Sisters.
Evening
was on, and the two moons were crossing in the sky, forming what looked like a
great eye, with the smaller moon—the green moon—the pupil, its gaze searing
down upon High Vale, constantly searching. The phenomenon lasted about one
hour, every night, and it was considered the time of the night-portion of the
day when criminals had best be on their best behavior, committing no crimes,
and it was believed that even monsters remained in their caves, or beneath the
waves. Strangely enough, that hour of every night was called The Children’s
Hour, and parents were expected to pay closest attention to everything their
children had to say, and many families gathered in the moonlight, to plumb
their children for information, and ethereal wisdom. Some families considered
this the story hour, when children should tell the tales, and parents had
better listen closely to the underlying portents in the stories. In some
families, the children ordered the parents about, issuing chores, or placing
one or the other of their parents on time out. Parents held their infants
tightly, and stood beneath the celestial eye of moons.
Jack,
and most of the household of the Great House, stood out on the rear deck,
watching the moons. Jack thought he would never tire of the wonders of this
world. He always loved his own moon, from what he now thought of as the Old
World, and found that white orb of reflected light to be magical. But these
moons, one of deep blue, one of pale green, these were a magical light show you
could depend on, every night. Watching them was like watching fireworks on the
Fourth of July, when he was a little boy. He was brimming with wonder, and
delight. He loved that time, just around dusk, when the big blue moon appeared
in the sky, he couldn’t get enough of that slow entrance, the moon looking
bloated, too big for a moon. Then, he loved, almost as much, when the green
moon came racing from the other side of the sky, you could actually track the
movement if you stared at the moon for a few minutes.
Fireflies
bobbed and winked, especially flittering through the trees, seeming to fly
mostly at about four to ten feet in height, blinking for short periods in pale
amber light. Another, thinner layer of fireflies flew higher, from about twelve
feet up to thirty feet in the air, and these were more steady, holding their
light bursts longer, and these were twinkling white lights. Occasionally an
amber firefly went up higher and a smaller, white light would flash down,
faster, and there would be a tangle of light, with a sudden violet flash, and
Jack wondered (hoped) if two fireflies were mating, making the love connection,
but feared one breed of firefly might actually be eating another breed of
firefly.
High
above in the trees, steady lights twinkled, and occasional snatches of music
drifted down from the tree homes. Jack wanted to ascend the trees and visit the
upper homes, but Six said they were not allowed up there.
Jack
set aside his tankard of stout as Michael came across the deck, with a tangle
of his own sparkles about him. Instinctively, Jack opened his arms as Michael
made the expected leap, and he caught the little meerkat-man in his arms, and
hugged him close. Michael cooed and snuggled against Jack’s neck, patting Jack’s
head with his warm paw-hands. He was very light in Jack’s arms, and very
comforting.
“Any
word on Stacey?” Jack whispered.
“Sleep.
Deep sleep, but sleep, resting,” Michael chittered. “I think he wakes in the
morning. Seven is with him. She stays. She watches.”
Jack
was present as three different healers had visited and spent time with Stacey.
One was an herbalist, and this healer packed Stacey’s recumbent body with
various herbs, garlic and ginger, and some Jack had never heard of, and had
said prayers, laying hands upon Stacey’s head, and then informed Six that no
patient had ever survived a giant scorpion sting. The next healer, this one
more a traditional doctor, in a black suit (believe it or nto), actually
hefting the proverbial “little black bag,” who had taken blood samples, and
prescribed a variety of pills, and drafts, and then informed Six that no
patient had ever survived a giant scorpion sting. The third healer, a wizard,
an ancient woman with long white hair and the expected tall hat, had made
magical passes with her elongated hands, muttering, and aimed her wooden staff
at the sleeping man and shot blue jolts of light into Stacey, and then informed
Six that nobody had ever survived a giant scorpion sting. All three healers had
promised to visit the patient in the morning, but nonetheless expected him to “pass”
sometime during the night.
Of
course, none of the healers had ever had a patient like Stacey Colton.
Jack
was startled when a vast shape came up over the deck railing, but chuckled as
he recognized Joshua—or at least just his big dog head sprouting enormous ram
horns—the giant man must be stretching up ten feet in height to be placing his
head on the rail. Big hands grasping the wood rails, he huffed great bellows of
breath, and Jack scratched his head in the furry patch between the horns.
