Chapter Text
“Okay, so what’s the verdict?”
“It looks like the system isn’t quite ready to handle undefined tasks like that just yet.”
“Damn. Too soon, huh?”
“Exactly. Ideally we’d have enough support to engage aberrant input by now, but it’s just not there yet. It’d be like handing a baby a gun. Or hammering a key into a lock. Just asking for trouble.”
“Yeah, I hear you. So we’re still going for—“
“Standard source input, yep. It’s not like they’re hard to find. Just… Everyday people, without cold feet.”
“Average and unaware, huh? Sounds like a bad date.”
“Sure does, ha!”
“…theoretically speaking, what would happen if we tried to input data from nonstandard source anyway? Would everything else fail?”
“Probably not, but… look. It’d be like trying to fit a gallon of water into a teaspoon. The data overflow would be a disaster and without the framework to contain everything, who knows what would end up where. We’ll get there eventually, okay? Let’s just get a functional foundation going.”
“Of course, no worries.”
“Thanks, man.”
"Of course. Don't wor
ry about
You don’t remember the decision that led to you putting the thing on.
What you remember is the immediate, agonizing aftermath—your consciousness contracting into a tiny pinprick like a star collapsing into itself, efficiently flattened and stretched into an incomprehensible event horizon. You can’t even feel your lungs well enough to scream, or anything of your body at all. Maybe you left it behind: mouth and lungs and organs and all in a wet pile somewhere. How unfortunate. You liked that model.
You’re so overwhelmed by the sudden change that you almost miss the lone point of light rapidly approaching, filling your vision with a searing whiteness. It vaguely reminds you of an old television sparking to life, a whole new picture spreading from that single pixel.
It’s so bright at first you can’t see any details; eventually you adjust and realize it’s not just white light—it’s a hole of some sort, a trapdoor wide open and connected to nothing in particular. But what’s beyond that open square that draws you in; colors so bright they hurt, even from the small window you have.
You spare a brief moment to consider to the eye-watering saturation before you realize you’ll be landing there.
Splattering there, probably. Maybe you’re already dead, maybe not, but the speed you’re at feels like it left terminal velocity behind long ago. There’s not much you can do about that now though except try to close your eyes to avoid whatever comes next. For a brief moment you manage to escape whatever’s happening before you become aware of two new sensations. The light, seemingly offended by your rejection, flares so sharply you can’t tell if your eyes are opened or closed, and simultaneously you feel viciously, inexplicably squashed. It’s the lack of pain that unsettles you most; your whole being simply yields to the constriction, letting it wash over you like you’re toothpaste pushed through a tube. The force winds tighter and tighter against you, no longer simply squeezing you but actively prodding like it’s looking for something, sifting through your consciousness with reckless abandon. If you could feel your body you think your eyes would be popping, ribs creaking with the pressure. It holds on until it doesn’t, pulling away almost reluctantly as you struggle to understand what’s happening.
The darkness pulls away from you even faster now, the colors burning into your eyes as you get closer to the opening until you can clearly see the individual squares that make up the checkerboard floor below. They’re polished to an almost aggressive shine, not the cool smoothness of marble but the cheap tacky look of vinyl tiling, someone should really replace those—
You finally breach the opening only to feel horribly nauseous as your momentum suddenly pivots, halting your original approach and yanking you upright so you land awkwardly on the still hideous ground, swaying on your feet. You manage a single step before sinking to the floor, every sensation an attack on your scrambled mind as you grab your chest and try to remember how breathing works. The top you’re wearing wrinkles under your grip, its soft, sturdy material a stark counterpoint to the way every part of you feels knocked loose, disconnected from one another.
If you were in a better mind space you’d recognize how bizarre this all is; the vaulted space is wholly disorganized, scattered with various props and junk like the backstage of an enormous theater and grossly over-saturated. Instead you take a few shaky steps and dart behind the heavy velvet curtain, sighing with relief as you find a tiny gap between the wall and the backdrop. The heavy darkness behind the backdrop and the silence of the empty stage feel almost like a cocoon as you hunker down, letting your breathing slow. You haven’t had a reason to use your old grounding techniques in years, but now they greet you like old friends: breathing in through the nose and out through the mouth, the hear-see-touch-smell-taste list, counting from 100, recalling random facts…
You’ve counted to 157 by the time you feel normal enough to sit up, running your hands over the bright red backdrop as a distraction. The fabric is disappointingly thin under your touch, like the set decorators couldn’t afford thicker fabric. You could have done better, if you weren’t currently hiding in the dark like a kicked puppy. Regardless, you’ve come to a few possible conclusions while here, all equally unsettling:
- You’re dead or dying. Dead meaning the afterlife is what looks like a community theater color coordinated by Ray Charles while dying means your brain is throwing up some bizarre fantasy to distract you from the agony of your organs failing.
- You’re sleeping or in a coma. This one is slightly better because there’s a chance you’ll wake up, even if only much later. The potential medical bills from this scenario make it a little less enjoyable, but it’s better than literal death—not that that’s a high barrier to cross.
- You’re experiencing an acute psychotic episode, nude and hysterically screaming in the streets while crisis workers try to chase you down with a net.
After a bit of negotiations, you decide to operate under assumption two, if only because it gives you the hope of making it out alive and keeps you from having to consider that the neighbors saw your bare ass on the front lawn. The best of both worlds!
With that framework established, you get back to your feet slowly. Your next step: get the lay of the land.
You poke your head out like a child coaxed out of hiding, practically tiptoeing as you try to make sense of the world around you. The space is still garish, still enormous, so you settle for the nearest wall and walk along it until you reach a corner. The walk is somehow longer and stranger than you expect; the entire place curves slightly, so you can’t tell where the end is. You’re walking and walking and walking, until you almost think you’re on a treadmill of cheap tiles and neon colors. You’re debating the merits of continuing the path or making a turn when you hear something.
Voices.
Too far away to be distinct, but unmistakably speech, echoing down to you like you’re in a well. Relief floods you— you’re not alone! And you pick up the pace, sprinting to what looks like a small crowd on the horizon. You’re so happy to see you won’t be stuck making friends with something completely inanimate like a volleyball (No offense, Tom Hanks) that you almost forget to approach calmly. Instead you raise one hand and wave, slowing to jog so you don’t scare them off.
“Hi! Hey! Hello!”
Almost in unison, the group turns and you stagger to a stop, unable to comprehend the bizarre crew staring you down.
Your best guess is a rejected mascot convention—there’s a rabbit, a clown, a doll, a mask and a multicolored… something watching you, all in various expressions of confusion and intrigue. But you’re a professional, damn it, so you find your voice eventually and take another step closer, trying not to panic. “Excuse me... I think I’m lost.”
Someone laughs —a low, oily thing— and you jump at the sound. It takes you a moment to assign the voice to one of the people in front of you; it’s coming from the rabbit, the costumed face oddly expressive as you meet their (his?) gaze. His eyes are oddly big, starkly yellow-and-black and simplistic in a way that reminds you of those old Kit-Cat Clocks.
“Well, what do we have here?” He drawls, pulling away from the crowd to start to circle you in loping strides. “No one told me we have fresh meat.”