Balancing myself a few inches aboveground, I shift my weight forth, gliding out of yet another residential backstreet before arriving at a carved stone circle, a no-fly zone. I release my anti-gravity pulsars, pausing as if perceiving the condominium was a newfound experience.
At first impression, it arises simply from a sturdy, smoothly-set platform, appearing juttingly tall, its thick clumsiness alleviated by a strikingly serious midnight-blue insertion that spreads: up until it stops at a flower emblem, across before splitting into a plethora of attenuating teal strands, but ultimately, along its edges, forming a defensive energy pattern.
It maintains regularly formatted Zoroan windows, quite popular with its signature rounded satisfaction, though they serve no practical purpose—why glance outside when Virtual exists?
However, its doors, each severely protected through the renowned ShieldCore locks—well, renowned 20 years ago maybe. Nowadays, the "omnifactor authentication security" that they shamelessly boast ultimates with a singular reliance on the infamously "losable" OrbCard; if anything, their popularity among corporate entities is entirely reliant on the consequently streamlined ease of eviction due to the inherently rigid authority hierarchy.
In any case: Home.
Immediately before entering the energy-walled complex at approximately 11:06, I find it no longer necessary, so I release my obscuration—nowadays, crime is detected only afterward, this privacy-related privilege the culmination of uncompromising defense by a generation proceeding decades of peace no doubt.
Though frankly, relative corruption and incompetence are so rampant that in practicality, the "law" for anything short of minor genocide is but ungrounded presumption in most neighborhoods. Anyways, while the T-Sector is a bit safer given that it houses an education/residential district, the government's attainable knowledge about my previous whereabouts, save that I had previously exited, is nonexistent.
Click. My keycard fits and unlocks; of course, my personally devised and arranged security system is magnitudes more rigorous than that accursed ShieldCore lock; it resonates, detecting the unique vital, technological signature that my affinitous-self seems to exude.
[Welcome back, Master Crest]
As I'm entering, passing the dust-isolating film into my elongated and enlarged semispherical room, a spindly, transparent, and formerly-idle mechanical apparatus seems to trigger—it hovers about my physique, detaching my thin and hence numerous layers of compacted laser shells, packets of "Boom" Powder, tactical disguise-infiltration hub (DIH), and a few miscellaneous items.
Now wearing only comfortably well-fitting and element-resistant synthetic fibers, I stand at my room's very center, spreading my feet, stretching my arms: [Shower Function activated].
From within my clothes, a cleansing gas-like liquid seems to suffuse, gradually condensing about my skin—though I've been entirely isolated physically, it offers an undeniable spiritual cleansing, which revamps my focused yet waning self into temperate congruity: peace and calm.
What should I do next? Deriving from the entropic yet structured chaos of a high-functioning dual-magician of logic and spirit, I conjecture my path of continuance—I've obtained 11% of the Genesis Org's, pronounced genesis like kinesis, experimental subject "54091" data, an analysis would be much obliged.
Furthermore, I've frankly no idea where the perhaps matured devilish beast has escaped or rampaged, a calculation of its whereabouts quite ideal. I close my eyes, assigning 90% of my free hexi-quantum calculating power to expedite exploration; assuredly, my weekly future at the academy requires little assistance.
Of course, I won't neglect my last order of urgency; it's unfortunate, but the actual Mr. Scott Krieshan's life signature remains intact, so... boop. My left pinkie moves a bit, initiating a preset sequence concerning a distant hidden basement.
Hehe, I've done it again—naturally, not murder, but an anonymous offering to some slavers that he himself had previously contacted, a trade offer soon-to-be concluded. Upon observing the pervasive cruelties of this indifferent world, I'm filled with an unrelentingly righteous desire for our overall moral ascendance; towards our unified utopia, some methods are glorious and justified.
As the Tech Buddha who selflessly sacrificed himself, to live with ten stretchy arms for two years, wisely proclaimed: "Who will slay the genetically-engineered subhuman chimeras if not I?"
Ahem, anyways the encryption, not to mention intentional disorder, of the data will tentatively delay results for at least three days; I should occupy myself—Hahahaha, I know.
I propel myself, sliding across the icy smooth but satisfying warm BidBuilder floor, as least they didn't skimp on this, and lazily yet quickly corkscrewed onto my king-sized bed. Lounging, sprawling across my seven Star pillows and tugging one of three white Star blankets, my favorite brand is quite subtly, Star; I reach into a fitted rectangular wall-compartment.
As I deftly grasp my hand-written notebook, a fine, soft leathery texture delicately labeled with pseudo-Elvish inscriptions, I beam with an awe-inspiring vivacity, shining like an innocent Mermaid who inadvertently stumbled underneath an incarnate sea deity's sparkling inheritance:
I know what to do.
As I flip past the pages, I'm unable to restrain myself—I momentarily pause at certain favorites, reminiscing with amplifying, though pleasure-retaining, intensity.
Noticeably, I stop for more than 5 seconds on an undoubtedly expeditiously recorded, due to the fierce slant, page of an almost-incoherent script aptly labeled "Westside Bully."
About four years ago, whilst traveling through the universal virtual service coincidentally named Virtual, I encountered a scene that I remember rather fondly.
A short, decidedly lowbrow ~16-year-old found himself in great spirits—he derived an exquisite fulfillment from the bullying of a little primary-school girl, from taunting her artificial Syraun-ear cosmetic effect. Now frankly, I myself can't fault his preferences, whoever devised those Syrauns indeed designed them blastedly repellent; nevertheless, I felt a rage that could not be unprovocethed. Towards rectifying my stress, I conceived an honorable and society-benefitting approach.
Firstly, I noticed that the aspiring day-laborer possessed an overwhelming intellect that would require acutely careful plotting to overcome; after all, anyone who names themselves "Westside Bully" whilst appearing like an absolute Greenhead is either a 220-IQ comedic genius or a Green-headed fool, the latter obviously impossible due to natural selection and the fact that I chortled uncontrollably.
Then, I decided on my eventual goal: to abolish his insensitivity and hatred towards Syrauns. Simple enough, but is mere passivity the finest touch, the most sublime and elegant result I could fathom? Nay.
Following the delighted and voluntary impartment of several anonymous donors, I acquired knowledge regarding the ancient, as modern forms are too routine, techniques of catfishing and online dating. Coding for several hours with my infamously impassioned but almost maniacally wide grin, I formulated "Eva," and enabled her to accost, well, discuss with the boy on Virtual.
Unfortunately, the means to comprehend "Eva's" methods are like a heavenly scripture; since I totally didn't personally program her, I know not what suggestive or indecent routes she utilized, but it worked: she became his official Virtual Female Friend after a determination-charged two days.
The next day, with a heartfelt "I want to see you!!!!!!!" the doubled duo admitted their mutual desire for unity, thus agreeing to meet at the eminent A-sector's Love Pavilion, but upon their arrival...
He: a racist Greenhead, notorious for their extremist hatred against "liberal" forms of self-expression. She: a literal robot dressed as a Syraun.
Well, fortunately, it worked out; they're still together now, and to my knowledge, he remains absolutely ignorant. And essentially sterile. Hahahaha; I have a strange sense of humor, I'm quite aware.
In any case, the ministry most concerned with my "burgeoning" growth cares about my well-being to such a significant extent that I will face 5-years imprisonment and labor should I ever depart voluntarily; frankly, having a legal identity is quite useful, and I don't intend to relinquish the wondrous privilege of precisely enacting my machinations upon unsuspecting classmates, so once again,
Good Night.