The Gilded Cockpit
The sky over Neo-York was not blue; it was a shimmering grid of neon advertisements and data-streams, a ceiling of corporate ownership. Silas sat in the cockpit of the X-14 Interceptor, his neural link humming with the cold precision of the OmniCorp algorithm. He didn't fly the plane; he *was* the plane. His consciousness was woven into the avionics, his heartbeat synced to the engine's pulse....
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