“Hello
Jack,” Joshua rumbled, keeping his great and deep voice as soft as possible,
but still turning heads at his basso profundo tones. “Hello Michael.”
“I
think you can come up here, Joshua,” Jack said, glancing about, spotting Six
seated back against the house, surrounded by greybeards, his counselors and
advisors, and several of the visiting Dragon Warrior ambassadors.
“Six
said he might break the deck,” Michael chittered.
“I’m
fine, down here,” Joshua rumbled. “It’s cozy. I have blankets under the deck,
and a bowl of chili, and a bowl of stout.”
“When
everyone heads to bed, I’ll come out—meet me at the front door. You can sleep
in my room tonight, if you want,” Jack assured him. “Bring your blankets.”
“Okay,
thank you Jack, I will try not to slobber,” Joshua promised.
“I
am so glad you guys finally showed up, we’ve all been so worried about you. The
last I saw you was when the sky was crashing down,” Jack said. “We didn’t know
if you’d made it through the portal.”
Earlier
they had told their High Vale stories, laughing that none of them had spent
their required time in the belly of the beast. Michael had led the god-snake on
a merry chase, climbing the fruit tree, actually taking bites out of several of
the sacred fruits as the snake roared about, striking and missing, doing his
flying-squirrel trick, launching from the fruit tree, confusing the snake with
his twirling lights, until he had lost the serpent in the trees, a similar tale
to Jack’s great race before the monster. Jack had even confessed, for the first
time, how he had inadvertently vomited on the false god’s head (he only
admitted this to Michael and Joshua, telling them when everyone else was
absorbed in other things and duties). Michael had chittered and giggled, and
Joshua had bellowed his laughter.
Joshua
had been caught immediately, of course, a second sacred fruit still in his guilty
paw. The snake had bit him, caught him in its coils, and squeezed most of the
life—and fruit—out of him. But when the serpent went to swallow him, the
creature could not get the big ram horns past its jaws no matter how it
approached the horns, and it had then attempted to swallow him from the other
end, but again, the ram horns had foiled its meal, and finally, in disgust, it
had spat him out and slithered away, cursing and muttering, claiming that
Joshua was beneath its basest food. Joshua proudly exhibited the huge fang
marks on one of his vast buttocks, telling them that the bite took a full week
to heal.
So
the four of them, Jack and Stacey, and Michael and Joshua, had done something
that Six informed them no others had accomplished, they had not gone IBB,
spending time in the belly of the beast, a High Vale ritual. What was weird,
Six informed them, was that you were usually born naked here, looking like your
usual self, and that it was only after you were expelled from the serpent’s
nether region, that you received your High Vale look, and attributes, and much depended on your struggle with the
serpent. Brave people were reborn heroic, and terrified, blubbering people were
reborn as lesser folk. But Jack had outrun the serpent, and Stacey had
impossibly beaten it in single combat—or at least fought it to a draw. While
the very beings that both Joshua and Michael were born into had enabled them to
escape the terrible fate that most suffered.
“It
sure could squeeze,” Joshua informed them, very seriously, busting everyone
into laughter.
In
Stacey’s room Seven sat near him on his small bed, smoothing back his hair from
his sweaty brow. He alternated between severe hour-long fever chills, and then hour-long
copious fever sweats. And Seven poured water into his mouth, and aided him in
swallowing. He must have already sweat ten glasses of water. When he cycled
into his chills, Seven joined him beneath the blankets, stripped down to only
her long sleep shirt, and cuddled close to his body, attempting to hold him
still, but his whole body vibrated with the chills. She pulled the many
blankets up over him, but his teeth chattered and his breathing went rigid,
emitting puffs of steam from his gasping mouth.
He
muttered about monks and sleepers, and many times he thrashed as if he were
fighting foes. He called out warnings to Jack, and many times he called for
her, calling for Seven, and sometimes Sandy.
“Shhhh,”
she soothed, stroking his hair, “I’m here, I’m here.”
The
healers were quacks, and she kept brushing away cloves of garlic from beneath
her hips as she stretched out against Stacey, and once, producing a fat hand of
ginger root, she screamed as she examined it in the candle flame, thinking it
the hand of a baby, or some other mumbo jumbo. Still, she did not discard the
ginger, nor the onions, garlic, and other tubers and bulbs, mushrooms, and
grasses. She packed these about Stacey, on the other side, distinctly away from
her own body. She was certainly going to smell in the morning.
