Maetrix66

I realize that it would be better to merge all of my other threads into one, for more coherance. Here is the story so far, please read it and let me know if it makes sense.

Thanks, Chris

d.o.mai.n
Chapter 1, Scene 1


Miles Torvalds thumbed the black chrome rectangle pressing out from the inside of his left front pocket. He glanced up at the clock, more accurately the Augmented Reality rune where the clock would typically reside.

The printed image of the clock bore the trademark of the company that licensed the technology, Kincaid Industries. The hands were still there, yet never moved, merely serving as a unique locator for AR units in the vicinity.

Since his AR unit was off, the clock was absent. It must piss off the uninitiated to no end, he thought, if they have to know the time. Of course, sitting in the lobby of a clinic responsible for surgically implanting such devices, they probably figured they were playing to the larger crowd.

He continued his optical search of the clinic lobby, hoping to find something to hold his interest. He noticed the drab off-white of the walls, which had been replaced with a tropical scene by the AR servers on his previous office visit.

Miles reminded himself, for the 19th time today, that he had to endure a little longer, though watching last nights sports highlights on the large wall would have helped pass the time.

Finally he spotted a small stack of fliers and drew one closer to read the faded text. It was obvious that the fliers were not a product of the clinic. The poor production value suggested a grassroots organization was responsible, but that didn’t make a lot of sense. The clinic was sparse, and probably as clean as the operating rooms on the other side of the door past his shoulder. If the fliers didn’t have to be there, they wouldn’t be.

Miles eventually decided that they were required by some poorly funded government task force. The AR technological revolution had few detractors, mainly anti-technology zealots and religious radicals. These people were always threatened that science had given man the God-like access to information and the ability to shape the reality to how they seem fit (to some degree).

These people, Miles surmised, would only be appeased when people funneled back into their religiously fractured faiths, bringing their checkbooks along for the ride. The message on the brochure encouraging people to seek help for AR addiction, was not terribly convincing, Miles thought.

Call him biased. He was, by all accounts, the world’s premier purveyor of unauthorized digital access. The Government and media outlets always drug out the same term to describe him. Hacker, for lack of a better tagline, had become the euphemism most commonly employed in the description of Miles Torvalds.

That never ceased to amuse him, how they clung to a term four decades old to retain the negative connotation. The term did get under his skin, though not for the reasons the media kept trotting it out like the one-trick pony they were. The term implied a lack of sophistication, or an intent to do harm solely for his amusement or the amusement of like others.

Miles had never engaged in that sort of activity, his operations had been for specific data/functions, and they had all been extremely successful. If it were the wish of his client to eliminate a particular record or fact from their account in the government database, he only did what was requested. It would be ridiculously simple to mine the system for any information he wished since he was already in.

In fact, if he were less genuine, he could easily use the information contained within that database to blackmail every member of the various law enforcement agencies to ensure his freedom. Running, Miles determined, was half of the fun. Perhaps he drew too much amusement from his ability to stay two steps ahead of them. He knew eventually, his arrogance could get him caught. He made a mental note to siphon off some potentially damaging information to use in the event he was ever captured.

The likelihood of his remembering this was slim. He couldn’t remember the last time he had remembered anything without computer assistance. He laughed at the unintended pun and laid the brochure down again.

What is taking them so long?? He scanned the room again and, seeing nothing of further interest, resumed thumbing the polished case in his pocket. After this procedure, he would never again have to fiddle with the contacts.

Rubbing the back of his neck, he reminded himself that though the implant soon to be placed at the base of his skull would hurt at first, it would be worth it. The increased speed alone would be a boon to his business. The ability to control everything from the living room monitor to his car was a talent his inner geek could not pass up.

The aspect that carried the most weight with him had been the release of preliminary information regarding a new network superstructure named “d.o.mai.n”. Currently being created by a company called InternexT, the early leaked info had indicated that anyone with a functioning Direct Neural Interface, or DNI, would be capable of transferring their consciousness to an avatarThey would then be capable of interacting with the internet interpreted by d.o.mai.n into a three dimensional experience.

He had been skeptical, but when an invitation for beta testers had surfaced online a month ago, Miles had assumed a false identity and scheduled the implant procedure. He saw the future of his business in this system, with numerous loopholes and exploitable access faults. He knew that if he did not jump into the beta testing procedure with both feet, he would be left behind. For Miles, this was not an option.

