The bustling streets of New Cieren are bathed in fluorescent light, an omnipresent film of color coating the faces of the inhabitants as they move through the byways like willful parts of a simulated fluid. A tall Mycian, towering despite his hunched posture, trudges through the crowded alleys of the undercity. The patterns of the neon gods scatter across his esperteen coat, and in the chromatic light his mottled grey skin is washed out like everyone elses. His eyes scan the people he passes by, a myriad of faces imprinting themselves in his mycellium mind; that he recognizes none of them is a testament to the multitudes he shares this home with. And the sadness swells inside his chest just a bit, how many of them too, feel the empty weight of isolation as they drift through a sea of people.