Deep
into the night Six poked his nose into the room to check on Stacey.
“Could
you bring a pitcher of iced green tea?” Seven asked him.
“Would
Oolong be okay?” he checked. “We don’t have green tea. I can get some, but it
won’t get here until morning.”
“Oolong
is fine, I just want to get something else into him, with the water,” she said.
“Maybe cut up some ginger, and let that float in the tea.”
“Oolong
tea, with ginger—how about honey?”
“Sure,
whatever.”
When
the round pig chef showed up with the pitcher of icy tea, Seven nearly leapt from
the bed. She had only met the chef a couple of times, and his bulky pink shape
appearing in the candle light nearly gave her a heart attack.
The
chef, Olaff, bustled a few moments, pouring a tall glass and setting it near
the bed on the small nightstand, and then he stood, tsking, grunting, looking
at Stacey and Seven. He said something, and she was not sure she had heard him
correctly. She hoped she had misheard him.
“What
did you say?”
“No
sex,” he oinked. She had heard him correctly.
“Get
out of here, you pig,” she snapped.
He
laughed and hurried from the room.
She
glowered at the door, and then snorted laughter. Sex, the idea.
Stacey
was well into a chill cycle, and so she ignored the tea for now, other than
taking a small sip herself—it was good, refreshing. It reminded her of how Jack
took his coffee.
She
cuddled in close to the sleeping man, her arms about him, one up under his
neck, the other across his waist, holding him close, and she placed her head
upon his chest, and listened to his heartbeat, which seemed far away.
Seven
moved in the darkness. She seemed muddled, and couldn’t quite remember what she
had just been thinking. She wasn’t exactly sure where she was, but everything
seemed gray, and blurry. Had she dozed? She was wearing her sweats, and her
little fluffy footsie socks, and it was chilly...in this place. She huddled and
breathed and steam came from her mouth. That was weird. She puffed out a few
more clouds of vapor. She looked about, and it was a long hallway, in darkness,
but somehow she could still see. There were shapes, mounds, lying about on the
floor, against walls. She couldn’t be sure, but the mounds seemed to be people,
sleeping, stirring slightly.
She
moved through the corridor, stepping well away from each mound she came upon. They
were people, she saw their sleeping faces, as if lit from within, and she kept
moving, she had to get out of here. This was a bad place, of bad things, where
things you could not see moved, just out of sight.
There
was a sense of dread, everywhere, palpable, like a weight pushing down upon
her. It was fear, and anxiety, and it was incredibly heavy. The hallway
creaked, as if it were ancient, and crumbling, and might come down upon her at
any moment. She heard a noise, back from where she came, and it sounded as if
someone were following her.
Seven
pictured bulbous white eyes, melted faces missing distinguishing features, she
remembered small, muscular men, with feathers on their heads, grabbing at her,
dragging her.
She
hurried in the same direction she had first moved, away from the sounds behind
her. Her heart clamored in her breast, and she breathed too hard. She told
herself to be quiet, to hurry, fast, just keep going, don’t let them catch up
with you, but she couldn’t stop breathing through her mouth. She was gasping.
The sounds of her mouth frightened her even more, as if they were apart from
her, a separate being.
And
the feeling swelled in her chest, up from her belly, bloating into her
throat—it was a scream forming, and if she was not careful, it would bubble up
out of her mouth. She would begin screaming, and she would not be able to
contain it, or silence it, and she would never stop screaming.
She
saw a light glowing from a doorway up ahead and she hurried toward it. A blue
light. She got to the doorway and peered in. It looked like an ancient
examination room, with an antiquated hospital bed, more table than bed, with a
metal tray near covered with strange metal instruments. The whole room glowed
blue, though there was no discernible light source. Metal stirrups jutted up at
the end of the bed. The whole room filled her with dread. She hurried past the
doorway.
Something
crunched beneath her feet. Something was scattered about the floor, it looked
like thousands of shells, or macaroni, but whatever it was, it was unpleasant
beneath her feet, but she forced herself to keep walking, moving through, and
the density of the crunching things beneath her socks increased. She winced.
The things seemed to be moving beneath her feet.
She
yelped and began to run, only her running was too slow, like in a dream—this
must be a dream, but this knowledge in no way minimized her swelling terror.