Now, with his AR contacts securely contained within the pocket processor emitting dull thuds every time his thumb struck it’s metallic case, he was forced to deal with a world not enhanced for the first time in a great while. The clock was only the beginning of it. The wall boards offered no patient information at all, and the pictures on the walls were static, unmoving, uninspiring prints.

He had to seriously fight the urge to pop the contacts onto his eyes to check the offices daily schedule to get an approximation of his wait time. . That, of course, would further delay his procedure, as his brainwaves were required to baseline without external stimuli in order for the implant to properly adjust to his nervous system. The non-augmented office lobby seemed designed to eliminate external stimuli.

The nurse had been extremely persistent regarding this fact, almost crossing his personal boundary of condescension. The lack of visual embellishment left him feeling cut off. When you are used to having a world of information fighting for all of your visual real estate, reverting to the vanilla plane of reality left most wanting.

Miles glanced back at the flier and sighed. The agency operating the rapidly expiring dye sublimation printer was fighting a losing battle. He surmised that the world was a far more interesting place since the proliferation of Augmented Reality. He read the closing line from the flier. The Sisters of Mercy have arranged support groups that meet every Thursday evening at 6:00PM at St. John’s Church on Pine St. How’s that for separation of church and state. Miles mused to himself. Trade one vice for another.

A steel door to his left opened and a elderly woman dressed in a white lab coat stepped into the lobby. “Miles Torvalds?”Miles stood and followed the woman into the hall, closing the door behind.

They passed rooms, all doors closed with digital displays reading on them indicating which patient was in each. He read them absently as he passed along. Jack Mota, Guillermo Santo, Sebastian Valarr, Riddick Jones, with the final one reading Jasmine Sands.

The nurse held the door open and he entered the room, stopping just short of a table much like one his sister had carted around during massage therapy classes. The oval opening at one end he understood to allow him to lie fact down, thought the heavy straps to each side of the opening were new for him.

“Please lie down, face first onto the table.” The affable nurse gestured to the white massage table. Miles placed his hands onto the edge to lower himself down, but the nurses’ voice stopped him.

“Actually, I’m sorry, could I get you to remove your shirt first?”“Sure” Miles suspected that this was more for insurance liability reasons than for his safety.

Clothing such as the Alex Finch ensemble Miles wore had become exceedingly expensive. His shirt, for instance, had kinetic currency generators built in that would maintain his pocket processor’s battery wirelessly by converting his movement to electricity.

The clinic would hardly want to be on the hook for replacement costs if blood were to trickle the wrong direction. He placed the shirt onto the back of an adjacent chair and laid onto the table, pressing his face through the opening at the far end.

“I’m giving you something to put you out.” The nurse indicated. She followed with “Have you taken any non-prescribed drugs in the past 48 hours?”Of course Miles had not, and although the statement was most likely required to stem off malpractice claims, it still rubbed him the wrong way.

Rather than respond, he shifted his head side to side, crinkling the treated paper serving as a hermetic barrier between him and the table. He felt the pinch as the woman injected the serum into the vein of his left hand and everything slowly faded to black.








d.o.mai.n
Chapter 1, Scene 2

Miles pressed his forearm to his eyes in an effort to keep out the blinding white light, but it was no use. The light carried no heat, which he found surprising. He quickly realized that the influx of electrons causing his ocular lens to strain were in fact an illusion, and by extension the pain.

Resigning your mind to the reality that you are inside a computer simulation is one thing. Convincing it that the searing osmosis contracting your ocular lens at unnatural rates is a figment of your imagination is quite another.

A woman’s voice called out to him. “Mr. Torvalds, you need to allow your eyes to adjust on their own. I understand that there is some discomfort, but we need to measure your retinal response.”

He knew that the soothing voice was designed to calm his nerves, but asking someone with a problem with a well documented problem with authority to knowingly subject themselves to pain is a sure-fire way to arrive on their bad side.

Miles signaled this fact by extending his middle finger skyward.

The voice was unsurprisingly silent. He did not expect a machine to recognize a gesture that had fallen out of favor decades ago.

A long moment passed. Miles felt the pressure inside of his eyes slowly release.

"Mr. Torvalds, if you are unable to complete the outlined calibration procedure, we will have to restart the process from the beginning."

Not wanting to lose his progress in pain reduction, Miles slowly dropped his arm and tried to discern the origin of the voice.

