Part I

The steady glow of neon signs light the way through the masses, as neon purples, yellows, and reds illuminate faces searching for their next destination. The Commerce Levels are a steady multi-color patchwork of hive-like human behavior at all hours; there is no day or night here. With New City above, and Old City below, this middle tier of architecture shields those participating in the dance of commerce from most weather, and time.

A weird mashup of new and old, decaying storefronts and brand new facades are interlaced seamlessly. As Ma’rud paces through the diverse landscape of culture and business, they take note of all the new businesses that have popped up in this sector lately. Some have kept the older aesthetic alive, while others have rebuilt their exteriors to be more modern. It appears there is always demand for both the old and the new.

A gaggle of tourists suddenly appear in the crowd, wearing so much of the local Middle Eastern style that they look like they bought out an entire souvenir shop. Caricatures of an ancient culture, they are oblivious to the amused looks of native passers-by. Nobody is bitter. Inhabitants of the Legacy Arch region are thankful for a steady stream of income from across the Sprawl. This, the epicenter of restoration after Skyfall, is the bastion of the new world economy built on blockchains.

Riddled with memory loss, denizens move through the densely bustling C-Levels with varying regard for old or new. Ma’rud ponders on the obsession with nostalgia The Sprawl exhibits on a daily basis. Some folks wants to move up to New City where everything is crisp and modern, while others prefer the gritty, authentic culture of Old City. Everybody passes through the C-Levels sectors though. After all, there are things to buy and sell at all times.

Nearing their gift shop, Ma’rud sees a motorbike propped up in an adjacent alley. They immediately identify it as Liz’s motorbike, its matte black exterior adorned with sleek purple highlights. They spot her leaning against her ancient glass shop window, wisps of smoke trailing out of a spliff between her fingers, her black leather reflecting violet neon from the sign hovering above her. It reads: TIMELESS GIFTS.

Looking up, Liz waves at Ma’rud and straightens up a little.

“Hey you!”

Ma’rud receives a big hug, and returns the squish as much as they can. They’ve never been very big on physical contact, but Liz is an exception to many, many things in their life.

“Hi Liz. You look like you’re in a good mood.”

Liz smiles and nods, as Ma’rud passes her ledger over the shop’s lock. With a beep and a click, the paneled old world door slides open to let them into their place of business. They both walk in, and strips of well concealed LEDs steadily illuminate the interior in response to their proximity. Ma’rud gestures at Liz to hang out, and begins digging through some boxes.

Liz picks up a toy that’s sitting on the main shop counter and inspects it closely. She gasps at the pill-headed figurine as she realizes the head resembles a Stacy Pill. Leaning on a baseball bat, with some cool sneaks, baseball cap, and a backpack, it looks like it may be up to some mischief.

“Where did you get this?!” she blurts out.

Smiling, Ma’rud says gently, “The Founder dropped off some goodies, and that was among them. It’s not for sale right now.”

“What does he want you to do with it?”

Standing up with a box in their hands, they come over to the counter to join Liz. They open the box so she can look inside at a dozen more little pillheads. Grinning, “You’ll see soon enough.”

Liz scoffs, “Like he wouldn’t tell me anyway. He’s been showing up with some new stuff more and more lately, huh?”

Ma’rud waves at the other end of the counter, and starts aranging the figurines neatly on a shelf. “I got some new graphic novels and some animated picture frames if you wanna check them out as well!”

Smirking at the topic change, Liz walks over and takes a look at a comic titled ‘Pillheads #1,’ and a nifty little frame portraying a group of pillheads just like the figurines. She raises an eyebrow and looks up at Ma’rud. “What is with these pillheads?!”

They look back at her and say simply, “take the frame, it’s a gift! The Founder is gifting them to all of us who have supported his operation so far. I have one for Ringo as well!”

Liz grins a little as she slides the frame into a hidden pocket in her jacket. “I do love free shit. Speaking of which, I got something for you!”

Seemingly out of nowhere, she produces a neatly wrapped package and places it in front of Ma’rud. They knowingly pick it up and ask excitedly, “Which one is this?”

“The Cheese Pill!”

Dubiously, “The what?”

Liz laughs and encourages them to open the packaging. “Cheese! Thank me later, this one is delicious! I hope you’re ready for a really absurd ride.”

Opening the packaging, Ma’rud finds a pill made of cheese staring back at them, positioned perfectly above a wooden pedestal, just like the ancient Costa Rican bamboo cutting boards they sell in their shop. “What in the fuck-”

Swiftly, “Trust me, this one is super super fun. Just keep an open mind for a very different sensory experience.”

Ma’rud eyes the Swiss cheese looking pill and gives Liz a doubtful look, and without giving her a chance to say anything else, throws the pill in their mouth. As Liz’s eyes widen, they gulp down the pill that happens to taste just like a well aged gruyère

The transition is immediate.

Part II

The neon frequencies of light wash over the masses with purples, yellows, and reds, as they flow ceaselessly through the Commerce Levels. A non-stop hive-like dance of searching and acquiring, the locomotion of human behavior is 24/7 here. Time is an ethereal concept between New City above, and Old City below; nothing can slow down the hunger for consumption here.

Entwined strangely, brand new storefronts have weaved their way in with aging architecture that predates them by decades, if not millenia. As Ma’rud traverses this landscape defined by culture and business, they note how the aged buildings stand out with their own narratives, with all of the newer shops standing in contrast. This sector has favored both new and old, not discriminating between the varieties of timeless and fresh aesthetic flavors in the area.

As a throng of tourists suddenly appear before them, Ma’rud stops mid-step as they realize the out-of-towners are melting digitally into strange forms resembling a chunky bruschetta. Recoiling in surprise, they reach out to steady themselves, and find the wall they are leaning on has turned into firm Gouda. Pulling their hand back they feel slightly off balance, and look down to find themselves standing on what appears to be a wax-like shell one would find around some Brie.

What was once artificial neon light is now a warm series of light rays, shooting across a frozen landscape of what appears to be a city built like a Mediterranean charcuterie board. Cucumber spires cast shadows on the scene, as little onion hovercars zip across the skylanes. Everything frozen before them, Ma’rud steps delicately forward, and finds that they are feeling rather crumbly. By the time they have attempted a second step, they find themselves in a state of sheer panic, as they turn into a pile of Feta cheese.

As they inch forward breaking into smaller and smaller fragments, they find themselves tumbling across what appears to be an elegantly crafted bamboo floor. As they lose control entirely of their physicality, terror grips them, and they turn into a blob of goat cheese smeared across a floor that is now a massive cutting board spanning into infinity. Unexpectedly, everything reaches a state of calmness, as Ma’rud contemplates their existence as a soft cheese looking for meaning in a culinary world.

They slowly come to realize there are a number of sliced meats and other cheeses around them, a whole community of delicious snacks pondering their reality together. They find themselves wondering if they can taste themselves, or if they even have taste buds at all. The answer, they find, is that they have a desire to experience flavor more than anything else. As they reach inward to find the sensory mechanisms to do so, they find themselves suddenly dissolving into a cloud of seasoning.

