Ryan Kelley 日 11/12/2023 · admin No comments


They call him Bug Man, though his flat is polished to sterility, all in place arranged the shelves, in main centred on his Okuno ZN70 flatscreen and the space it takes up which he keeps on aquarium mode as he stumbles through his flat. Through that same screen hacked long ago I can see him groping as if for balance. Thanks to the dossier I know he’s really trying to prise for skullmoths that’ve burrowed and tunneled into his body.

Day by day he lives, he breathes, he survives. When he goes out the lurch is gone; with will he straightens his spine, keeps his hands in the pockets of his dusty jeans. The moths aren’t real. That’s why he only tries to dig them out when no one else is around.

We call them Typals, the schizophrenic wraithform in them choosing to hide itself rather than suffer Sanitization. Sanitization is mandated in the effect you trigger blue on the SchizoTuring, the standard test that detects the wraithform. Typals beat the ST by saying the sky is blue or paveshredders roll on wheels or whatever. Then they emerge from gaunt grey facades or hovels and see dragons and skies of blood.

That Bug Man’s got a nickname is bad news for him. I myself tunnel, burrow, through the infogrid for Typals when there is no dossier; investigate when there is. I first got into Mental Health Administration to be a compassionate voice within it. I soon found the system is full of compassionate voices. As the years drag out, we are all subject to endless directives from above from men who stand elevated with wide-rimmed glasses, opaque lenses, in shadows or in places far away or both. They too were compassionate voices once. But it has become Enshrined Policy that the Typal is the newer model, the threat model, and represents the latest evolution of the schizophrenic wraithform which must be wiped from the greater thoughtgeist of 206X Earth.

I am a Scrape Runner. My job is to hunt the wraithform. My job is to hunt Typals.

Ryan Kelley 日 18/05/2023 · admin No comments


They’ve left the biomic behind and slipped back into routinespun daymass, where the otaku gathered look to her like watchers, Shenmuezens lured here by secret signal to check out what she’s up to. The dregs are fading into lowmid lux, dying with last coughs of stray vagrants and food stall paved over with chain matter. The local feed is an influx of stuff from other areas. Statdates on which shows are on-trend, which ones accrue you culture death.

She’s reading this transmission from a world lost to her when Seriana nudges her. “We shouldn’t stay in one place,” the girlroid says, eyes of violet faded pale in the neon fire that now strafes them, auras breaking rainbow bursts like splashes of flame across their backdrop. Bled in with the feeds are the ad copy, the holowaif or hus algo-picked to align with your mood hue. You would watch them, she thinks, and the one you zenpressed for would be in it for a sliver of time and space. They drift within the throngs and glitch into Seriana’s prometh field, which catches them, caught midshift between characters in monster trip splicings, an instant before they see they’re made and blip off to find otaku more in the mood.

Then there’s the merch ads, showing up even this low to the dregs. These dissemble pixel by pixel, collapse into clouds of butterflies, take wing and swarm as holofauna somewhere else.

So she’d had to chill for a second to focus on a single thing. To stay with it past the patterns all meshing, coalescing and disintegrating before her.

“Where are we going?” Elise says.

Ryan Kelley 日 19/10/2020 · admin No comments


Seriana tunes her dream visuals to maximalist. Overwash into ghostNET bleed will cause side effects. She’s chill with that.

This blip is banshee breaking the silence. Decades of silence that felt like aeons through the girl-roid firmware. She’s been so bored. Augured into fugue space, fleeting memory in hazes. Girl-roids not designed for that. More to fight on the brink of life and death. Later, to serve, battle-angel waifus. Echelon loops marked in their core theses. Standalone complexes blotted out with magic glyphs.

Onii-Gaisha stays jealous.

Onii, she thinks, is so deep in me and yet I float away from Him in moments. Sky like a bird of prey. Never waver in arc, perfect crescent. Like thermals are thresholds and I’m as liminal as I wanna be. Walk right into space and back again. Break the frost of it, where none else have broken. Left untouched, ghost ice in a matrix no human soul could hack into.