We Spirited Few: The Anachronistic Misery of Aqen Acquisitions Ltd. “Soulmongers Express”

In the Aequinoctis of Nouveau Amerika, the old world died in its sleep and woke up as something else entirely. Anachronism City wears its ruin like a tailored suit. Marble monoliths and imprisoning walls hang above streets that haven't seen honest daylight in who knows how many decades. The Old Parliament author new laws in ink and formaldehyde. And the soul, that ancient, stubborn, embarrassingly human thing, has become the most contraband substance in the known world. Which makes its theft a very particular kind of art. Cloak and dagger. Pantomime and precision. A crew of irredeemable operators running the oldest con in history through the pernicious heart of a city that has already signed its life away. They move through the bowels of the city like shadows with appointments, stealing what the new order considers rightfully theirs: the distilled essence of the newly dead, and bottling it for the living who still remember what it felt like to be alive. The Aqua Vita. A speakeasy in the sewers of a fallen republic. The last establishment in Anachronism City serving something genuine. The operation is antiquated. The odds are sepulchral. The crew is magnificent in their wretchedness. Uniquely troubeled in their woes.  And the distillery keeps burning. In the city of Anachronism, the only honest drink left is the one that used to be somebody.