Ghosts in the Wiring
Sitting in his sleek office of metal and glass—floating above the skyline like a minimalist spacecraft—1nfinity is nearly motionless.
His eyelids twitched with tiny, rapid flutters—REM-like, as if his mind were dreaming while fully awake, navigating unseen landscapes at light speed, only the subtle twitching motions in his fingers, betray his engagement.
His Qlink is in overclock mode, with the NeuroCascade module activated—an experimental enhancement allowing real-time subconscious data-threading across the Virtualverse.
He's deep inside the code, navigating the algorithmic maze of his latest creation: DreamScape.
An expansion to the Qlink platform, DreamScape is designed to let users execute pre-programmed tasks—or select curated dreams—while they sleep, guided by their personal AI instance.
A soft chime sounds in his ear—incoming message.
With a blink, he switches to comms mode. A voice filters in:
[Christine]: Sir, things are looking good.
[1nfinity] (without missing a beat): What does looking good mean?
[Christine]: Apologies sir. We have completed procurement of the test subjects.
[1nfinity]: You mean volunteers.
[Christine]: Yes sir. Volunteers.
With a satisfied smile on his face 1nfinity went back to his project.
The three "volunteers" had been delivered hours earlier to a remote facility: a massive glass-encased biodome nestled within the spine of a decommissioned satellite station—now a lush, jungle-like testing environment.
Towering ferns, gnarled roots, and vine-draped monoliths sprawled in all directions.
Artificial sunlight filtered down from the dome's curved ceiling, adjusting subtly in hue and warmth as it mimicked the passing of a day. Mist curled from hidden vents in the underbrush, keeping the air thick and humid. Distant, fabricated animal calls echoed intermittently—programmed chaos to replicate a living world.
The Handler, a silent man in an iridescent exosuit, briefed them with minimal explanation: Survive. Track. Capture.
Then he vanished behind an opaque panel embedded in one of the trees.
The trio stood in momentary silence, surrounded by crates of supplies and tactical gear.
[1]: I guess we grab these packs and set up camp.
[2]: Looks like it. Should we stick together since…
[3] (cutting in): I'm not staying with you goons. My chances of capturing the beast are better alone.
[2] (dryly): Whatever…
[1] and [2] exchanged a glance—part resignation, part relief—and hoisted their gear. They headed north, pushing through a swaying curtain of synthetic creepers toward a clearing revealed by their portable map: a small lake reflecting the overhead light like a sheet of glass.
Meanwhile, [3] disappeared wordlessly into the thickest part of the brush, silent and deliberate, like a predator already in pursuit.
At the lake, [1] and [2] located a tall, sturdy tree.
They activated the auto-deploy sequence on their Nimbus Tent—a metallic pod that whirred, unfolded, and inflated into a spherical shelter, suspending itself thirty feet above ground with micro-thrusters and vine-grappling limbs.
Once secured, they climbed down and began sweeping the shoreline.
The mud bore no obvious tracks—yet—but they moved methodically, eyes scanning for any signs: broken reeds, claw marks, anything that might prove the legend true.
Somewhere, beyond the clearing, a low rumble echoed—half thunder, half something else.
Meanwhile, [3] moving with a predator's confidence, has a single goal in mind: capturing whatever it was lurking in the shadows.
He was alone, and he liked it that way. He believed his chances were better if he worked in isolation, away from the distractions of his companions.
The brush closed around him, thick vines and undergrowth threatening to conceal him from the rest of the world.
He moved with calculated ease, his eyes constantly scanning for any sign of the beast, though whether he had seen it before or was simply driven by instinct, no one could say. What mattered was his confidence, and in this environment, that confidence might just be the thing that made him dangerous.
With both groups separated, the jungle seemed larger than ever. A palpable tension hung in the air, the promise of something unknown stirring just out of reach, waiting to be discovered—or perhaps, to be unleashed.
