SCENE: “Promenade Frequency — The Intercept” The cobble lane spills open onto the Solaris Promenade — a broad sweep of glass walkways and radiant marble blending into the beach. The sea glints like liquid chrome; waves brush the shore with a whisper that almost speaks. Music hums from somewhere — solar-bass rhythms that sync with footsteps. "Kea-kea-kea-kea" The Lunchbox Crew step out, momentarily dazzled. The brightness feels unreal, like walking through a dream too clean to belong to them. > Mizzi (squinting): “Yo… it’s too shiny out here. Like we walked into someone else’s life.” Lox: “Stay cool. Eyes on the buggy. That’s the ticket, remember?” "Keeakea kea-kea-kea-kea " The Wee-Buggy hovers ahead — its faint hum weaving through the sound of the tide. Chill walks just beyond, the wind tugging at her curls. People glance at her, then look away — not out of fear, but reverence. She belongs here, though she doesn’t know it yet. Scene: “Pier-Call: The Grease Ride” The promenade hums with chatter, fries sizzling, the sea’s static whisper underneath. Rico squints ahead — Wee-Buggy’s chrome blink still visible past a row of candy stalls. “Yo, keep your eyes peeled,” he says. “Lunchbox don’t miss supper.” Mizzi laughs, slapping a stall awning. “Bruv, we ain’t eaten since Loughborough!” Then— 📢 BEEEEEP-BEEEEEP! A low, mechanical growl rolls behind them. An unnatural horn — deep, modulated, Null tech beneath a classic car shell. The crew freeze. A vintage white coupe — too shiny, too clean for Brighton grit — slides up alongside, windows tinted. The door opens in silence. Out leans Vrax, arm on the window, a grin slick as the pier lights. He calls out over the sea wind: > “Ricooo! Long time off-grid, huh? You boys walking or working?” Ritz mutters, “Nah, nah, that’s a setup. That car too clean for street life.” Lox backs up a step. “Told you them DonaSapp-hire tags ain’t wiped.” Vrax drums his fingers on the car roof. “You want creds? You want your names out the black-list files? Get in. Quick trip to the pier base. One job, one drop.” Mizzi glances at Rico — hungry, unsure. “Pier base, bruv… that’s credits in digits, real ones.” Rico stares at the coupe — at the Nulls inside, trying too hard to look human in their slick leather. Then he grins, sharp as a blade. > “You beeped the wrong dogs, Vrax.” Vrax chuckles - "Hahahaha!" “You sure? ’Cause the kennel’s wide open- Wuuuf!" He flicks a chip onto the pavement — a glowing DonaSapp-hire credit token, spinning in blue light. Eez bends, eyes locked on it. “That’s a whole week’s ration!” Rico raises a hand, stopping him. “Ain’t worth your spine.” He leans close to the window. “We move when we eat, not when we’re called.” Then, before Vrax can reply — 💨 Rico snatches the chip mid-air, flicks it into the gutter, and walks. The Crew follow — laughing low, nervous but loyal — back toward the pier crowd. Vrax’s grin fades, replaced by static fury. He signals behind him; the coupe’s engine purrs up, twin-tone lights glowing red. Hollow mutters, “They’ll fold before sunset.” Vrax: “Or they’ll drown with the tide.” The coupe slides back into traffic, trailing them like a ghost shark beneath the coastal glare. “Pier Bait – The Exchange” Vrax still leaning out the coupe window, voice dripping that fake friendliness — > “You think this walk gonna feed your pack, Rico? The Pier Base got stacks — real, trace-free DonaSapp-hire creds. One ride, one signature, then you eat.” Rico doesn’t flinch. He flicks his gaze toward the rest of his crew — Mocker, Fury, Hollow — all shifting, hungry eyes under neon glint. > “We eat when we earn. Not when Nulls throw bones.” Mocker whispers, “Rico, man, we could rinse ‘em after. Take the creds, dip.” Fury snarls low, “Or take the ride, see what’s really under that Pier Base.” Rico smirks — just a flicker — and that’s when he sees it: down the block, past the smoothie stand, two Nulls in 1950s Grease get-up — slick hair, shades, leather jackets — trying way too hard to look local. One’s eating a doughnut, pretending not to stare. The other’s tapping a comm bead inside his ear. Rico mutters, “Look at ‘em. Brighton ain’t that polished. They brought holo-slicks to a beach town.” The Crew laugh nervously — Mocker even imitates a Grease pose. But behind the humour, they can feel it — that creeping static hum when the Null signal flares nearby. Rico steps forward, tapping Vrax’s door frame with his knuckles. > “Tell your boss we don’t roll that easy.” “And if he wants to talk — he can walk. Vrax’s grin stays, but his eyes go cold. > “You just signed your own erasure, Rico.” The coupe revs, peeling off toward the pier, headlights slicing through the dusk haze. Rico watches them go, jaw tight. Then turns to his crew — > “Fury, tail them quiet. Hollow, check if we got a live trace on our comms. Mocker, find me a street exit. We don’t follow — we flank.” As they split, the gulls scatter overhead —