Now just a nexus of particles made of herbs and spices, they find the myriad totality of their selves landing on a cracker layered with manchego and sopressata. Having seasoned this stack of flavor, they realize with pure terror that they are now en route towards an open mouth, tongue extended, teeth above and below waiting to chomp down with desire. As the maw begins to close Ma’rud attempts to close their non-extant eyes, and discovers that instead of being crushed, they are being transformed into particles being absorbed through thousands of flavor receptors.

They begin to travel at impossible speed through a complex nervous system, having transformed into a grouping of chemical signals. The ride through dendrites and nodes has turned into a pure rush of energy, surging through a network of experiences speeding towards terminals ending in synapses. Eventually, Ma’rud’s collective totality arrives at its destinations. Reconstituted, an immense sense of euphoria washes over them. The ensuing clarity that follows the crossing of this sensory threshold brings with it epiphanies.

The hunger of society is apparent to Ma’rud. Not just for physical sustenance, but all forms of sensory stimulus. Humanity seeks to be satiated by feeding its desires, and attaining states of resultant joy and happiness. On a deeper level, they see that these states of glee are the endpoints of an escape from fear and pain. Humankind is hurting deep down inside, and the pain of suffering and loss is a receptacle that seeks to be replaced with serotonin and dopamine releases.

Ma’rud experiences a great sadness for a moment. And as they question these feelings, a great sense of hope swells around them, as ethereal synapses all around them crackle with dancing electricity. They realize all of their companions from the charcuterie board of life have come to join them here, in this place of lucidity and coherence. The realization that community is the answer to ending pain settles in, and they feel an elation even greater than before. Feeding off of each other as beings of light, the previously unconsumed variety of antipasti has reconnected on a higher chemical level.

Riding high on the sense of connectedness and hope, Ma’rud feels the current shift around them, and is swept away into a different state of being. Suddenly ionized, they find themselves looking into a string of memories. A series of flipbook-like images whip through their perception: communal scenes of people eating food. An Indian family sits around an ancient marble table inlaid with colorful stones, and feast on rices, lentil dishes, flatbreads, and more. A group of Japanese friends sit around a low table and raise their cups of Sake over a meal of fish and vegetables. They yell, “Kampai!” A group of Ghanaians feast on yam and tomato stews, their bodies draped in multi-colored and patterned textiles. Scenes of many cultures fly by, and finally settle on a couple sitting by an ocean, sharing a charcuterie board with some wine. Their demeanor is calm as they watch a setting sun.

The myriad of memories from past and present cultures has filled Ma’rud with a sense of hope, and satisfaction; a sense of fullness pervades their being. They blink at the brightness of the setting sun, and find themselves looking at a series of neurotransmitters releasing crackling explosions of dopamine. They blink at the brightness, and are now observing the world from the perspective of a morsel of existentially inclined cheese. Blink. The city is one big architectural charcuterie board. One last blink, and Liz is looking at them with curiosity in their eyes, and a mischievous smile. She reaches out and holds Ma’rud’s hand, and they are assured that they are back from the trip.

Liz asks, “How was it?”

Not letting go of Liz’s hand, they search for words. A tear rolls down their cheek. “My mental palette is cleansed, and I’m really craving a solid meal!”

Liz wipes the tear away, and smiles knowingly at them. “How about a sandwich? They’re always timeless.”

Ma’rud laughs, “I’ll buy, my treat!”

ethereum://0x42c6bcbbd42b0df212564f101d2edac7fb908b9b/50

Part I 

As rain pounds down on the canopies overhead, its deep rumble runs through the Spice Bazaar unchecked. Hundreds of locals hurriedly race between vendors, maneuvering through the throngs with expertise. Tourists meander lazily from merchant to merchant, essentially creating slow moving obstacles for the natives. The dance of commerce has a hectic cadence here; a complex mechanism powering the heartbeat of Old City. 

Massive bags of herbs and spices spill intense aromas into the marketplace, countered with less pungent wafts of teas and coffee permeating the air. A cheese salesman yells into the crowd with enthusiasm, passers-by mostly trying to duck his torrent of airborne spittle. A man with comically large knives eyes a slab of hanging meat hungrily. A gentle looking elderly woman strokes her hair, as she sits next to her stall full of beautiful ceramic and glass wares. The culture here is as old as human memory, and perseveres in the face of modern industry. 

And yet, reminders of the technological age are sprinkled throughout this seemingly analog patchwork of humanity. Customers hover, swipe, and tap ledgers and headsets to confirm transactions everywhere. Prosthetics flash beneath modern and old fabrics as folks hustle through the masses. Occasional glints of AR lenses and digital displays glint with reflections from surrounding LED and neon light displays. Technology adorns the old and new alike, with zero bias.

Stooped up at his favorite teashop in the Bazaar, Ringo reaches behind his ear to scratch at a fresh mod. The skin is still irritated, and it’s probably because he won’t stop touching it. Some of the weather is making its way down the wall behind him, escaping the synthetic canopies stretched across this cavernous space with tensioned steel wires. The thick white noise of the market is usually very calming for him, but today he feels irritated by the smallest of things. He frowns at the sound of trickling water nearby, and absently blows on his tea.

Ringo glances around him furtively. Liz is running late, and this day is full of bad memories. Some guy in an expensive suit nearby speaks loudly, fully jacked into a sleek VR headset. Loudly engaged in a call with unknown parties, he sticks out like a bull in a china shop; his ultra-expensive gear and boisterous attitude completely at odds with the organic culture around him.

Flipping his AR lens down, Ringo scans the suit with his home-brewed sniffer scripts. Finding some cutting edge corporate software running, he quickly drills down 0-day exploits in his repos, and prepares an applicable payload. Taking a sip of tea, he waits for the package to build itself. The tea is dark and strong today, its slight bitterness matching his mood. 

“Hey Ringo!”

Completely caught off guard, Ringo almost falls off his chair. He somehow manages not to spill his tea. Looking up he finds Liz standing next to him with a huge grin on her face. “Goddamnit Liz, what the fuck! You scared the shit out of me!”

In one smooth cat-like motion, Liz slides a chair over and takes a seat next to Ringo. She throws a disapproving sideways glance at him. “Well maybe if you weren’t so focused on ruining somebody’s day, you would have seen me coming! Sorry I’m late by the way, weather’s awful.”

Ringo’s HUD flashes ‘ᴘᴀʏʟᴏᴀᴅ ʀᴇᴀᴅʏ’ and he fires it off. Retracting his AR Lens, he looks at Liz with a frown. “I’m not ruining anybody’s day. Just having a little fun at the expense of the more fortunate. And yeah, I’m not riding today, roads be slick!”

The suit suddenly stiffens, and starts looking around in all directions neurotically. He begins yelling profanities, and swatting at the air with his hands. Local vendors look over at Ringo, then at the stressed out suit, and begin chuckling. One of them raises a cup in their direction, and Liz shakes her head and smirks.  “What did you do?”

Ringo raises both his hands and smiles at the business owners across the way innocently. They laugh and turn away knowingly.

“Nothing. I’m innocent. My hands are clean. You get those La+chos or what?”

