□Y\SECTOR C-18: OLD MACHINES AND THE MAD CAPTAIN
☽ Do not stare into their open eyes: they are roaming CULT DRONES and TEXTUAL COLLECTIONS of DARK TYPE, leaking darkness and information onto the substrata. Their DREAMS are focused into loops, entangled and locked into vortices of reflective fear and rekindled prayer-tsunamis.
☽ On the strange OLD TRANSTHREAD SUBWAY, the stationary railcars lighting everything in terms of shadows and ambient reflections, walking through the stations of malleable reality codes you meet the CAPTAIN. He seems like one of the failed edge-runners and the hopeful soldiers looking for portals and technological information to save their failing worlds. His hat, a clash of black and blue, sports a robotic brain and tremble-transmitting wings. Head cocked and glass eye searching, he is muttering into his bio-radio as it wriggles through the dimensions of morphological imagination (manic/red hot).
☽ -So you know the score then, I guess. You can see what’s LURKING AT THE EDGE of the DATA STREAM? The whole megaton-strand of reality synthesis is ultimately beating towards a single point - something new, big and rising: a key, a code, a pattern. Axiomatics have become obsolete but what’s needed is a THEORY/DREAM/MACHINE that can translocate us, some disruptive form of positive cliodynamics.
☽ -We need a universal grimoire, or cosmic engine, or undead code key. It lies hanging in the multiverse but needs the right ritual arrangements: order/Nexus to attract it. Ideally, a signpost/engine/projector would be preferable, so we can create some kind of acausal portal, wire it through imprint-modulation linguistic matrices and WYRD MAGIC. I know the nodes, I have gathered an indefinite number of artifact/maps to steer us in the right direction.
☽ You ask why the CAPTAIN wears these strange costumes and the corpse-machine half-blinks with an acrid slink. -Got a problem, weaver? Look at me! What do you see? I am the intelligent hybrid of about a dozen races, altered for forms of combat and rhetoric archaic/futuristic physics - all for this! Searching for reality-keys! Digging for algorithms that pull the levers and crowbar the equations apart…so why the fuck would we stick with the same old habiliments? Do you know what I am? An unethical projection! An AI’s dream of a man who went alone into the weird and never came back! An automated vestige!
☽ -Enough bullshit. The plan is clear: arrange dreams and myths so an ancient key becomes whole, a single function that dominates, a passion that motivates; and assemble it all into one gargantuan fucking telepathic commune/guild/ship. Using every option available. Go! Travel to the nth insanity of time and mind. Connect up pieces, write and collaborate. Hook my body up to a mass spell-machine, build me a multiversal entity, wire me into the currents of action and light, problem-solve the whole infinite mess. We want the huge, massive keyhole of imagination that spans many worlds and in each direction to every single vision…
☽ The CAPTAIN and his INTERSTITIAL SUBWAY STATION vanish through a halo, leaving a red moon and bubbling plasma. You turn to the Muse: her vertices converging like a bizarre eye within a galaxy, a glint of dark light, a dark void ripping open. She giggles softly, hair/spines along her shoulders seeming to activate in murmurs; quantum-foam extensions stretch towards the skies and dark it as an eye as well. Everything shrinks to fine points and quavers; you are astonished. She giggles louder:
-All possibilities and impossibilities are eternally flickering - an avalanche of information in-formation - falling upon the solid ground of consciousness. Are you solid ground? Are you even in the universe? Are you real? Am I? A great music is resonating somewhere, the greatest thing there could ever be - a hum - a feeling - a song - a sensibility - A THING THAT WANTS TO BE HEARD. BEHOLD. THERE IS SOMETHING BEGINNING.
☽ A burst of light. Information density. The forms of life and mind. You are shown the heart of OLD MACHINES in an instant. You are shown someone at a terminal, hunched over a keyboard, in the dark, their mind in the WEAVE… You. You have a job to do.