It resumed without a hint of irritation.“In a moment you will see points of light appearing one at a time. I need you to touch these points with your right index finger as they appear.”

He struggled to keep his eyes open. The light was intense, but subsiding slowly. He found himself recalling a morning three years ago, being shaken awake by a friend and told to make a run for it.

The expression of panic on his friend Dean’s face had forever since been etched in his memory. It was the last time that he had ever seen his friend again in person. The next time was during Dean’s well televised trial for criminal data theft and extortion.

Of course, now he had no reserve of adrenaline to help his senses push through the pain, making this experience far less enjoyable.

The omniscient voice again began its instruction. “Mr. Torvalds, the first point should be appearing now.”

“I can’t see a damn thing yet; could you give me a minute?”

“Mr. Torvalds, it’s important this process is handled efficiently. The longer you take, the less clean the signal transfer will be, and the longer it will take to clean the input mapping.

Spending another night in the clinic was not an option. Receiving the implant seemed to be growing more frivolous by the moment, and prolonging his stay would almost uncertainly mean detection.

“Okay.” Miles spouted as he touched the first point of light. A tone sounded, which he understood meaning he could move to the next point. He continued around the room, completing the spatial awareness calibration.

“Thank you Mr. Torvalds, now please pass through the door to enter the next phase.”

Miles scanned the vicinity. He saw only endless white.

“What door?”

A high pitched beeping emanated from behind him. He quickly spun around and spied the steel door now facing him.

“Cute. And they say that machines are incapable of having an attitude.” A quick glance around still revealed no indication of the woman’s location.

He touched the pad on the inside of the handle and the door swung open. A waft of air brushed his hair back as he stepped through the opening.

Maetrix66

Chapter 1, Scene 3

A soft click emanated from the door behind Miles as it shut. The darkness surrounding him was remarkable only in its stark contrast to the blinding light of the adjoining room.

“Hey, can I get some light here?”

Miles flinched, assuming that the smart-ass Artificial Intelligence running this dog and pony show would force the white light upon him again.

But the light did not come, nor did he receive any further instructions from the voice.

“Very funny.” Miles immediately turned and tugged at the handle. The door would not budge.

“Hey, I think I found a bug in your program!” He drove his fist repeatedly against the door. Finally convinced that the door would not be opening, Miles inspected his surroundings for an escape route. Unable to get his bearing in the featureless black void, he began to feel around.

He took a step away from the door, his foot pressing into soft earth. Extending his arms directly in front of him as feelers, he proceeded forward.

A hissing sound to his left forced him to his right, where a growl nudged him ahead. Fingers tightened in pugilistic readiness, he began to increase his pace. Unconcerned with running into a wall in front of him, the sounds flanking him sent adrenaline coursing through his system..

Far ahead, a faint glimmer of light filtered around a wall of rough stone. I’m in a cave! Miles gasped to himself and quickly began to shuffle in its direction. The uneven chorus of wet, salivatory growling encouraged him on as he began to sprint down the narrow alley of the cave.


As he rounded the corner and came upon a larger chamber, pale humanoid shapes twisted and contorted along the walls. Each of them craned their necks to more easily take in his scent.

Miles did not wait for them to begin the pursuit. He dashed through the chamber, barely dodging several of the more emaciated creatures that had attempted to pounce from the ceiling. Each missed and struck limestone structures on the cave floor, limbs snapping and spraying black viscous blood across his jeans.

He felt the inhuman wails of pain in the heaving expanse of his chest before the sound reached his ears.

Miles strove for the opening, lowered his shoulder and lunged into the light.

He waited for the inevitable pounding his back would take, but was worried further when it did not come. Opening his eyes, he saw the opening to the cave behind him, the black pentagon quickly disappeared behind a veil of mist as Miles lateral momentum gave way to gravity and he began accelerating downward.

He flailed his arms in a futile attempt to draw himself back to the cliff edge. Then he began to do the thing he vowed he would never do.

He screamed at the top of his lungs as the valley below approached at a breakneck pace.

Maetrix66

d.o.mai.n
Chapter 2 Scene 1

At a pace of 180 MPH Miles could clearly make out the plot of land where he would most likely dig his own grave.

He expected a painless transition into the bright light of heaven. What he got was a flash of crimson as his body compressed against the soft earth followed by the most excruciating pain Miles had ever endured. Time, or at least his perception of it, slowed to the point where he could feel dirt forcing its way into every facial orifice.