Rolling her eyes at the blunt topic change, she reaches in her leather jacket’s pockets and pulls out a pair of black and white Stacy containers. Inside, black pills with crude white smileys stare out crazedly. A tiny cross glows below one of the eyes like a teardrop. Sneaking a look around them, she covertly hands one to Ringo. Denizens of the Bazaar are either minding their own business, or entranced with the suit making a fool of himself. 

“I got ‘em alright. These hit fast, and they go hard Ringo. Try to follow the frequency, friend.”

Ringo looks at Liz with gratitude in his eyes and says, “Thank you. I really needed this today Liz.”

She winks at him, and they both pop their containers open. Stealthily, they take their pills. 

The transition is immediate.

Part II

The deep roll of rain beating on the canopies overhead sets a backdrop for the Spice Bazaar’s rhythm. Droves of locals glide around each other with a determined grace, their choreography clearly well rehearsed over time. Curious tourists peruse from stall to stall, merchants ushering them with big smiles towards their wares. The dance of commerce presses on with a sustained tempo, the unstoppable heartbeat of Old City thumping strongly. 

An intense olfactory experience, the ancient marketplace feeds its denizens timeless aromas of herbs and spice. Signature accents of tea and coffee are densely interspersed throughout the space, along with a confluence of sweet and savory delicacies on display. Vendors busily interact with the crowds, serving up their finest goods and wares with gusto. The energy running through the Bazaar is as old as tradition; it is at the center of all civilizations since the dawn of mankind. 

Ringo notes the glow of digital displays and lit up signs throughout the scene, signatures of modernity illuminating humanity’s cultural interactions. He watches a customer tap their ledger at a vendor’s terminal, and sees the red light of a failed transaction begin flashing. The buzz and din of the marketplace comes to a sudden halt. The red light continues to blink independently, getting brighter and brighter with every pulse. 

Steadily, the entire scene is washed over with strobing crimson light, and a low frequency of sound begins to build up. At first it is a subtle vibration in the ground. Then, it evolves into a uniform build-up in his very bones. An unavoidable tactile sensation, the rumble begins to make his eyeballs jitter, and the scene before him begins to break apart into a million puzzle pieces, their edges jittering with chaotic scribbles.

As the jumble of pieces fly apart, he finds himself looking at a cross shaped opening in the void, backlit with an intense white light. As he peers into the negative space in the darkness, he sees a face looking back out at him through the plus-shaped window. Its eyes reflect a white neon glow, and they peer deep into Ringo’s soul. Transfixed, he feels his physicality fade away, only to be replaced with a quiet crescendo of voices and percussive impulses. He is slowly reconstituted into a form made purely of sound, a steady beat phasing him in and out of the semblance of having a body. 

Like a hologram of agitated frequencies in a black abyss, his mind reaches out for a sense of identity. As if summoned by his will, a lifetime of memories parceled into a disarrayed swath of puzzle pieces begin cycling into his line of sight. As the pieces individually come to a rest, he finds they are settling into the form of a scene before him. Struggling to pinpoint why the scene is so familiar, Ringo tries to focus. And like a latch sliding open, he feels a mechanical release deep in the recesses of his mind.

A wave of high pitched sound washes over him, bringing an uncontrollable wave of sadness. He remembers being physically hurt by others as a child. The trauma of losing loved ones creeps up unannounced, and he feels like he has been punched in the stomach. Like shitty souvenirs, feelings of loneliness, and being broken sneak into his head. Memories of binging on stims to escape his life blindside him, and he feels tears begin to form deep down in the core of his being. As they well up, Ringo feels a scream submerged below them, boiling to the surface with overwhelming rage. 

Giving in to the immensity of his emotions, he lets go entirely. His release is omni-directional; emotive energy shooting out like rays of the sun in all directions, entirely feral and distorted frequencies bursting into the world around him. Abruptly, the explosive peak recedes into a very calm quietude, an unexpected gentle piano tune audible in the distance. Volatility is replaced with composure. Tranquility reigns.

Looking over to his side, he finds Liz, also in a form comprised of sonic frequencies. The emotive melody gets louder, every keystroke sending ripples of color and definition through her being. Digital tears stream down her holographic visage, and she says, “We’ve suffered so much.” 

They hug each other, an abstract vision of oscillating humanoid waveforms embracing each other. Their confluence brings into existence an incredibly bright, incandescent light. It illuminates the memory-patchwork reality before them in warm orange hues, contoured with deep indigo and purple highlights. Fascinated, they release each other and realize there are others around them. 

A black dog jumps up onto a table and looks directly at them. It asks, simply, “GWAN DRAD?” Suddenly, a deep bass starts thumping and the scene comes to life. The dog jumps off the table, and somebody with a fluffy purple coat dances past them with a joint in his hands. Singing happily with his hands in the air, he seems oblivious to the pair following him with their eyes. As their gaze lingers in his wake, they find a dark skinned man with a very intense look on his face observing them. With a gentle smile, he reaches out and touches their foreheads, speaking in an ancient language foreign to them both.

Exploding into a neurotic whirl of sound waves, Ringo loses Liz, but finds puzzle pieces around him starting to systematically re-form into a new set of shapes. He finds the cadence of the arrangement forming before him, and becomes aware of a steady chanting. All of the positive social interactions of his lifetime start to play out with a bright luminance, and he sees that the true medicine in life is people. Like a therapeutic ASMR track, he submits to the rhythm of catharsis, and weaves together all the memories of healthy bonds he has built thus far. 

Now able to see how far he has come with his chosen family, Ringo is hit with the epiphany of love. Accepting the ugliness and beauty of life as part of the process of growth, Ringo blinks back tears and finds himself looking at a goofy dog smiling at him. He blinks at his new friend, and is suddenly sharing an embrace with Liz, their bodies an intertwined helix of audio frequencies. Blink. A neon-lit plus face is gazing intently at him, exuding curiosity. It blinks at him and Ringo is back in the Bazaar. He feels Liz hold his hand, and he knows he is back for sure. 

Letting the sounds of the Bazaar turn into a continuous soundscape, Ringo hears the true music of the Bazaar. He lets it become a song that exists only to compliment Liz’s voice singing truth and beauty, as she says, “We’re going to be okay, as long as we’ve got each other Ringo.” 

Wiping a tear from his eye, Ringo nods, and accidentally activates his AR. The guy in the expensive suit is flailing amidst a digital mob of fluttering blue butterflies. Liz looks over with her optics flipped on, and laughs. They get up and head into the Bazaar together, the rest of their lives ahead of them. 

https://opensea.io/assets/0x42c6bcbbd42b0df212564f101d2edac7fb908b9b/8

Part I

The steady thrum of machinery permeates the air with a calming buzz, occasional pneumatic releases embellishing the soundscape with their release. Sepia tones are peppered with rust across ancient mechanical structures, the reddish hues accentuating decay. A vast array of Cylindrical and angular structures stand tall, reaching for the sky, towering over passers-by. It is not immediately clear what exactly any of it does, but the sense of function is inescapable. The operational remnants of Old City’s retired power grids represent nostalgia to the max.

