Disaster comes from the mouth

In the heart of Cuty, under the enigmatic cloak of night, Clarke Higilton's mind raced with newfound revelations about psychic energy. The city's neon lights flickered like distant stars, casting a surreal glow on the streets.

"If psychic energy can supplant conventional programming to control electronics," Clarke pondered, his voice barely a whisper, "then, could it be the cornerstone of an entirely new scientific paradigm?"

He envisioned a realm where psychic science reigned supreme. His eyes widened, reflecting a universe of possibilities. "What if the imaginary synaptic space is an uncharted cosmos? Could it, given billions of years, spawn its own life forms, civilizations even, governed by psychic forces as their fundamental law?"

As Clarke's thoughts spiraled, he envisioned a society utterly transformed by this primal force. "I need a power, a uniquely personal force..." he mused, his gaze intense with longing.

His contemplations were abruptly interrupted by the sight of a young men, engaged in lively conversation near a vending machine outside. The man scanned the machine with his optical brain, selecting a beverage.

However, as the can clattered out, the mans expression morphed into one of surprise. His exclamation drew the attention of three companions, who approached, their laughter and chatter creating a lively scene.

From behind the bulletproof glass of his high-rise abode, Clarke watched, the external cacophony muted, yet the scene's energy palpable. "Could there be an issue with the machine?" he wondered aloud, curiosity piquing his interest.

With a newfound purpose, Clarke made his way toward the stairs. As he descended, his bodyguard, Zamba, emerged from the adjacent room, his expression one of mild confusion.

"Master Higilton, where are you off to?" Zamba inquired.

"Just stepping out for a bit," Clarke replied, his tone casual yet firm.

Without a word, Zamba fell into step behind Clarke, a silent guardian in the vibrant nightlife of the city.

On the street, the quartet by the vending machine continued their animated discussion, now audible to Clarke. "Can you believe it? The drinks from this machine are spoiled!"

A look of bafflement crossed one of their faces. "How's that even possible? It was fine when I loaded it. Things like this shouldn't happen."

Clarke observed, his mind connecting the dots between the mundane and the extraordinary, wondering if psychic energy's influence had extended to the very heart of Credence's daily life.

In the vibrant heart of Credence, under the neon-lit night, Clarke Hamilton found himself amidst a curious crowd. The hum of the city blended with the murmurs of discontent from the group, as they speculated about the peculiar incident at the vending machine.

"Who knows! Maybe the guy stocking the machine is slipping in some shoddy drinks under the radar," suggested one of the bystanders, a hint of conspiracy in his tone.

The group, fueled by indignation, considered lodging a complaint. Meanwhile, Clarke discreetly approached the machine, his movements smooth and unobtrusive. He elegantly raised his wrist, initiating a scan.

"Ding!"

A gentle chime signaled the transaction, and Clarke's account deducted 0.5 crypto-dollars. Immediately, a can of cucumber milk-flavored drink tumbled out of the pickup port.

Clarke stooped to retrieve the can, noting its slightly warped shape, though it remained intact. "Coincidence, or something more?" he mused, his brow furrowing in contemplation.

Undeterred, he scanned again, setting off a series of metallic clangs that drew the attention of the bystanders. This time, Clarke opted for a more extensive test, purchasing ten cans in one go.

Lining up the cans, Clarke assessed the damage: three cans were irreparably crushed, their contents spilling onto the pavement. The remaining seven, while not ruptured, bore distinct signs of deformation.

"Hey, pretty boy, why the bulk purchase?" jeered a young man sporting a Mohawk, his demeanor radiating a mix of curiosity and mischief. He eyed Clarke's wrist chip with a hint of envy. "Got more money than sense?"

Clarke, absorbed in his analysis, chose to ignore the interruption. He pondered the unusual state of the drinks. Typically, such defective products wouldn't be found in these machines. This damage seemed recent, almost as if caused on the spot.

Could this be linked to the malfunctioning caused by psychic energy? Clarke dismissed the thought; the probability seemed too low. Then it dawned on him—the new psychic energy might not only be triggering the machine's restart but could also be physically affecting the cans within!

This realization made Clarke's eyes narrow in contemplation. He recalled a recent experiment with psychic powers where a light bulb in his refuge room had shattered. This was an anomaly; psychic energy should only disrupt electrical circuits, not cause physical destruction.