The Beast is a towering, hulking creature that blurs the line between organic and synthetic. Its body, a mix of bear and biomechanical elements, ripples with raw muscle and gleams with dark, metallic plating that covers parts of its torso, legs, and arms.
The fur that remains is coarse, patchy in places, with strands of it appearing almost synthetic, like woven fibers instead of natural hair. The eyes, glowing with an unnatural light, reflect an intelligence that seems to flicker between animal instinct and controlled precision.
Its cybernetic implant is most noticeable on the back of its skull and spine, where sleek, dark cables extend down its neck and across its body, blending seamlessly with the creature's flesh. The implant allows it to be controlled from a distance, sending signals directly into its nervous system, overriding its natural instincts.
The presence of this tech is both terrifying and awe-inspiring, as it's clear that the Beast was created not just as a weapon but as a tool of complex manipulation.
In the sterile, dimly lit office, 1nfinity sits in silence as the neural link establishes a connection. A soft, almost mechanical hum fills the air as data begins to flow seamlessly between 1nfinity's mind and The Beast's consciousness. The creature, still, for a moment, seems to sense something—the very nature of the connection. It pauses, its massive, cybernetic eyes scanning the room. There's a flicker of recognition, but the moment is fleeting.
The link deepens, and 1nfinity's view shifts.
Monitor Mode:
Through the eyes of The Beast, the world is a hazy blur of motion. Its sight is a fractured mosaic, piecing together images in sharp, jagged edges. The neural implant filters and refines the information, smoothing out the visual noise, but the primal mind still clings to the raw sensation of what it experiences. Every movement is felt with an intensity that is overwhelming—a swirling blend of hunger, curiosity, and the almost mechanical instinct to follow orders.
The surroundings come into focus. The creature stands in a vast, cavernous space, its dark fur shifting slightly under the flickering light. It smells the air—a sharp, metallic scent mingling with the faint remnants of human presence. Through The Beast's senses, 1nfinity can feel a low-level tension, like the soft hum of a dormant engine. Its thoughts, raw and instinctive, float just beyond full comprehension, but they are translated with efficiency.
Beast's Thoughts:
Movement. Why? Where? The call… The order…
Hunger. Uncertainty. Command. Calm…Focus…
Master. Present. Acknowledge. Control. Power.
1nfinity, now within the mental architecture of The Beast, can hear the murmur of instinctual thought—a chaotic, primitive presence bound by technological shackles.
It's not entirely coherent; the thought patterns are jagged, disconnected. But there's purpose in them. The Beast, despite its powerful, animalistic form, is aware of its existence as both a weapon and a tool.
A slight tremor of dissatisfaction flickers within the neural link.
The Beast doesn't want to be confined, it resists, just enough to remind 1nfinity of its former autonomy. It's a muted growl in the back of its mind, a whispering echo of the creature it once was.
Beast's Thoughts:
Confined. Limited. Strong… but… broken?
1nfinity feels a pulse of irritation from the Beast, a flicker of frustration as the control mechanism stabilizes the primal thoughts. The neural interface smooths over the turbulence. The Beast, for now, is docile, compliant.
1nfinity (in thought, voice like a whisper to the Beast):
Focus. You are here to serve. Focus.
A sense of quiet calms the turbulent thoughts, and 1nfinity can feel the creature's awareness snap back into alignment. It's both unsettling and fascinating—this blend of primal energy now subdued and turned inward by cold, technological precision.
Through the link, 1nfinity watches as The Beast's muscles tense slightly, as if the creature is listening intently, waiting for the next command.
[1] and [2] crouched low, their fingers dancing across the sleek surface of the mapping device, the holographic display projecting an array of shifting lines and coordinates.
The high-tech device, a compact handheld unit with flickering blue lights, hummed softly in their hands as it scanned the environment—gathering data, mapping the dense labyrinth of tunnels around them.