Because this was not a dream, she could tell that wherever she was, whatever
strange dark deep place this was, she was here. She was not dreaming she was
here.
As
she moved along the hallway it seemed to expand outward, the walls receding
from her touch, the crunchiness beneath her feet now seemed more like sand than
moving bugs, and then she seemed to be outside with a distorted sky above her,
the stars were moving, spiraling. It reminded her of the famous Vincent van
Gogh painting. She paused, clutching her hands together at her breast and
stared at the sky. A vault of stars, with moving lights, deep far-away purples,
and distant blues, and fiery winks of red. Was she still inside some kind of
enormous chamber, a dome full of lights? And then she saw the bloated blue moon
moving across the sky, and looking, she saw the other moon, the smaller green
moon, and they were coming together, moving too fast, and as she watched the
two moons joined and made an eye suspended at the top of the dome, and it
looked like a very real eye, an eye watching, glancing about like a human eye,
searching below.
The
dread filled her again and she huddled down, certain that the eye was seeking
her.
“Girl,”
a voice crooned, near, startling her.
She
huddled farther down, crouching, and she dimly picked out a dark shaped against
the background of stars. Someone was standing there, only a few feet removed. A
dark shape in a large cowl.
“Do
not be afraid,” the voice soothed. “I intend you no harm.”
“Who
are you?” she whispered, her eyes rolling. She was shaking, her teeth
chattering.
“Where
are you, right now? Where are you hiding, girl?” the deep voice said,
conversationally. It sounded familiar, but she could not place the voice with a
face.
“Where
am I? I don’t know, I don’t know where this is,” she whispered.
“No.
Where are you? You are not in your
chamber at Vestigial Surreality, only your husk is there. And you are not in
your Inner Sanctum. Where are you?”
The
dread did not dissipate, it only increased. She knew she should not tell this
shape anything. For it did intend her
harm. She glanced up at the two moons forming the eye. The eye was still
looking, everywhere, searching.
“Where
is Jack? And Colton? Where are they, right now?”
High
Vale. She almost said it. But instead she huddled in her crouch, hugging her
knees, closing her eyes tightly. Maybe it would all just go away.
“High
Vale? The virtual world? The gamer world?”
She
did not allow herself to think. This was bad. This was a bad place. And the
shape, it was a bad person.
“You
poke your nose into places it does not belong,” the dark shape said. “Other
eyes are seeking you, and will find you, and soon.”
“Get
away from her,” another voice said, and she recognized it. Stacey?
“Colton,”
the voice of the dark shape said. “Again. I don’t know how you keep finding
your way here. This is a dangerous place for you, and for the girl.”
And
the heaviness lifted. Seven glanced up, heart fluttering. The dark shape was
gone, only the strange, twisting sky was there, and when she glanced to the
other side she saw him coming, and he was lifting her up, his hands strong upon
her arms, and she nearly laughed or screamed as she looked at him, and could
see him, as if he glowed with a light all his own. He was wearing a big, dark
hood, and the shillelagh was in his left hand, she felt the black stick against
her arm.
“Seven?”
he said, holding her, his arms going about her.
“Stacey?”
she said, not believing it. He had found her.
“It’s
really you,” he breathed, and then his mouth was on hers, he was kissing her,
and it felt so real, it was the most real thing in this place, his mouth, and
he kissed her, and she seized him and pulled him tightly to her, and he was
kissing her eyes, and cheeks, and even her nose, and again his mouth, upon her
mouth, and she clutched at the reality, the sweet, sweet reality. She felt that
they were giving each other breath, down here, in the deep, or sharing the same
breath, like divers in the ocean, keeping each other alive.
“You
need to wake up. I will hold onto you,” he said.
“I
can’t, I don’t know where I am,” she muttered, feeling cold, but his body felt
so warm against her. “Let me stay here, with you. I don’t want to leave you.”
“I
will follow you up. Hurry, I won’t let go. Wake up, Seven,” he whispered in her
ear. “Wake up, now.”
She
opened her eyes and felt the bed beneath her. She was holding Stacey’s warm
body, and light seeped into the room. It was morning. She glanced and saw the
candle standing dark, its wick snuffed and cold. And she looked up to Stacey,
and his eyes were open, and he was smiling at her.
“It’s
you,” he said, his voice croaking.