"Oye Smith, looks like he's ignoring you too," one of the young man's friends chuckled, breaking Clarke's train of thought.

"This guy doesn't seem to be augmented. A traditionalist, maybe?" another pondered aloud.

"His optical brain chip's top-notch, though. Looks like a Kendron 13Plus model," added a third, each comment intensifying the embarrassment of the Mohawked youth.

"Hey yo Lill pretty face, are you deaf?" The young man's patience frayed, his hand reaching out to grasp Clarke's shoulder in frustration.

"This gentleman," interjected Zamba, his voice stern and protective. He came from behind Clarke, swiftly grabbing the aggressor's wrist. "Please, mind your manners!"

The tension in the air spiked, but Zamba's presence imposed a sense of order, his stance unyielding yet composed. The neon lights cast long shadows, adding a dramatic flair to the scene, as the mysteries of psychic energy and its unpredictable effects lingered in Clarke's thoughtful gaze.

In the lively streets, illuminated by the vibrant neon lights, a tense confrontation unfolded. Clarke Higilton, amidst this heated exchange, stood calmly, a stark contrast to the escalating commotion around him.

The Mohawked youth, realizing he was now facing a formidable man in a suit, recoiled from Zamba's firm grip. "Who are you?" he demanded, a mix of defiance and uncertainty in his voice.

"It's not about who I am, but rather the respect you owe our master his," Zamba replied, his voice steady and commanding. "I'd advise against causing further disturbance."

"Master?" The young man's skepticism was evident. His eyes narrowed as he glanced towards the building and back at Zamba, a sneer forming. "You play the part well. For a moment there, I thought you were some high-flyers!"

His friends erupted into laughter, their mockery filling the air. "Perhaps they're some secret tycoons hiding out here!"

"Trying to pass off as elite with those plain clothes?" another taunted, drawing the attention of passersby.

The scene was a cacophony of voices and laughter, momentarily disrupting Clarke's thoughts. However, he remained composed, turning to the young man with a friendly demeanor. "And your name, sir?"

"Adam Smith the one brimming with silicon," the youth replied nonchalantly, shaking Clarke's hand.

The handshake was more than a mere gesture; it allowed their chips to exchange information, akin to swapping business cards in this digital age.

Ding dong!

The youth's wrist device chimed. His casual demeanor shifted to shock as he read the displayed information.

"Clarke Higilton... 301, Central Street, Skyrim City..."

In this world, identity couldn't be faked. Clarke's address alone spoke volumes about his status.

"Central Street, Skyrim City... a Higilton..." his friends murmured, their teasing turning to fear.

"Now you know who I am," Clarke said with a light chuckle.

The young man, Adam, was visibly shaken. "I... I am unworthy!" he stammered, his hand striking his own face with a sharp smack.

As Clarke's identity became known, the crowd dispersed rapidly, their curiosity overridden by a deep-seated fear of the influential.

The young man, his face strained, addressed Clarke again. "Mr. Higilton, we'll be on our way..."

"Why rush off?" Clarke inquired, his tone curious but firm. "You were saying something about a 'pretty boy' earlier?"

"Master Higilton, I didn't realize..." Adam Smith's face was a picture of regret. "Please, have mercy..."

His friends, initially poised to flee, stood frozen, uncertainty written on their faces.

Clarke continued, his voice still gentle. "You were about to grab me, right? Which hand was it?"

Adam, pallid and trembling, extended his right hand.

Clarke glanced at zamba, giving a subtle nod. Zamba's expression was one of reluctance, but his actions were decisive. A sudden flash of red light, and a soft click followed.

The young man's palm lay severed on the ground, the wound cauterized, leaving no blood. He clutched the stump, his screams piercing the night air.

Clarke observed silently as Zamba's arm revealed a military-grade Thermal Cutting Mantis Blade Prosthetic, the tool responsible for the swift act.

The other three, overwhelmed by fear, collapsed. Clarke turned to them, his tone shifting to a stern warning. "Ever heard the saying, 'disaster comes from the mouth'?"

They sat, petrified, unable to respond. Clarke's smile faded as he addressed them one last time. "Be more careful with your words. You might not be so fortunate next time."

With those words, he walked away, his voice echoing in the night. "Zamba, don't be too harsh. Just remove their tongues and let them go..."

The scene left a chilling silence in its wake, a stark reminder of the power and ruthlessness that could lurk beneath the surface in Credence.