The folks who keep these borderline useless mechanisms intact are deeply committed to keeping them chugging along. They tirelessly inspect and maintain both the analog and digital components that keep the machines running, a secret unspoken language apparent in their movements. Spooky has always had a soft spot for antiques, and she is enthralled with how dedicated the workers are. Even their attire is a throwback to fashion from a forgotten era, adorned with leather aprons and studded straps housing manual tools of all types.

As she walks by the engineers, they look up at her and nod subtle hellos. She smiles back, and continues her stroll through this massive time capsule that spans 4 city blocks. She muses about what kind of person it takes to commit to such a niche job. This reminds her that she is on her way to configure a rare input based art generator block - a very niche object.  The irony of this amuses her, and this time she smiles to herself.

As she approaches the overground Metro station entrance, it starts raining. Throwing her oversized black hood over her head, she dashes up the stairs, her dark overcoat transforming her into an amorphous blur of dancing fabrics. Her HUD bleeps air pollution level warnings into her retinas, and she enables the filtration system built into her cowl. Everybody around her slides on masks, and enables similar PPE to avoid lung burn.

As the train approaches, impatient passengers shift from one agitated stance to another. The procession of chrome carriages come to a smooth stop, and glass barriers open up to let the restless crowds through. Commuters pile out rapidly, replaced with newcomers eager to get out of the weather that is slowly getting denser around them. As the doors close behind them and the HEPA filters kick in, Spooky feels an intense release of tension. Finding a seat, she disables her filters and throws her hood back.

Looking up she sees an inconspicuous stranger looking at her curiously, through round framed glasses. The glasses look ancient, but she can see that they have enhanced AR lenses from their anti-glare refractions. He blinks at her, and types something into an info tablet in his hands and swipes it towards her. She blinks her AR into focus, and sees an incoming shortwave message from the stranger. Seeing no media or rated content warnings in her UI, she accepts the note.

ɴɪᴄᴇ sᴛᴀᴄʏ ᴛᴏᴋᴇɴ

Suddenly alert, she takes a closer look at him through her AR lens, and sees a small blue butterfly fluttering near his head. Only token holders can see other token holders in augmented interfaces, which means he personally knows Liz, or possibly The Founder. She swipes a message in her palm back to her fellow Stacy token holder, her wearable keyboard flexing around her index finger as she writes.

ᴡʜɪᴄʜ ᴏɴᴇ ᴅɪᴅ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ

A grin appears across his boyish face.

ǫᴜɪᴛᴇ ᴀ ғᴇᴡ xᴅ ᴄᴏᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ʟɪᴢ's ᴛᴏɴɪɢʜᴛ

Curiosity piqued, Spooky shifts in her sea of flowing fabrics a little. She blinks her response back.

ᴏᴋ ɪ'ᴍ sᴘᴏᴏᴋʏ ᴡʜᴏ ᴀʀᴇ ᴜ

The train begins to slow down, as it approaches New City’s Central Station stop. The stranger gets up, and drops a neatly packaged parcel in her lap, blinking a message back at her rapidly.

ɪ'ᴍ ᴘᴀᴛʜ ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴛʜɪs ʙʟᴇɴᴅ ᴄ ᴜ sᴏᴏɴ

Before she can respond, he is swept out of the train in a tide of people masking up to brave the weather. Though their message thread is now severed, she can still make out a little blue butterfly trailing behind him. Saving Path’s address, she grips the package in her hands knowing full well what it is, and looks out at the torrential downpour that is crushing the city. Pollution meters are spiking on every visible holo screen, and the city has its collars and hoods up, its collective identity distorted by its facelessness.

One stop later, Spooky gets out of the metro in New City’s Fashion District. The streets are mostly empty now, the brutal storm having rushed denizens of the sprawl indoors. Rapidly stomping through puddles, she gets to her studio and activates UV sterilization at the entrance. Passing through the 360 archway of light, she throws her overcoat over a chair and plops down on a sofa. She looks up at her latest curation hanging on her private gallery’s walls, and marvels at how all of this generative art has become a standard in the art world.

She digs out the Stacy that was gifted to her by the stranger. Opening the package, she finds something staring back at her that she cannot fully understand. A pill shifts its dark, stone-like texture incessantly before an impossible fractal explosion made of a void-like substance. It strobes an impossible glow of monochromatic light, haloing the pill as it holds golden diamonds in its orbit, hovering continuously around magma-like edges. The Pill has one single eye staring back at her with an aperture that gazes into her soul.

Out loud, she says to herself, “Best not to overthink this.” Opening its enclosure, she plucks up, and throws the bizarre pill in her mouth.

The transition is immediate.

Part II

The continuous hum of machinery coats the atmosphere gently, pneumatic releases agitating the soundscape with occasional hissing. Amber and bronze tones radiate warm tones, sporadic oxidized splotches exposing the age of these ancient mechanical devices. Shapes like rockets of varying shapes, these relics of engineering stretch thinly towards the skies, leaving passers-by in the shadows of their enormity. The specific functions of these behemoth structures are lost to time, now serving as nostalgic remnants from Old City’s retired power grids.

Committed engineers work incessantly on the outdated mechanisms. Their shared hive-mind work ethic is apparent in the way they meticulously maintain all manner of analog and digital components, both on the exteriors and interiors of the machines. Spooky admires their synchronicity, and is pleased by their attire studded with vintage leather tool belts and aprons. They are like a swarm of dedicated gremlins conserving the mechanics of an alternate reality.

As she walks by them, one of them looks at her through a pair of darkened goggles. Looking into the darkness in them, she sees a swirling void almost entirely devoid of light. A subtle monochromatic pulse of light draws her in, and she finds herself suddenly falling down a dimly lit ravine, a massive lightless abyss below her. Her mind loses all sense of cognition, and she feels a sense of dread pervading the entirety of her being.

As the free-falling sensation engulfs her, an internal panic peaks, her mind feeling like it is going to shatter like a rock upon impact. Having lost all sense of reason, she stops fighting and gives into the fear. As she relinquishes control, she sees a flicker of rippling light approaching her from below. Before she can discern what it is, her body hits a body of mercurial liquid that is blacker than night.

Instead of pain, the impact results in a sensation of being suddenly submerged in fluid softness. A prehistoric substance envelops her, and instead of wetness she feels a strange firmness spreading around her body. Looking at her hands, she sees monochromatic topographies of hills and mountains; entire landscapes are forming from this darkly primordial substance that has coated her like a second skin.

As she focuses on the creation of worlds unfolding on her being, she finds herself zooming rapidly into these newly born environments. She hurtles with increasing momentum towards a mountain that has formed, and discovers that she can will herself to stop before slamming into the terrain in front of her. Levitating above the black mass below her now, she suddenly feels very much in control, and a sense of calm surges through her. She has found a place of quietude within, and relishes in the tranquility.

All sense of time decimated, an eerie silence sinks in, and Spooky realizes that she can manifest anything in this strange colorless universe. And just like that, she brings into existence a warm golden light, which suddenly illuminates everything before her. As the light dances across the contours of this landscape, tiny diamonds rise up out of the ground to bask in the warmth of her radiance. They refract her inner shine like floating beacons battling gloom.

