The Many Punks

In the beginning, there was cyberpunk and it brought us the creative stories of a dystopia dominated by technology and split between the "haves" and the "havenots". Later, as all creative things happened, it branched out into many other forms, changing with each iteration as various authors, artists, and creatures explored the limits of what "punk" really means.

This wiki is dedicated to exploring those ideals, to find stories that show various forms of punk, be it steam, cyber, or even more experimental genres like "schoolpunk" or "number punk".

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The head contraption used to connect to the Network put pressure on my temples. The few seconds immediately after I activated the switch on the machine were as if my mind's link to my body had been severed, ending with an almost painful return of all the senses at once. Although I still recognized the connection shop when I glanced around, it looked ethereal now, with a plastic-like quality to everything, and no one else remained in the place. I had no idea what to do, as this was my first time connecting.

"While it is general knowledge that red amber stone repels the fae, ghosts, evil spirits, goblins, witchcraft and every other evil and malign influence alike, however, there is no rule without an exception, or as Franks say, "Il n'y a pas de règle sans exception". I myself, in my day, have seen such creatures of demonic power who had been stricken with or dressed themselves in red amber stone and felt no ill effects whatsoever.

We fucked meat plants into the soil on Sunday. By Thursday they were heavy with sirloin, shank, and liver. If Lulu Bell hadn't broke a hoof on a diamond the size of a Red Russet, we'd have had another square kilo of grade USA Choice. Goddamn last month's root crop! Pa hates only locusts more than harvest tailings.

It was dawn, and all the Pilots were preparing for the daily launch. The airguards ran about atop the narrow scaffolding, high above clean white cloudscapes, carrying equipment to the Pilots and helping them suit up. Overhead, twenty-three Stormrunners dangled from the belly of the Great Ark, wings folded like giant metal moths, prepared to drop from the belly of the colossal city and into the clutches of death at a moment's notice. Ever-vigilant. Ever-protecting. Ever-prepared to fight off the Red Pirate raids that occurred daily now.

The beige door slides open with a click and I let her go in first. It’s dark, save for the neon glow streaming in like smog through the plexiglass. The glow gives the room’s edges an ambiguous quality, and I consider turning on the light but what’s the point. There’s a bed. A sink if you’re lucky. A functional room, and one that charges by the quarter hour.

Night. Brother speaks,

I watch the wall of panel screens in front of me. I pose for the hidden cameras. I'm sure security is getting a jolt out of this. My new Rackmount 3000s bolt-ons are deadly enough to pop the circuits of any male robot.

The walls of this modern city cease to breathe. The air's shimmering halts, and the world takes on a different, familiar color, like her vision is a television that her father has just twisted the contrast knob and the world settles back into an understandable, visible mess of the aftermath of the industrial revolution. Her father's eyes twist in her vision, turning themselves around like the television controls until they display all white and within the white, remorseless static.

Arthur was the kind of man who, if you asked him how he was, might say "Fine, and you?" with the sort of politeness that indicates he neither approves of or is concious of his response. His response is the result of 31 years of social conditioning, finely tuned through the complex systems of family, strangers, friends and co-workers. Complex the system may be, the results generally fall within one area on a politeness graph: "Automatic indifference and respect".
Today another man, who's social conditioning result falls into the 1% range of social conditioning which develops the same chemicals and responses in a section of the graph at the Steinmar-Renard Institute for Human Social Psychology as "Psychotic", asked Arthur how he was, and Arthur's
conditioning prevented him from detecting the edge of violence in his voice.

The pitch black obsidian sky was littered with the carbon-black towers of the corporations and their artificial advertisement lightning. Heavy rain draped a blurry veil over the urban sprawl's ugly picketfence. John sighed and tilted his head back.

Pit's Cyberpunk

He suddenly realized he only had 6 legs.
"Who took my arms?" he wondered, the words not echoing because he thought them.
His best friend, continents away, did not realize what was going on.
"I'm on my own", he spoke, this time speaking.
Did his wife know? Maybe. IF he had a wife.

Sweat trickled down David's forehead as he stared at the scene before him. Flames licked hungrily at dry timbers and crumbling slate roofs. Bloody, charred corpses littered the streets; armed and unarmed, men and women… and children. Amongst the wreckage strolled twelve-foot-tall iron suits of armor with heavy guns held ready, steam hissing from heavy boilers bolted to their backs. Those mechanical soldiers, unaffected by the townspeople's defenses, had brought about this destruction. One of them was him. They had been sent here by the Lord General himself with one objective: destroy it.

“The Magistrate will see you now.”

The door slammed hard into the plaster wall and knocked down a few errant portraits before swinging back just as violently. The door smacked the man following behind the baron right in the chest, staggering him back. Shaking his head, the older man managed to clear his head and burst through the door.

"Damn it, Gertrude, get number two furnace working again! I'm almost out of the Agatha Red on the second cannon!"

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