Seratonin

Light stimulus; pounding sensation behind my eyes, and the electronic glare from the monitor sure isn't helping. Two weeks I've been asleep, ventured out once to explore my new surroundings, and found nothing worth documenting. Body hurts now, it hurts to move my arm, and I know that I've fallen head first into a new form of depression, one that is unimpossing, doesn't bother in the least, and is merciful to a battered sense of purpose. I drifted out of unconsciousness for a moment today, and saw beautiful sunlight caressing my window panes, but I wasn't moved much, even with a to-do list a mile long, I felt no urge to get out of bed, or leave the safety and warmth of my new place. Hungry? Not really? Thirsty? Maybe, but I don't care. A pounding behind my eyes lets me know that I've well overslept, a new phenomenon for a lifelong chronic insomniac. But right now everything that I felt like I was running out time achieving feels like it can wait, everything feels like it can wait while I grab a few more hours of escape from real life. 

"Ch0023r"

He switched on the Augmented Reality goggles, and became Ch0023r. A flash of chrome was all the warning he got before hi-jacking in. Scatterframes of nanobytes swirled around in cykene kinesis like foxtails, neon slipsteams racing through flow-wire circuitry, fraying the nanoform of iNet. A grayscale membrane saturated the tunnel-vision of the Augmented Reality stream, and then it was like a curtain being drawn back on a silverglass LCD holoscreen; a steamstack fringewire colossus rose out of the Linux universe like a motherboard metropolis, made of microchips and metacode, root programing streaming in beta like a thousand shooting lights across cyberspace.

This was iNet, the virus-plagued serial-world where malicious software came to die; annals of an archived version of the old internet that still existed in an IRC database now served as the garbage dump paintball arena for glitched profiles of the parallel shooter MMO to constantly replay their gruesome death-matches. Like digital zombies of dead gamers, the profiles existed locked in pseudo-combat eternally glitched in clan-battles that had been played out in the publicly released version of the game months ago. The games were fake, but the psion beams shot from pixel-deleting magna-weaponry was real enough to fry a consol controller, hotwired to hell by overhacking and code-splicing, real enough to kill a wayward avatar, and delete the backtrail for an unfortunate hacker hi-jacked into AR to logout. This was the deathzone, accessed through fullmetal ICE programs classified above Top Secret, originally formatted by military-grade intellegence codecs, and displayed only by GraphX mods purchased on the Tokyo black data market in cold hard cash. This was illegal, this was stupid, this was suicide.

This is where Ch0023r would find the AXIS.

Blood-Velvet Dream Sequence

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A song; it echoes on a bridge of sanguine glass, over teal-streaked moonlight banisters, flowing over stairways to the heavens. It comes to me from across a far off place, one promised to me in the early days of my life, lost swiftly to a sable-coated sunset, casting shadows on days and nights obliterated by time. Now I stand before a mirror of jaded brass, jilted in the haze-yellow amberlyn glow, bending in the image-distortion of aura-gold fractals, reflected in sun-flecked conflaguration of bronze-refracted still-composite, wearing red. This dress is a blood-velvet dream sequence played out in crimson calescence, amaranth satin feels so soft and melodic against my skin, outer inner-representation of the soft music in me, folded like pressed flowers to hang like a wreath around the places he's supposed to kiss. A philharmonic rock-opera plays in the illusive background, reminding me who I am while I enjoy this, and keeping who I want to be dear.