JOURNAL ENTRY – PHILIP HARROWFIELD // AUG 4, 2097

 

Copenhagen

It was a short hop from Paris to Copenhagen, but the mood shifted sharply somewhere along the way. Paris is drama. Copenhagen is surveillance.

This concert isn’t part of the main Darklight tour. It’s a bonus event. So here we are, scrambling through rehearsals, logistics, and another security sweep, because while Paris is unpredictable, Copenhagen is deliberate. And nothing happens here without being recorded, evaluated, and archived in triplicate.

The reception was held in the old royal palace, a building steeped in history but wired to the teeth with sensors, AI moderators, and whatever the Alignment Division uses to make people feel like they’re being flayed with polite interest. Everyone wore grey—sober, austere, regulation. Everyone but Astrid.

Astrid Nygård arrived in radiant white.

A statement, of course. Purity, contrast, command.

Halo was magnificent, as always. The local dignitaries tried to act unimpressed, but more than one of them was caught watching her with that distance, wide-eyed stare we've come to know and love.

President Evans’ husband came over from the UCAS, on my invitation. He’s a Halo fan. Genuinely. The kind of fan who knows the tracklist from her second album and shed a few tears during the private DC concert.

After the reception, I slipped away for quieter talks. Astrid first, naturally. She doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. There was that long, searching look across a silent room—the kind of moment that feels historic. And maybe it was.

Then a call with Berlin. Herr Krieg, guarded as ever, but cautiously optimistic. We spoke in veiled terms—trade corridors, shared infrastructure, cultural exchange programs—but what we meant was power. Is this the moment? When dragons and technocrats, unions and megacorps, stop pretending to be enemies and start building something functional? Or at least mutually profitable?

I wouldn’t bet on peace. But I would bet on profit. For them. For me.

—Philip Harrowfield

VP of Operations, Starway Elite Productions

TB's Journal: June 15, 2097 (Addendum)

 

🧠 Wizkid

While most people were watching a winged idol fight a god on the mountain, Wiz was multitasking like only a technomancer can: maintaining the critical Matrix link with Greyskull and continuing his long-running hobby of backdoor snooping.

One of the more interesting feeds he's cracked is the one belonging to Astrid Nygard, the perpetually smug socialist matriarch of the Scandinavian Union. The modified viral payload—originally cooked up in some Aztech blacksite and now lovingly massaged by Wiz into a delicate scalpel—gives him access to her commlink, personal devices, and even her encrypted calls.

Turns out Astrid is very cozy with certain Awakened elements in Scandinavia—specifically, enclaves of Jotunn, the rare and reclusive troll-kin adapted to life in the icy extremes. These towering metahumans aren’t just frost-resistant—they’re old, magical, and fiercely territorial. And Astrid? She’s not just talking policy with them. She’s invoking rites, speaking their tongue, and moving with a kind of ancient familiarity that even makes Wiz pause. She might be Awakened herself. Wiz hasn't told anyone yet—not even me. Says he’s still “harvesting,” whatever that means. But I know that look in his digital eye. Astrid’s gone from public chew toy to strategic asset. He’ll torment her later. First, he’ll mine her secrets.

💻 Greyskull

That crazy bastard is thriving. Still happily working with Eldritch Dynamics as one of their first formal technomancer research subjects. I passed along Pandora’s suggestion under the table, and he bit. Hard.

The research lead? A brilliant elf with legs for days and some actual emotional intelligence—rare combo. He’s convinced she actually cares about the ethics of the project, which is cute. I’ve still made sure he has a fresh SIN and an Aztechnology-sponsored backup ID stashed in Bogota, just in case this fairy tale turns sour and he needs to vanish. A lot of things can be faked in the Matrix. Corporate loyalty isn’t one of them.

🕊️ Evie

She’s back in Seattle. Working. Planning the wedding. Probably sipping something expensive in her condo by the lake, running simulations of flower arrangements and arguing with her mother about guest lists.

I’ve assigned Hicks (the old cyborg rigger who used to drive for Starway) and Mr. Green (former bouncer, ex-runner, currently just built like a small armored car) to tail her discreetly. They’re not subtle, but they’re loyal.

Eclipse is quietly watching the Matrix-side. She says it’s just a professional courtesy, but I know it’s more than that. I think she actually likes Evie. Or maybe she just likes me better when Evie’s safe. Either way, I’ll take it.

I told Evie I was busy tonight. That’s true. But what I didn’t say is that I’m also terrified. Of storms I can’t punch. Of secrets I can’t hack. Of being someone I’m not sure I ever wanted to become.

But that’s tomorrow’s problem.

Tonight, we celebrate the girl who didn’t die. And the one back home who still believes I’m a man worth marrying.