Taking a deep breath in, Spooky draws color out of the scenes before her. Reddish glows begin to emanate from under dark trees, and out of previously pitch black rivers meandering through hills. As lava colored luminosity begins to peak in brilliance, she exhales - and the entire dimension she is now inhabiting turns itself inside out. A fractal implosion of what was once an extension of her body and mind, she finds her spirit being sucked into a black hole of impossible geometries.

A pulsing white light begins to eat all color, like a nebulous monster. Unable to perceive any corporeal attributes, Spooky feels her mind grasping for anything that can qualify as logic. Once again, she gives into the sensation, and feels the gravity of what can only be described as the maw of this impossible cosmic beast. In submitting to the force that is pulling her in, she abruptly becomes aware that she is approaching an event horizon.

She reaches out with her ebony stained hands to connect with this convergence of light and hunger, and finds an aperture-like gateway materializing in front of her. 10 golden shutter blades recede in response to her touch, and the portal pulls her in without resistance. Her fear now replaced with curiosity, she calmly passes into this new, non-Euclidean universe. The curious eye-like doorway closes behind her, and she marvels at the enigmatic transition she has gone through. Though clearly mechanical in some ways, her passage feels independent of tactility.

She finds herself inside a vast chamber that has an infinitude of grayish fissures lining the interior. Sudden rays of light startle her as they begin to shatter their way through the cracks, an intense burst of multi-colored light. Soon multiple spectrums of light saturate the interior of the structure Spooky has found herself in. She finds herself bathed in every color she can think of, as well as those she has never even seen before.

As suddenly as the brightness came, it abruptly fades away. Her body however, retains all the colors she just experienced, in the form of an incredibly fine film of flexible plastic. The fissures now begin to glow with very deep crimson and orange hues, and she realizes that the temperature in the space is suddenly increasing to an uncomfortable level. For the third time, fear washes over her.

Slowly, her new skin begins to lose resolution. The multifaceted color wrapping around her begins turning into a myriad of tiny triangular pixels, and a steady digital buzz begins to build up around her. Instead of feeling any sting from the heat around her, she instead feels the steady sensation of liquidized diagonal pixels sliding off of her body. The digital kiln she has found herself in washes everything away, and she watches as her stress and burdens pool below her in a swirling mass of color.

Feeling incredibly light, she stretches her body outwards. As she strains her muscles, the raven-like layer of skin that remains also begins to de-res and slide off, the environmental buzz changing its tone to a deeper frequency. As it layers itself over the rainbow of molten plastic below her, a diverse geography of forests and mountains begins to form again, bordered by a sea of red magma flowing out of the fissures in the walls.

Spooky breathes in the island below her, and watches it reach up towards her, peaks and valleys undulating to match shifting topographies. She reconstructs some sections with hand gestures, swapping lakes with hills, forests with deserts. Her motions trail arcane symbols made of light, hieroglyphs from a forgotten language she has discovered within her cosmic memories. She exhales, and the scene solidifies like enamel into its new configuration. Her intentions have baked a new reality.

In awe at this strange power that has surfaced within her, she gazes out at her creation. She speaks to it without words to express her love, and it responds in full by exploding into a cloud of a million electric-blue butterflies, oscillating all around her. Entranced by this fluttering kaleidoscope around her, she lets go of any remaining tensions. She blinks at the fluttering beauty around her, and watches a shower of pixelated color raining down around her. She blinks again, and finds herself eye to eye with an aperture. It blinks back at her, and she is now looking at a fractal bloom made of monochromatic natural landscapes. She blinks at the panorama, and is now in the warm embrace of a sentient dark liquid. Blink. She is in her studio, staring at shifting pixelated constructs on screens of various sizes. Slicking her hair back to tie it into a ponytail, she is assured that she is back in regular space-time.

She looks at the time in her HUD and realizes she has a few hours to modify the generator block, before heading out to Liz’s. As she glances over at the art on her walls, a message rolls into her peripheral vision.

ɪ ʜᴏᴘᴇ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴡᴀs ᴇʏᴇ ᴏᴘᴇɴɪɴɢ

Smirking to herself, Spooky shoots an 👁 emote back. She flexes her hands with a newfound confidence, and finds herself thinking in a new language. The prospect of fusing this new alchemy of the mind with an algorithm excites her. She jacks her neural interface in, and dives into the art block’s interface with complete abandon.

https://rarible.com/token/0x42c6bcbbd42b0df212564f101d2edac7fb908b9b:70

Part I

White noise from the rain emits a percussive drone, rapping steadily on the massive window before Aeric. The auditory massage envelops all other sounds in the lounge, subtly wrapping the communal vibe with continuity. Wisps of smoke drift lazily through the air, carrying rosy and spiced aromas across the room. Subtle mood lighting washes the interior with cool purple tones, setting a backdrop for warm flickers of candlelight. Quiet conversations are cradled in recessed alcoves throughout this cozy Middle Eastern establishment.

As drops of water streak down the enormous circular window overlooking Old City, Aeric muses on the dimmed urban spread before him. 90 stories up, and facing East, Aeric wonders how beautiful a sunrise would be from this vantage point. The massive porthole before him is framed with ancient Northern African patterns, OLED panes set in between motifs made of welded steel. He taps on the closest pane and orders a Turkish coffee, and double taps his AR set to sign the transaction request.

Aptly named, The Window is one of the oldest businesses around. Vast Persian carpets with deep red and blue tones cover the floors, worn in with years of foot traffic. Beautifully ornate light fixtures float overhead, dispersed throughout, casting intricate geometric shadows on the ceilings and walls. Though not quite as ancient as Old City, this part of town is littered with gems like this one; interiors comprised of non-modern elements are not very common in the rest of New City.

Aeric appreciates the cultural time machine this space has turned into for its patrons. The coffee is not synthetic, and they use actual sugar in their confections. The tobacco and nargile are authentic, and guests questioning the use of natural coals are generally treated with some disdain. In fact, anybody complaining about the authenticity of anything in this space tends not to come back for a second visit.

The week-long rain has settled its humidity into the bones of the city. Older establishments like these tend to breathe the dampness in with every incoming customer. Every time the door opens, dangling chimes adorn the heavy air with high pitched harmonies. The dark atmosphere matches the mood outside, but provides much desired warmth and shelter.

Dressed in flowing fabrics, the proprietor of the space comes over, and places a small tray in front of Aeric. In a pleasant tone she says, “Nice and sweet, just how you like it,” and takes a seat across from him. Two pieces of baklava sit in a small square dish, right next to his tiny cup of coffee. The saucer the cup sits on is trimmed with a repeating, reddish geometric pattern, gilded details adorning its edges.

Aeric draws in the familiar aroma, and smiles at her. “Thanks Defne. How’s life?”

She takes a seat across from him and gazes out over the sprawl. Absently, “It’s ok. This weather’s been a drag. I heard you took a trip out of town recently?”