The walls, lined with dark metallic panels, seemed almost alive, pulsing with faint electrical currents. The floor beneath their boots vibrated subtly, as if some unseen force was at work, shifting, moving just beyond their senses.
"[2], anything on the map yet?" [1] asked, his voice low, a mix of tension and curiosity.
"Still nothing. It's strange," [2] replied, his brow furrowed as he adjusted the device. "We should be seeing something by now."
But before [2] could respond, the air around them seemed to shift, a low, guttural sound vibrating through the ground.
Suddenly, a heavy thud echoed, followed by the unmistakable, sickening sound of claws scraping against metal.
They turned just in time to see the hulking silhouette of The Beast emerge from the shadows, its glowing eyes flickering with an eerie, controlled intelligence.
Before either of them could react, the creature lunged, moving faster than either of them could anticipate, its massive body a blur of muscle and cybernetic enhancement.
"Get the zap sticks!" [1] shouted, reaching for the weapons strapped to his belt.
The zap sticks, long metallic rods that hummed with electrical energy, were their last line of defense—a last-ditch effort to subdue the beast.
But as [2] fumbled to unsheathe his own weapon, his fingers barely brushed the handle before the creature was upon him.
One massive paw swiped across [2]'s face with a speed that left no time to react. The impact was brutal, leaving a trail of sparks in the air as the beast's claws raked through the flesh.
For a split second, there was no sound, only the grotesque visual of [2]'s face being shredded apart like frosting being torn off a cake. The force of the swipe was enough to disintegrate his features, a spray of blood and tissue spraying outward. The zap stick in his hand crumpled into a useless heap of twisted metal.
[1] could only stare, horror seizing him for an instant, as the creature's mechanical breath filled the air. His own zap stick now felt like a useless toy, its hum deafened by the chilling sight of [2]'s destruction.
The Beast stood over the remnants of [2], its chest heaving, its cybernetic eyes locked on [1], as if savoring the moment.
Then, as if snapping back to reality, [1] activated his zap stick with a sharp flick of his wrist, the electrical charge humming to life.
He pointed it at the creature, his fingers trembling. But even as the surge of energy shot forward, he knew—he knew that it would do little to stop this terrifying, uncontrollable force.
The Beast let out a low growl, almost in disdain, as the energy from the zap stick crackled across its cybernetic skin.
The surge of electricity sparked across its mechanical form, but it seemed little more than an annoyance—something to be disregarded. With a terrifying, fluid motion, The Beast swung its massive arm in a back sweep, sending [1] flying several feet into the air.
For a brief moment, the world spun, the rush of air filling [1]'s senses.
He collided with something sharp—twigs, leaves, and rough bark scraping against his skin. The impact sent him crashing into a dense bush of thick, spiky plant matter that tore at his clothes and skin as he slid to the ground.
Disoriented and gasping for breath, [1] tried to push himself up, his body aching from the violent impact. His zap stick lay somewhere in the wreckage, a useless heap of metal and sparks.
But before he could fully regain his bearings, the sounds of heavy, rapid movement echoed from the shadows.
The Beast, its glowing eyes now hidden in the darkness, moved with eerie grace—more like a hunter retreating than a creature in flight. It scurried away, disappearing into the unseen depths of the labyrinth with an unsettling ease.
It wasn't fleeing in fear—it was simply moving, confident in its power, as if the encounter had been little more than a casual encounter to test its strength.
[1] remained on the ground, his chest heaving, eyes wide with shock. The creature was still out there, and it had shown just how easily it could dispose of them. The faint echo of its growl lingered in the air, a reminder of the danger that was far from over.
Regaining composure, [1] winced as he pushed himself up from the dense bramble of razorvine, a genetically modified plant used in perimeter security that now clung to his arms with hair-thin, barbed tendrils.
He tugged free, ignoring the shallow cuts and the warmth of blood running down his sleeves. Every motion ached, but adrenaline dulled the worst of it.