“It’s
me,” she breathed, and then she was kissing him, forgetting that this was not a
dream. And then she paused, her eyes close to his, her lips barely brushing
his. “It’s you.”
“It’s
me,” he croaked.
She
leaned over him and took the glass of Oolong tea from the night table. It was
still cold, though all the ice had melted. The sides of the glass were wet with
condensation. She lifted his head and helped him drink. First, he sipped, and
then he gulped, and when she began to tip the glass away, he moved his hand
upon her hand, and gulped more until the glass was empty.
“I
may not have gotten out of there, this time,” he murmured into her hair, and
she snuggled in close to him.
“Out
of where?” she said, thinking he meant his illness.
“The
Dream Place, in The Deep, it seemed like I was starting to become a part of it,”
he murmured, drowsily. She could tell he was going to fall asleep again.
“Go
ahead, go to sleep,” she whispered.
“No,
I want to get up. I need to feel the sunshine. And coffee, please, I need
coffee,” he said, and began an attempted struggle up out of the bed.
But
she hushed him, then aided him, got him seated, and helped him dress in fresh,
nondescript clothes—baggy sleep clothes—setting aside all his armor. He wanted
his cloak, because he was cold, so she shrugged him into that voluminous
garment. He brought along his shillelagh, mostly to lean part of his weight
upon it, because Seven, though very strong, was much smaller than him.
Seven
blushed to think that he had been laid out nude, all last night, beneath the
sheets and blankets, and that she had been with him, all through the night.
“You
should see how they launder the clothes in this house, it is hilarious. Like
the toilets. The tree sap actually cleans the clothes, while feeding the tree,
it’s hard to stop giggling, when you think about it,” she told him, as she
helped him into his boots, and then taking his arm over her shoulders she led
him out into the hall, and then out onto the deck where some morning sunlight
was just warming the boards. “Apparently, this whole house is made out of one
vast tree, and it’s all alive, the boards and floors and ceilings.”
She
got a blanket wrapped about him, and then went in search of coffee.
Stacey
lazed in the deck chair, his hood pushed back to catch the sun, the sunlight
kissing his brow, and he felt wonderful—weak, yes, but utterly wonderful—he was
reminded of swimming in the sacred pool after his battle with the serpent. He
felt like that now. Invigorated, but exhausted. He only distantly remembered
the ghastly scorpion, and strangely, he remembered Jack, spread-eagled on the
ground, smoke rising from his mouth—what in the world was that all about? And
wasn’t there something else, a little man, and a big dog? It eluded him, for
the moment.
He
glanced up and several floors above he glimpsed a strange face peering down on
him, a woman with strange lines to her face, with eyes that seemed too big, and
too dark, with black hair spilling around her shoulders and bosom. She stood
staring down at him.
And
then Seven was returned, with his coffee in a large, steaming mug. She sat on
the arm of the chair, her arm companionably across his shoulders, holding her
own, smaller mug up to her face. For right now, she was content to sample the
scent of the heady brew, her nose close to the coffee, taking deep breaths, and
sighing.
“Six
doesn’t have some strange ex-wife locked away in the attic, does he?” he asked,
between great gulps of the strong coffee.
“What?”
she asked, smiling. Wasn’t that a reference to one of the Bronte sisters?
“Up
there, looking down, strange woman with black hair and too-big eyes—like the
eyes in those children paintings, you know, the ones with the big eyes?”
Seven
glanced up but didn’t see anyone at any of the windows. She did notice a
curtain moving up there, on the third floor, or fourth floor—how many levels
did this monstrosity of a house have, anyway?
“I
think I know who you’re talking about, you’ll want to watch out for her,” Seven
said, grimly, staring into her coffee. “Jack thinks she’s going to be trouble.
It’s the sister. Varra’s sister.”
The
trouble was, Seven thought, the Dragon Queen reminded her of women from her own
time and world, the Jackians. The Jackian
priestesses, like her own mother. Those women would stop at nothing to obtain
just the right seed, and the way the Dragon Queen had clutched at her belly—it
made Seven sick. She wouldn’t be letting that...she-devil...anywhere near Stacey, or Jack, for that matter.
The
kind of thing the Dragon Queen wanted to do with Stacey, well, that just wasn’t
done in Seven’s world. There would be nothing clinical or scientific about what
she was probably planning. There would be no microscopes or chemicals on glass
slides. No, it would all be savage, and bestial, rutting and grunting and
sighing, and messy.
