The Sense/Net

Dorotea was a scrapper, salvaging servitors and dataslates from collapsed archives and dead cogitator stacks. She did all right for a while—made enough to buy Spook and the occasional meal. That changed the day she cracked a corrupted slate she found deep in the sump vaults. Something moved out there, in the dark behind the code. Something alive. Something beautiful, endless, watching.

 She calls it the Signal. In truth, it is a fragment of a greater daemon of Slaanesh, embedded like a hook behind the data. Now Dorotea and her meagre followers wire themselves into broken MIU ports, rerouted vox-loops, and dead servitor wetware—offering their sensations, memories, and pain as tribute. The daemon drinks from them, a digital god of sensation, feeding on the ecstatic feedback of its captive, jacked-in congregation.

Flickering with corrupted neon and whispering data-chants, the Sense/Net seeks ever more dangerous connections—more sensation, more suffering, more input—so their digital god may awaken fully.