He crouched low, scanning the shifting shadows, ears straining for any sign of the creature's return. Silence. Just the hum of distant machinery and the whisper of air moving through the vents.
Cautiously, [1] emerged from the brush and made his way back toward where [2] had fallen.
The sight stopped him cold.
What remained of [2] was barely recognizable—his upper body brutally open.
One side of his face was simply gone, smeared across a tree in a streak of red and gray. His torso had been torn through at the ribs, exposing shattered bone, synthetic implants, and what looked like the scorched remains of a vital pack. His limbs lay at unnatural angles, one hand still twitching faintly, caught in some last nervous loop.
[1] swallowed hard, forcing the bile back down, and stepped over the gore, careful not to slip in the pooling blood.
He reached down and pried the zap stick from [2]'s holster. The handle was slick, but intact. He wiped it clean on his sleeve, then tested the charge—still functional. A weak crackle of blue energy leapt between the prongs.
Clutching the weapon tightly, [1] took a deep breath and whispered to himself, "No hero moves. No noise. No tracks."
He knew now—this wasn't a mission anymore. It was survival.
The only way forward was to disappear into the structure, avoid the creature at all costs, and pray that whatever The Beast was… it hadn't started hunting just yet.
Bushwick, Brooklyn — Noon
Max stepped through the slightly warped glass door of an old apartment building from the early 2000s, now clumsily converted into a Frankenstein hybrid of classic New York charm and cheap modern flair.
The lobby still bore the bones of a pre-gentrification tenement—cracked terrazzo floors, exposed steam pipes clinging to the ceiling—but they were now peppered with neon-trimmed security drones, ugly LED art panels stuck onto flaking walls, and a massive, flickering touchscreen directory that barely worked.
The renovation hadn't been done with taste—just budget and speed.
Fake marble panels slapped over chipped brick. Glass partitions that served no purpose. Fluorescent lighting with a migraine-inducing hum. It looked like someone tried to turn a shoebox into a spaceship with parts from a discount salvage yard.
Max entered the wheezing elevator and tapped the button for the 9th floor. The moment the doors closed behind him, he let his shoulders drop and blinked once, hard.
[Disable Qlink]
[No incoming transmissions accepted]
"And Gipsi, take a break," he muttered aloud, speaking to the ever-present assistant wired into his neural loop. The silence that followed was immediate and deeply welcome.
The elevator creaked upward, and when the doors opened again, he was met by a hallway that felt like the underbelly of a forgotten space station. The walls, a sickly shade of gray-green, were cracked and stained in places, but covered with paper-thin interactive ad panels flickering with desperate brightness.
They pitched payday loans, off-brand meal pills, sub-$10 medpatches, black market dental kits—"Smile Bright Without the Bite!" one ad chirped in a bubbly voice as Max passed. Another displayed a haggard-looking woman smiling too wide as the words "FRESH SLEEP – Rent REM cycles for $2/hour!" pulsed below her chin.
The hallway smelled like old smoke, rusted copper, and something synthetic trying to smell like lemons.
Max didn't slow down. He'd been in places like this before. No one stopped to chat. No one made eye contact. And if they did, it meant trouble.
At the far end of the hall, a metal door buzzed as it recognized his biometric signature.
"Ma, I'm home."
Max stepped into the small one-bedroom apartment, and it was like walking through a wrinkle in time.
The place had the unmistakable touch of an old woman's world—cozy, cluttered, and filled with the kind of things no algorithm could ever recommend. Faded doilies sat beneath ceramic cat figurines.
A needlepoint "God Bless This Home" hung crookedly above an old flatscreen TV still encased in a faux-wood frame. On the shelf above it: framed photos from decades past, yellowing at the edges—Max as a boy, his father in uniform, a younger Elise with dark hair and a sharper jawline.
The armchair by the window sagged in the middle, surrounded by knitting needles, untouched newspapers, and a chipped mug that probably hadn't left that spot in years. A plastic cover still clung to the dining table under a vase of artificial daisies, the kind that had gone out of fashion even before the last recession.