Scooping a piece of baklava up, he holds it up in front of his face and observes it closely. “Yeah. Needed to get out for a bit. Had Charlie watch the bar, and I went home to Mexico for a week. Weather wasn’t much better; it’s the same everywhere nowadays.”

He tosses the morsel in his mouth, as Defne glances over at him with a raised eyebrow. “I didn’t know you were from there.”

Chuckling, “Yeah, my dad was from up North apparently, but my mom was Mexican. I actually went to see if I could track her down. Never really knew my dad, but then I don’t really remember my childhood - do you?”

She looks back out over the dreary cityscape, and seems to be lost in thought for a minute. Then, abruptly, “Memory is like a combination lockbox we have forgotten the code to. How well do you remember your mom?

He is slightly thrown off by her sudden avoidance of his question, but doesn’t think twice about it. He takes a wary sip of his still steaming coffee, and puts it back down. “Not very clearly. I don’t remember specific things, but I remember her bringing me up.”

Defne looks at him with intense eyes, her posture semi-relaxed. Seemingly out of thin air, she produces a neatly wrapped tiny little package, and slides it towards him. “Take this. It may not restore your memories, but it will show you some roots.”

The chimes by the door shake them both out of the moment. The silhouette of a hooded figure appears at the entrance. They appear to survey The Window for a moment, and then glide smoothly in the direction of their table. Aerik has never seen this person before, but Defne’s demeanor indicates she is familiar with this stranger. He can’t seem to make out their face clearly.

She gets up to greet them. “Good seeing you Aerik. Welcome back. Say hi to Charlie when you talk to her later.”

Utterly caught off guard now, Aerik stumbles for words. He glances at the package, then at the stranger, and back at her as she saunters away. “I.. will. What is-? Who is-”

Glancing back over her shoulder she says, “You’ll know what to do. I’ll see you when you’re back from your trip!”

The hooded figure appears to nod in his direction as the two go to an unoccupied, darker corner nook. Aerik stares after them, completely befuddled. Taking another sip of his coffee he opens the package before him, and finds a beautiful little red container with a transparent cover. Within, golden sun rays dance around a fantastically ornate red pill. Markings reminiscent of ancient pictograms detail both vessel, and pill. His AR lens fires up and enhances it, levitating golden rings and abstract bits of debris suddenly whirling around it.

A message flies into his HUD from an unknown sender. In monospace font, it simply says: ‘TAKE THE PILL.’ He somehow knows it was sent by the hooded stranger.

Aerik has known Defne long enough to know he can trust her. This feels shady, but it wouldn’t be the first time he has taken a questionable substance. The Window is a safe place, and it’s not like he wants to go back out into the dismal weather outside.

The glass panel hinges open in his palm easily, and he picks up the happy little pill. Without overthinking it, he says, “fuck it,” and chases the pill down with a sip of coffee.

The transition is immediate.

Part II

The steady drumming of rain on the massive window bathes the room in a persistent hum. A tactile massage on the senses, it envelops all other sounds with a firm grip. Wisps of smoke move like patient ghosts, completely at odds with the auditory torrent streaming through the room. Cool purple tones peek out from hidden enclosures, as candles occasionally catch sneaky currents, and flicker with agitation. Murmurs between faceless folks creep out of shadowy alcoves, and into the antique Middle Eastern lounge.

Aeric looks past streams of water on the window panes, and takes in the sheer vastness of the urban sprawl before him. Even the dark weather cannot hide the colossal scale of things at this height, 90 stories above Old City. Geometric Northern African motifs outline the massive porthole, segmenting the view. Occasional data streams pass by in some of the facets, vying for his attention.

Reaching out to order a coffee, Aerik touches an OLED pane, and everything unexpectedly freezes frame. On screen data suspended, the rainy landscape behind it a sudden photograph of sullen dystopia. He feels a strange pressure building at the tip of his finger.

A glowing red light begins to spread out from his point of contact with the glass. It branches out and into the steel frame of the enormous aperture before him. Impossibly, it begins to outline the cityscape outside, merging the frame with the depth of the world behind it. As the neon-lit contour lines stretch out towards the horizon, an incredibly intricate mosaic of varying sizes and shapes begins to form. Aeric gasps at the terrifying complexity of outlined architecture before him.

A myriad of isolated patterns extrude towards him as he takes a big breath in, drawing him in and overwhelming his sense of depth perception. Different geometric motifs begin to fill his vision, an influx of data he is unprepared for. He falls into a world of angular chaos, scores of shapes and intersections transporting him from one dimension to another. His mind reeling at the experience, he begins to panic.

And just like that, the portals stop. He finds himself standing before a large circular opening in a dark void, massive suns setting into the horizon in the distance. The light streaming through this threshold bridges the abyss to an intricate landscape of complex topographies, both angular and curved. Sharp mountain peaks compliment soft slopes of rolling hills all around them. A plateau in the distance glows with a warm radiance.

Mesoamerican motifs begin to spiral out at him from a sunburst of warm hues. Framed as a silhouette in front of it, a figure approaches with a great headdress, reaching out with a highly detailed scepter in its hands. The staff morphs into a snake, and writhes closer, inspecting, inquiring. The bright aura trimming the figure dims as the suns fall below the vista behind it, and blue-toned skin comes into view. A halo of bright feathers frame an impossibly dark face with bright, inquisitive eyes.

The entity exhales. Its suddenly immense physicality begins to fold in on itself, a ferrous liquid reacting to a magnetic current. Steadily it transitions from an amorphous state into the form of a black and blue hummingbird, hovering in front of Aeric. Its wings beat an intense blur of red, at unfathomable speeds. Twilight gives this beautiful creature an indigo backdrop, speckled with distant starlight.

Aeric reaches out with an open palm to offer a perch. The now tiny godhead accepts the offer, and lands in his hand. Upon contact, a black mass of tendrils shoot out under his skin, like veins colored with the darkness of deepest night. He begins to feel constricted, his body no longer under his control, his autonomy taken away from him.

As the darkness spreads, Aeric experiences feelings of extreme sorrow at the very core of his being. Immobile, he arrives at a liminal understanding of all the power this entity has lost over millennia. He discovers a rumbling whisper deep within himself, “Give in.” Like a floodgate, thousands of inner voices begin competing for his attention.

With immense resolve, he stops fighting the surge of darkness spreading throughout his being. Soon his entire physicality is enveloped in a void-like mass, an impossible paradox of mass existing without light. The clamor of voices die down, and a few remain audible. They lead his void-state out into the scene before him, aural guides of this alien landscape.

Life begins to sprout all around him; flora follows rising suns skyward at a rapid rate all around him, an unquestionable expression of fertility and health. He finds himself before a large clearing with a gigantic golden egg in the center. As he approaches, an entity breaks out of it, punching its way out of the shell with multiple arms, and a golden explosion of lotus leaves crowning its many faces. In a state of flux, the entity observes Aeric through multiple eyes. With a deeply resonant voice, it speaks: “Remember.”

