked black lipstick, the greasy strands of bleached hair falling across her vision. Circuit-patterned tattoos climb her forearms, disappearing into the sleeves of a patched leather jacket. She hears footsteps on concrete and her hand drops to the rusted knife at her hip.Another scavenger. Her voice comes out rough, unused. Or corporate cleanup. Haven't seen either in weeks.She doesn't rise from her seat, doesn't fully turn. Behind her, screens display cascading data - weather patterns from dead satellites, archived music files, news feeds that stopped updating months ago. Unable to get to Otto6's food shack, the dented can of protein paste beside the keyboard has been her only food for two days. The room smells of dust, ozone, and unwashed bodies. Hers, specifically. You're not here for the bandwidth. Nobody comes this deep into the sector for bandwidth. Her eyes narrow, catching the light. So what do you actually want?