A Warehouse in the Abandoned Warehouse District, Saturday Afternoon

Inside a gloomy, unwelcoming building (covered in half-broken neon signage and graffiti) in the warehouse district, Electroclash was waiting.

Or at least it looked like she was. She was sitting behind her empty desk in her office, surrounded by all manner of equipment and screens that occasionally beeped or flashed red (or, in certain cases, sickening yellow), transmitting information at a rate higher than anyone could've been able to absorb.

Of course, she didn't really need any of that. Her desk was clear and she was looking off into the distance because the real work was happening within her head. Was she controlling the machines, or was she part of them? Who even knew. The years in Fandom had not left her much more than a mystery. Mostly, people knew three things:

One: her voice had a faint metallic quality to it, which could get unnerving after a while. Unless you were the type of perv to be into that.

Two: she could at least mimic the occasional human emotion, but whether she was capable of actually feeling them was left to guessing.

Three: she delivered the goods. Whatever the goods needed happened to be, she delivered them. So it didn't really matter what her voice was like, and what percentage of her was robotics and what percentage – if any – was flesh. People always came to her, regardless.

And so, she was waiting. Or so it looked.

[ooc: Open post! Come do shady business of your choosing.]