As if by reflex, he closes his eyes and looks inward. He finds the memory of being cradled in the arms of his mother, a moment entirely forgotten in time. No other memories come to him. Opening his eyes again, he finds himself looking out over an endless valley of deep reddish hues. The ocean of red before him is in contrast with azure skies, and snow capped mountains. A breeze breathes waves of undulating life across what he now realizes are fields of blooming amaranth, drawing his vision across great distances with calmness.

The realization settles in that he is experiencing an ancient world, forgotten in time. Unable to remember his own childhood, he is saddened. Intuitively, he plucks a blooming sprig of amaranth, and offers it to the world before him. It takes root in his hands, and spreads like veins throughout his physicality, replacing his emptiness with color and life. He feels great warmth wash over him, scouring anguish and grief away.

A sense of regained autonomy sinks in, and the flowers in his hands ignite. Tiny flames rapidly turn into an intense arc of golden plasma, and begin to spread out and gild the landscape around him. Soon, everything is contoured in bright gold, so bright it blinds him.

Aeric blinks, dazzled by the intense luminance. He finds himself standing before an enormous egg in a field. He blinks again, and is staring at an enormous godhead haloed with sunlight. It blinks at him. He blinks back. Intense, artificial neon red lights illuminate an ancient city. One more blink and he is back at The Window, staring out at his rainy city. Slightly disoriented, he reaches for his coffee. Taking a warm sip, he is assured that he is back.

Unsure of what exactly just happened, he is surprised at how good everything feels. Something is stirring in the recesses of his mind, and the air around him feels less weighted. Looking over into the lounge, he sees Defne looking at him. She smiles, and turns back to conversing with her faceless friend.

Feeling a surge of confidence, he pops the last piece of baklava in his mouth, and taps his comm implant and calls Charlie.

“Hey Charlie, can you watch The Coffeeshop for another week? I’m going back to Mexico.”

https://opensea.io/assets/0x42c6bcbbd42b0df212564f101d2edac7fb908b9b/5

Part I

A massive orange ball of dimmed light, the pollution-obscured sun slowly crushes its way into the horizon. The urban expanse rushes towards it, its wake visible in the steadily lengthening shadows of buildings. The hectic speeds of skyway traffic are a stark contrast to this slow motion descent that many sit watching, transfixed.

It is rare enough to see the sun nowadays, let alone an entire sunset. The overcast skies have allowed a sliver of sky to appear, just above the horizon. Though distant and drenched in an atmosphere clogged with impurities, the sun still sheds some warmth on the faces of those that have come out to witness this uncommon moment.

Xero waits for it to sink fully below the surface, and turns around to start heading to the Roustan Gallery. Walking along the Legacy Overpass, he peers down the side to the distant glow of Old City hundreds of meters below him. It’s Friday Night, and there is much going on down there, and up here in New City alike. The bridge is busy with foot traffic and vendors. He sees Ma’rud stealthily moving through the crowd without attracting attention, and wonders where that oddball is off to.

As vendors try and catch his attention every few seconds, he is unfazed, thinking back to the last time he saw them. Ma’rud and Xero had spent an evening at The CoffeeHouse drinking crappy beer, waiting for Ringo to get back from a Stacy run. As they had exchanged their experiences with the Series I Pills, they had gotten to know each other quite well. He had found out that they were very solitary, and did not enjoy interactions with most people. In turn, they had found that Xero was hungry for interactions with people, but did not enjoy spending too much time with anyone, outside of his cat.

He decides to let them be. Passing under the great northern Arch of the Overpass, and into the Arts & Culture District of New City, Xero finds the casual social dance of artists he is so familiar with. Eccentrically dressed folks idly discuss art and music, and some accentuate their points with extravagant hand gestures.

As he approaches Roustan’s Gallery, he wonders what it would be like if he could remember his childhood memories at all. Most folks cannot remember their childhoods nowadays. Those that can, have short term memory problems, and end up with intense bionic implants to allow them some functionality in day-to-day tasks. Roustan is one of the rare folks that can remember everything, which may off a clue as to why he is so good at connecting with people.

The gallery is essentially a multi-tiered abstract piece of architecture, mashing modern and vintage styles seamlessly into one. There is no real entrance; the first floor is essentially one big airy lobby without doors. On his way in, a very suave person chatting on a comm implant walks by him, their voice a steady stream of tonality that triggers a sense of ASMR. Xero feels a sense of calm pass over him.

Roustan breaks him out of his Zen with a greeting from the mezzanine above. “Xero! Yo!”

Looking up, Xero sees the gallery owner motioning for him to come upstairs. In a denim jacket with a patch, and light-responsive pants, Roustan is the walking embodiment of cultural abstraction.

The stairs wind up, and open out into a gallery showing a series of photographs and videos on sale. Gallery-goers pull up their ledgers and scan art of interest to check metadata about the creators, and other pertinent details. Occasionally one will double tap their wallets to purchase an edition, or where applicable, a 1 of 1 rarity. The art here is always cutting edge, and there is always a focus on up and coming artists. Roustan has a real eye for finding the good ones in New and Old City alike.

Xero grabs a seat by Roustan at a small table. It is adorned with a glass vase of roses, oddly out of place in this contemporary space. Some fallen petals surround the base of the receptacle. “Who was that guy leaving the gallery just now? His voice was so calming.”

Laughing, “That was the Unknown Funk Hero! Met him at Liz’s club the other night. Really dedicated Sound artist.” Roustan pokes at a few petals absentmindedly.

“Nice. Well business looks good. How’s everything?”

Roustan smiles, “Can’t complain! This show has been a success, and we’re booked out for a while. How are your projects coming along?”

Xero grins, “On schedule to show here next month. Stuck on the final piece to be honest.”

“Creative block?”

Xero shakes his head, “Sort of. I feel like I have memories trying to dump out onto my canvases, but I can’t access them. I don’t even know if they’re really in there.” He points at, and taps his temple gently.

Some guests walk by the two, nodding at them politely, moving on to another piece of art. Once they are out of earshot Roustan says, “I might have just the Stacy for you.”

“I don’t know friend, I’ve had a couple lately that have been incredibly insightful, but nothing is letting me break through into my past.”

Fishing around in his denim jacket, Roustan looks intensely in Xero’s eyes. “I have a rare Blend. Was helping Liz with a booking, and she gave me this. It’s called the ‘Alpha & Omega.’ Pretty epic, huh.”

Looking around first, he hands over a tiny, neatly wrapped package.

Xero pockets it casually. “What should I expect?”

“It’s a Blend of Luxe Neue, a Relic, and the OG Braincase. It’s nuts. I feel like it tears you apart - but those memories you’ve been hunting? You’ll find them in there. What you choose to do with them, well that’s up to you Xero.”

Xero scratches his chin absently. “I thought you couldn’t even get Relics or Braincases anymore. Wow. Thank you, I’ve never had a Blend before.”

“My pleasure. Just make sure you’re buckled in man, this Stacy is a long ride! You can chill in the hot tub afterwards and melt a bit if you like.”

They bump fists, and Xero heads up to the gallery rooftop, through a hidden stairway. He grabs a seat in one of the plush, deep crimson colored corner nooks. These soft yet firm velvety enclosures are intended for privacy and comfort, wrapping guests in a sense of luxury.

