You stumble upon a misfit hideout, with the directions scribbled in-person and then handed to you by a queer looking individual. You both met after you and them spoke for months over a chatting protocol, perhaps after a band-showing, or at a worksite. You really got them talking with careful prodding and leading of the conversation... and a bribe of a few cups of Angel Tears, Three fear-beers, a rat-weed blunt and somewhere around 600 bones.
You spoke of needing a place to lay-low, and you found it. It is a place of rowdy idiots, criminals, refugees and all the walks inbetween life who hide from, but also plot against The Kommandant and their regime. There's some older generation, and easier to use computers. A hacked, ethernet cable intranet connected SkullPad rests here. It's keys are not pretty. Could use some love and care, no?
A note taped to the chipping walls painted in gred reads "VampyricCutieKillYou_M4A1_младший-брат's WEB-DWELLING. DO NOT FUCK WITH MY SHIT. YOU CAN CHANGE THE SONG, BUT IF YOU DELETE MY SHIT I'M GUTTING YOU AND FRYING YOUR LIVER WITH FAVA BEANS AND A NICE CHIANTI. Mow. =3"
A pair of ScreamComm Speakers are hissing out some new, dark and gritty BoneTones from a communal Arythmian EyePod. You can turn it off, if you want, but other inhabitants would probably prefer you at-the-least change it to something else. "Shouted Outputs from the speakers."
A To-Do list of communal responsibiities.