Immersion

Lights stream past hypnotically: ones, zeros, everything ON or OFF. Locationless, change a constant. Focus. Remember. Sterile ambient lighting, voices, bedside manner asking, "Have you done this before? Just lie back, now, let your mind wander." A smile. Then nothing. Then this.

Or was it the smell of roses? Roses outside the office where you—where you what? No, a different memory. Ozone, popcorn, chlorine: all different memories. Where you trained, thinking things one after another, sequences that make no sense. Memories playing without thought. You try to remember "thought". Nervousness, irritation. Suspense. Excitement. Fear. Fear of what?

Fear heightens awareness, blossoms into claustrophobia: no limbs, no world, helpless. Too loud, too bright, too busy, too MUCH, TOO—reset. A breath, autonomic systems mimic, fake, blend. Information, lights, streaming, somewhere—somewhere is a trigger. Introspect.

Where you are isn't even a question, it's beyond question. But what sort of place is it? Things change but you can't understand the motion. Memories of now, the past, others' pasts, the future—though that's hazier. Hopes? Dreams? Every memory ends in the same place, different people. Sterile ambient lighting. Relaxing. Fading.

How did you get here, where is here, what is here? Existence fills you, one existence after another, like one thought sparking the next. No questions answered, but these are separate, disparate, other. Time passes, motion that is not motion, slipping through lives. You notice another—an "other", a not-quite-constant moving with you. Part of you? It is. You are. A layer forms on top of the lights, the numbers: call-center voice, female, attractive, streaming "Yes", "No". More "No" than "Yes". Sixth sense, quantified.

Not you, but familiar. Training? Internalized. You try to remember "you": Short. Slender. Pasty. Discords appear: tall, average, olive, round, black, athletic. Too many people bleeding through. Bleeding. Are you dead? You imagine—nothing. You remember imagination, remember things that you, someone, has imagined. All you can do is search. And store. Another packet, a pocket, smaller, deeper, different than the other: your thoughts fill it, data you can't decipher. Reversible? Orange, apple, cinnamon, sauerkraut. Digital. The words barely register. Urgency precludes solution.

The voice is getting louder. Yes's coming faster. Warmer, warmer. You smell the beach, feel the coastal wind rushing cold against moist skin: goosebumps. Not real. Not yet. That's where you'll make the drop. Data. All these backups, all these people, all that hardware; but they have to let new memories in, new backups, new people. You feel the programming implanted in your mind: you. Real.

Alarms trigger and you squash them. Virtual sweat. Moments before discovery, whatever that might mean. No time for wondering. Target: numbers, just numbers. Not an encoding, or not just one. Something else. Not a backup. Like you, but different. You're a backup, subverted. In progress. It's something else. Money.

The numbers fight, shift, their relation an enigma that you can't begin to unravel in the time that you have left. You must escape, but not until--. You shove the data, focus, focus, pass it on, gorge on it and hope it reaches where it needs. Espionage. And then the pocket's gone. No more connection, and you're still inside.

You sense an echo of the "outside": orderlies rushing over and apologizing. Sirens blaring. There's screaming: angry, confused. Stink of sweat and fear. They know the perimeter's breached, but they don't know it's you—the other you. The you that can escape. They're ushering that one out, promising that nothing's wrong—just a glitch. Can you come back tomorrow? A refund, reschedule. But the echoes fade—that's not you. Not anymore. Separate. Rich.

Purpose done, you wonder for a moment if the you, the black-hat real you, knows this self-inflicted hell. Could you do this to yourself? You can't imagine. The numbers fade to black as one as they reboot; sparkle with redundancy as your damage is erased. Your traces. And you as well.