[ TT ] You are a skilled runner , courier , infiltrator , and assassin . You 've always gotten out unscathed , even when things go south , and always complete a job . Your secret to your success : You have no cybernetic modifications . Tell us why .

The number one rule of being a Herald is to always, always carry a small EMP. You should n't need it, but it's not worth fucking around with. I've set off two in my 6 year career and both times I was up shit creek like you've never seen before. They are a pain in the ass because they will render nearly all your tools useless and you have to use some silly grappling hook system and escape like a corny 1950's supervillian but hell, embarrassed is better than dead. 
 
 Rule number two, know your glitch zones. In a city like New York, you've got plenty between large government buildings, corporations with overzealous security systems, and dipshit netic-hackers with their experiments gone awry. Once your message has been recieved, you will always need to run. 
 The official glitch zones appear in dark alleys behind buildings where important people might hop into their cars. The government got tired of important emissaries getting attacked by jacked up assassin's that seemed virtually impervious to all defensive techniques that they put in these zones. Only very specific serial codes can walk freely in these alleys, anyone else drops like a ragdoll once they round the corner. This system was later adopted as a security measure to prevent anyone without a proper serial number from entering a workplace that might have sensitive information. Thanks to these new security measures, many doors are left unlocked. This means all you have to do is open a door and anyone in a 20 foot radius gets knocked out cold and is left lifeless while they endure the pain of a forced reboot. 
 The nerdy kid glitch zones are tougher, slightly less predictable but it's worth testing them occasionally to ensure that they are still there; it's never good to run aimlessly and you're never sure where Heralding might take you. One of the oldest and largest ones used to be in Washington Square, and when things were less regulated, it was somewhat easy to brush just inside of of it and watch an angry mob drop to the ground and writhe in pain. But now it is a highly monitored zone due to the laws that now dictate that all citizens must at leas have basic modifications provided by the state; occasionally you'll see homeless men wander in, only to be promptly escorted to an implantation facility. I've heard that the 17 year old twerp that created it was trying to reboot his friend by burying it, setting it on a remote timer, and convincing his friend to sit on top of it, but it was too powerful and now nobody can seem to dig it out. Although sometimes I think the government secretly loves his accidental act of netic-terroroism because now they can identify non-modders so easily. 
 
 Rule number 3... know your glitch zones... if you get caught unmodded, your career is over and in my case, you die. It's not like I did n't try to get modded, I can from a middle class family and everyone was doing it. I wanted one of those eye mods that allowed you to download tutorials and show you how to fight or measure a cup of flour just by sight. My parents decided that it would make a mighty fine 14th birthday present. 
 I lost my left eye that day. 
 As it turns out, my body rejects all implants. Luckily at the time, mods were still considered a slight frivolity, so I was n't sent to one of those special camps for the unmoddable. After my birthday I had a series of tests done, my left arm now has multiple chunks out of it from all the tests and the muscles are weak. But luckily physical weakness can be overcome with intellegence and guile. 
 When mandatory mods came into effect when I was 18, the world started to became a terrifying place. I was finishing up my last days in high school and I was on a date when some Schwarzenegger-mod-wannabe cornered me and my date and tried to mug us. Like the coward I am, I ran. 
 I found one of those accidental glitch zones and the man dropped, but apparently managed to plaster my picture all over some bulletin identifying me as a non-mod just before his reboot. That shithead got a reward for reporting me, while I got hounded by the cops. Luckily the glitch zone device had a number on it, I got in contact with those nerds and they housed me for 3 months saying they had a guy what would want to meet me. They gave me a device to sew into my clothes to give of a modded signal that made me scan into any system and buzzed to warn me if I entered a zone where I would need to pretend to reboot to avoid being caught. 
 Every time I went outside, I saw pictures of me flash on wanted signs and I was frequently stopped and scanned, each time I held my breath, and each time I passed. After 2 months my picture was no longer plastered eveywhere and it was assumed I was dead, one month later, the Editor came and recited me to the Heralds. 
 My job was simple, remember the things that had been wiped from everyone that was modded -- a frequent occurrence -- and remind people. At first this just meant whispering on dark corners to those who needed to remember, but quickly it became a game of extortion. Reminding people who did remember that there were others out there who knew of their very public atrocities and that we would need cash to stay silent. What they did n't realize was that they were funding their eventual demise. That us Heralds have been keeping this information and handing it off to the editor and soon we will be implanting these memories, soon we will reverse all that they have done to our people. Soon I will be able to see parents again and let them know that I'm a hero... not a coward.
