- Unraveled Mind: Time to wake Up -
The NeuralWeb's alert rips through my implant, a klaxon—a shrill, piercing wail like air-raid sirens from old war vids, clawing at my skull. The sound warps, bending into a dissonant hum that feels alive, dragging me into a false reality—a VR so vivid it's indistinguishable from my world.
The air thickens with phantom scents of burning sage and ionized plasma, my skin prickling as if brushed by unseen hands.
People on the Sphere are losing it, flooding posts with demands: What's breaking the Grid? Is it the end?
The NeuralWeb isn't just a network; it's a labyrinth of alternate worlds, built on ancient quantum tech we barely remember—fractal dimensions stitched at the edge of physics, where time and reality blur like a glitch in God's design.
A cryptic signal pulses beneath the alert, its patterns alien, defying any known code.
Is it the witches, or something older, buried in the Grid's depths?
The Sphere's alive with panic, whispers of "witches in the wires." Some call them Technomancer covens, because they play with quantum hexes in MegaCorp's servers, and can bend reality itself.
But rumors swirl of "ghost nodes"—flickering in the Grid, leaving corrupted data like footprints of something unseen. Made up. I've seen the Grid.
Users scream messages: Are the nodes alive? Who's pulling the strings?
The want help. I want sleep.
Who's behind this?
I sigh. I am too much of a work-addict to ignore this.
Goddamn it, I was finally dreaming—stars, not code.
I'm a glutton for sleep, craving it like a drug, though I dodge it most nights, lost in sketches or systems. Insomnia. Waking like this, yanked from peace, makes me want to punch the wall.
Lord, why me?
Why now?
My daughter's asleep down the hall, her soft snores slicing through my panic.
Briefly, I think of her and of him.
—his cold silences
The Sphere's buzzing with paranoia. It snaps me back. Something about a ..rogue
God, give me strength.
But what if God's signal is lost in the NeuralWeb's infinite worlds?
Impossible.
Is someone there?
The Grid is humanity's neural backbone, a web of quantum processors and bio-implants linking every mind to every machine—memories in cloud vaults, cities humming on its rhythm. Built on entanglement principles we've forgotten, it teeters where science meets magic. If it collapses, we're erased, scattered across realities like ghosts. That signal—rhythmic, like a heartbeat—feels too alive, too alien.
Is that … watching me?
My room is a chaotic sanctuary, a clash of faith and tech. Scuffed eggshell walls glow with holo-murals glowing of nebulae, shifting in bruised purples and jagged reds. A silver crucifix hangs above my desk, reflecting my image.
I catch my reflection in a holo-screen: shoulder-length ash blonde hair too-thick. I look sleepy. Dark brown, almost black eyes shadowed by exhaustion. Pale porcelain skin shows my stress. My frame's mostly lean, except my midsection and breasts showing I'm a mom.
Coffee. I need coffee, or I'm useless.
My brain's fogged, hands shaky. I grab my jacket, AR glasses, and head for Starbies, praying I can hold reality together.