He would later recall that he was glad he landed face first.

He had never heard of anyone having cognitive retention of their death before, but then again he had never heard of anyone already dead being able to report much of anything.


Miles became astounded that the conclusion of his life had slowed to a point that allowed existential interpretation. He considered the ability to function as his brain was reshaped into the approximate dimensions of a Frisbee a moral victory.

The wretched process began to slow to farcical proportions.

Please just let me die. His only thought, repeating in endless loop.

The soil blacked out his vision on its way to the back of his skull.

Suddenly he felt the pressure release, like a rubber band snapping past it’s tensile strength threshold and found himself fighting the restraints holding his head to the massage table in the clinic operating room.

He vomited through the table opening into a well-placed bucket. His body writhed, fighting to remain in his current reality. The nurse behind him placed her hand on his back to reassure him. Through his wretching, her soothing voice tried to talk him down.

“Breathe, Mr. King, make sure to keep breathing. It will pass.”

Miles had the urge to correct her, but thankfully was unable to disclose his true identity as he struggled to regain his composure. Snot ran from his nose unimpeded, and he realized he was crying as well. This did nothing to help matters, in fact his resulting anger at crying in front of a perfect stranger counteracted the breathing, forcing him to enter a new fit of dry heaves.

Finally, he was able to stop gyrating long enough for the nurse to safely release the retention straps.
Springing around to a sitting position, Miles hastily snatched the paper towel from the nurse’s hand and wiped the excrement from his face.

“What the hell was that?”, He spat the first words his decreasing heart rate would allow.

The nurse cautiously recited her well rehearsed lecture on the systems need to determine an individuals pain threshold, or how much each individual can take before losing consciousness. This limit is individual, so the process is an unfortunate necessity, as is the lack of prior explanation.

A beeping sound to his left drew Miles attention away from the obviously unsympathetic nurse. The rear of his neck erupted in pain as he turned his head to investigate.

He quickly placed his hand over the small plastic object at the back of his neck before the nurse could grab his wrist.

“Careful. If you pull on that too hard before the incision has a chance to heal, you could become temporarily paralyzed, or even worse, damage the implant.

Miles retracted his hand, but eyed the nurse with suspicion.

She returned his glare and handed him a slip of paper.

“Take all the time you need to gather your equilibrium, then hand this to the lady behind the front counter.”

Miles angrily snatched the paper from the woman’s hand and plucked his shirt from the adjacent seatback. Noticing the pinkish hue of the front half of his torso, he realized the surgery had not been as quick as it had seemed. He knew the Paresthesia would not be far behind.

The nurse turned and left as he adjusted the collar of his shirt. His back began to prickle as proper blood flow returned, but he fought the uncomfortable sensation and began to button his shirt.

He quickly learned that he could button his shirt faster than it took for him to restore proper blood flow to his entire body or regain his “equilibrium” as the nurse had called it.

Only the chair positioned next to the table kept him from toppling over as he hopped down from the operating table. Even so, he quickly took a knee and endured the prickling sensation in the back of his legs for a few minutes until he had the strength to rise.

The “lady” behind the counter was not a lady at all, but merely a holographic representation. He had already determined during his lengthy wait that this was due to the recent killings and theft of drugs from several area clinics covered daily by the local news channels.

Miles typically left the news on for background noise during his late night exercise routines. He hated to exercise alone, and the background noise made him nostalgic for the community gym he belonged to before rising insurance and litigation costs forced the entire chain to close.
It wasn’t that the facility was unsafe, but societies growing unwillingness to blame themselves for their accidents and shortcomings had finally caught up with the industry. Miles would close his eyes and pretend the sound was coming from an antiquated set hung from the ceiling near the treadmills, as it had been at many gyms back then.

The news stories didn’t interest him in the least, he considered them as depressing as alcoholism, but the noise combined with the machines and distant conversation to make the place feel like a second home to him.

His internal struggle against the antiseptic reality of the present had forced him to create his current routine, what his ex-girlfriend had called his “coping mechanism”.

Miles turned and took a final glimpse around. The heavy metal door that he had passed through was no doubt bulletproof, and would lock solid in event of a robbery attempt. With no hostage to force the staff to open the door, any intruders would have no choice but to leave before the police arrived.

Miles smirked as he made the logical next step of considering the waiting room occupants, a step the owner of the clinic had obviously overlooked.

Maetrix66