Still,
when she was near Stacey, Seven couldn’t help but feel somewhat savage, and a
little...filthy—it was this world,
designed to bring out the lower desires and lusts. It was disgusting, the ideas
that popped up in her head whenever she was near Stacey (or even when completely
removed from him, and only thinking about him). Vestigial places on her body
seemed to come alive and, and...thrum.
He was the only man she had ever kissed, shockingly enough, because other than
pecks of affection, kissing was something from the antiquated days. You just
didn’t do that, it was filthy, a human mouth pressed to a human mouth, it was
like the animals, although she couldn’t think of any animals that practiced it,
other than maybe monkeys, but that said a lot, didn’t it? Did monkeys kiss?
Apes? Maybe not. It was a filthy practice, from a filthy world, from a filthy
time that was now gone—save for in savage worlds such as this.
She
remembered, vaguely, kissing Stacey, and he kissing her, but that wasn’t right,
was it? Swirling stars, and an eye in the sky, and standing close, embracing,
in the darkness. Was that a dream? Crunching beneath her feet, and shapes,
sleeping. It was disturbing, those images, and she didn’t want to think about
it, because she felt dread, like someone was searching for her—or they were
searching for Stacey. Or Jack. All of them.
Many
floors above Varra sat before her vanity and watched her sister in the great
oval mirror. The black-haired woman brushed Varra’s tumble of golden-white
hair.
“I
do not know how you can live like this, Varrashallaine, it is a rustic
nightmare,” Maulgraul said, shaking her head. “You should have five times the
servants, no wonder you waste away in this tree.”
“Hush,
Mauly, this is my world now, this is my home,” Varra replied, smiling at her
sister. “And I feel worlds better, now, with you here. I wish you could stay,
live here with me—that would be wonderful.”
“You
belong in the palaces, not here. I doubt I would survive more than a week in
this stable; however, I brought you three cases of the White Champagne, so you
will have your vitality, for several years—that is, if the Oaf does not quaff
it all as he did your last store,” Mauly sneered.
“He
understands, now, and only sips from my glass—you know it aids us, in being
together,” Varra said, stretching her arms, yawning. “Oh, I feel as if I am
waking from a dream.”
“I
should think you are waking from a dream to this nightmare,” Mauly said,
setting aside the brush. “But tell me of this Pugilist, for he, at least is one
pleasant diversion in this awful hovel.”
“Oh,
but is not he beautiful?” Varra gushed, holding her hands up to her lips,
blushing furiously. “Lord Dulance brought him here to save us, and he did, and
not only that, but now we have the Dragon Warriors as allies.”
“Yes,
he is beautiful...for a savage, most
unlike our elegant men. But is he truly the man of legend, the Pugilist?”
“I
do not know, but Lord Dulance believes him to be, for he has bested giants, and
wrestled the snake, and was not swallowed. And you only have to look at him,
but once, to see that he is different than other men.”
“You
must aid me, Varra, in bringing him to the palaces of Drauggaria. We must bring
him to meet Father, and our brothers.”
“I
do not think Lord Dulance will travel again to our homelands. Strangely, he is
anchored here, and will not leave this valley.”
The
Lady Maulgraul smiled, and went again to the window, peering down at the man
below, and the obstacle sitting near him. Given a choice, she knew the woman
the man of legend would choose.
© Copyright 2016 Douglas Christian Larsen. Vestigial Surreality. All Rights Reserved by the Author, Douglas Christian Larsen. No part of this serial fiction may be reproduced (except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews) or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the publisher, Wolftales UNlimited, but please feel free to share the story with anyone, only not for sale or resale. This work is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental (wink, wink).
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Victor Frankenstein, Nikola Tesla, genius
do we live in a computer simulation?
Victor Frankenstein, Nikola Tesla, genius
do we live in a computer simulation?
mystery, thriller, horror, techno thriller,
signs and wonders, vestigial surreality,
william gibson, neal stephenson, serial,
cyberpunk, dystopian future, apocalypse,
scifi, mmorpg, online video game world,
end times, apocalypse, armageddon,
digital universe, hologram universe,
sunday sci-fi fantasy serial fiction,
virtual reality, augmented reality
the unknown writer blog
the unknown writer blog
are we living in a simulation?
puppets, puppetry, punch
Elon Musk, Tesla, VR
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