Smiling, Max moved past it all, heading straight to the kitchen, pulled in by the familiar scent of cinnamon and sugar—his mother's famous apple pie, cooling on the kitchen counter.
At the counter stood Elise, squinting through reading glasses that had slid low on the bridge of her nose as she chopped onions with methodical, slightly arthritic precision.
"Maxie!" she said, setting down the knife. "I was afraid you were gonna cancel."
She turned to him with a warm, if slightly exasperated smile.
Her face was round and soft, the lines around her eyes deepened with age but never unkind. White curls peeked out from beneath a neatly tied silk scarf—purple with tiny embroidered flowers—cinched behind her ears. She wore a threadbare cardigan over a cotton housedress, the kind she'd probably worn since before Max was born.
Max's mother, Elise, was one of the last seniors still clinging to life in the city.
Most had packed up long ago, pushed out by rising rents, automation, and crime. They'd gone "to the countryside," which nowadays meant far upstate or another state entirely—places where the air was quiet, the food was real, and the corporations hadn't yet fully swallowed the sun.
But not Elise. She stayed.
Now, the only people left in the neighborhood were drug peddlers, twitchy addicts wearing modified neuroglasses, mentally broken people surviving on long-expired welfare codes, and the occasional hopeful artist who thought the grit was romantic—until it wasn't.
And in the middle of it all, Elise baked pies.
Like nothing had changed.
Elise wiped her hands on a faded dish towel and gave Max a look only mothers are capable of—part worry, part accusation wrapped in love.
"Maxie, you've lost weight again. Look at you—like a wire hanger with a face."
"I eat, Ma," Max said, smirking as he leaned against the counter. "I had a full nutrient stack just this morning."
"Oh please," she scoffed, waving a hand like she was swatting away a fly. "Supplement pills? That's not food. That's lab dust in a capsule."
Max chuckled, eyes softening. "You always say that."
"Because it's true. Your bones click when you walk. Sit down, I'll fix you a slice before it cools too much."
As she plated the pie, Elise launched into her usual rhythm of apartment gossip and neighborhood drama, her voice thick with the warmth of familiarity.
"Did I tell you about Mr. Robbins from the fifth floor?" she asked, lowering her voice even though there was no one around to hear.
"The old guy with the VR rig fused to his recliner?"
"That's the one," she said, cutting the pie with a clean, practiced motion. "Well, two nights ago, he goes mad. Starts screaming that his Fort-knight or Fortday—whatever that game is—was leaking into his dreams. Says he saw 'skins' crawling on his ceiling and the loot chests talking to him."
Max raised an eyebrow. "Wait—what?"
"I'm not kidding!" she said, sliding the slice in front of him. "He comes out of his apartment in nothing but compression shorts and a helmet, waving around one of those cheap replica swords he bought off the HoloMall."
"And?"
"Well, the peacekeepers showed up. You know how they are.
Gave him one warning and then—boom." She mimed a pulse rifle kickback with a sharp snap of her wrists.
"Flatlined him right in front of the elevator. Poor thing didn't stand a chance. Now there's scorch marks on the wall, and I hear they had to scrape his interface port off the tile."
Max gave a dry laugh, shaking his head like he wasn't listening.
But he was.
He stirred the pie with his fork, staring down at it as Elise continued talking about the noise and how the whole floor smelled like fried circuits for hours.
But his mind was elsewhere. The rumor he'd caught in a recent backchannel—a rogue exploit tunneling through the Qlink neural net, hijacking dream-state data from connected users.
At the time, he'd dismissed it as fringe paranoia. Another ghost-in-the-machine story.
But maybe it wasn't.
Maybe Robbins had been more plugged in than he realized.
Max smiled politely and nodded as his mother chattered on, but inside, something tightened.
He'd have to look into that.