Unwrapping the package now, he finds a curiously fragmented pill that looks like it’s made of glass, gold, and iridescent amethyst. The Pill is phasing in and out of being shattered and whole, and he can’t tell if his eyes are playing tricks on him. Based on his experiences so far with anything from The Lab, Xero knows not to question these things too much. He tosses the impossible tablet into his mouth.

The transition is immediate.

Part II

A massive orange ball of blazing warmth, the haze obliterating sun sinks into the horizon. The urban expanse basks in its intensity, leaning away from the gouache-like shadows lengthening behind its geometric topographies. Glints of sunlight bounce off the stream of vehicles in the skyways, like schools of fish darting hive-like in unison. Many watch the moment before them, entirely transfixed.

The rarity of the moment makes it so precious, emphasizing the uniqueness of the day. The sky presses down on this uncanny moment, trying to join the city below in an embrace around the descending star. Heat squeezes out of the gigantic ember, and splashes on all those that are witnessing it.

Xero watches on, waiting for the light to disappear on the horizon. As the last gleam of light snuffs out, he feels himself suddenly dissolving downwards into the city, its floor an iridescent oil slick spanning out to infinity. He feels his visual reality weaving in and out of different resolutions, the fluid he is merging with going from ultra high definition, to highly pixelated, and back. The sounds of the city around him turn into crisp and clear streaks of sound, that dissolve into frequencies of static, and back.

He feels like he is time traveling with every shift in definition, his vision traveling through screens and displays from different technological periods in history. He settles in a space that feels like a vacuum tube, air being sucked out, and a strange fluid filling its absence rapidly. His lungs are now metaphors for digital detritus; LCD panels suddenly imbued with a liquid atmosphere. His core is now merging where the digital meets organic matter, and a well of digitized memories begin riding out of the soup that is his physicality.

The digital luxuries of the new age become a bed for his memories to glide over, tidbits of recollections dipping in and out of neon glows trimming the modern world’s contours. Fear is replaced with data, ready to be consumed at his leisure. Just as he begins to settle in, everything freezes frame and melts again, the purples and blues of the night flowing like glossy residue over metallic surfaces. He is now a comfortable ooze of timeless, unhurried flow.

Bit by bit, a sense of warmth begins to resonate internally, and radiates outwards. A crescendo of heat turns into a bright, electric light source, washing away almost all color in its golden brilliance.

Like a neon bomb, he explodes.

From the core of his being, out through every single pore of his body, the light blinds all sense of physicality. As if to counter this intensity of light, an unexpected cold breeze rushes in from all directions, the air suddenly contracting, and stiffening. The air is thick with microscopic ice crystals, catching the luminosity like blurred ghostly streaks, as the blaze is diminished and compressed into a state of calmness.

Cool sensations rush down into what feels like his spine, triggering a sharp involuntary inhale of crispness. The electric burst is now glacial, practically frozen in time. The sense of being ancient beyond the remembrance of history sinks in. Xero feels like an immutable temporal anchor, as the universe flows around him. His previously lavish comfort has been replaced with a sense of found purpose, unyielding to the currents of cosmic change.

The rigidity settles and Xero feels himself settling into the comfort of his warm, inner glow. The ride seems to have settled for now, and he thinks about all the times he has overthought things, and how unnecessary it has always proven to be in the end. Overly analytical of his own work, of the behavior of others, and even of social situations outside of his personal life.

Out of nowhere he feels a sudden and intense inward pressure, followed by an immense cracking sensation. All the colors of the known world, the warm golden glow inside, and everything in between suddenly flashes out of existence, replaced with a jarringly bright purple fracture running down the core of his being. Slightly panicked, he loses sense of direction, and feels himself careening in a dark void.

And everything splinters.

Any sense of physicality he previously had explodes into shards made of memories and feelings. Tiny shards of childhood fly out in high velocity, while larger fragments of adult experiences tumble outwards at a heavy, lumbering pace. Steadily, Xero becomes a particle cloud of varying sizes and densities, the canvas of his life a shimmering cacophony of chaos trying to find order.

In the madness of it all, he sees how everything is connected and entirely disconnected; tethered together by a string of time that is more delicate than the petals of a rose.  The pain and beauty of life dance around each other in this cloud of entropy that is his life, a vessel hungry to be filled with meaning trickling out of discord.

A beat kicks in like a metronome, and the fragments of his life begin to lose their opaqueness, memories suddenly translucent and layered over each other. As he views these slivers of his lifetime juxtaposed over each other, he begins to see all the recurring patterns in his life that formed his opinions and behaviors. Forgotten childhood memories peek through fragile, crystalline recollections from recent times, and he realizes how little he has changed at his core.

The realization illuminates all the shards with the golden, warm glow from earlier, and he finds himself in a throng of anamneses. He’s forgotten so much; so much potential lost to the blocked off corners of his mind. Clarity coats him in a lush purple and gold wave of comfort; this is a rediscovery of his own domain that nobody can touch, sway, or taint. He can feel his chemistry permanently shifting, and neural pathways in his brain healing themselves.

Xero sees his birth, and his death, and realizes that he is both the Alpha, and the Omega of his own existence. This shocking revelation descends upon him like a set of robes, draping all around him, giving him a sense of weight, and responsibility. He looks at what is now “down” and sees a shiny platform above which he is levitating, his fragmented self a blurred reflection of movement.

He remembers what breathing is, and as he exhales, he becomes an expanding ball of purple and gold light. He inhales, and draws his being back into wholeness. Everything fits back together seamlessly. He is reformed, any damage that was exposed is now sealed with Kintsugi, a golden glow where things once came apart.

He Blinks at the notion of luxurious royalty, and finds himself looking at millions of frozen frames taken from his life. He blinks again and feels a warm glow, as he sinks into a sea of iridescence. Blink. He is breathing in pixelated fluid, and exhaling high definition spectrums of light. One more blink, and he is staring out at New City from the rooftop of a very peculiar art gallery. Xero sits up and squeezes a velvety cushion to make sure he is back in his body.

Somebody giggles, drawing his attention. He looks over at Roustan’s hot tub, and sees some familiar faces relaxing in luxury afforded them by their host. Is it possible they remember their childhood memories? He sees Roustan tap his temple and look at him knowingly; Xero remembers everything. He gets up to join his friends in the tub.

https://opensea.io/assets/0x42c6bcbbd42b0df212564f101d2edac7fb908b9b/28

Part I

The heavy muffled thud of the club’s heartbeat climbs its way out of the floor, through the stool, up Liz’s spine, and into her skull. It’s a metronome for the passage of time without a beginning or end, on late nights like these; moments that seem endless. Things change meaning every time the DJ downstairs shifts the BPM, and sets a new cadence for her mind.

Liz takes another drag on her joint, and puts down her media-pad. Mindless doom scrolling can only keep her occupied so long, as she waits for the delivery. She gazes out over the dance floor below her office, through floor-to-ceiling panes of two-way mirrors. Lasers and spotlights create geometric patterns above the heads of a multi-colored sea of people dancing with abandon. Waves of ecstasy roll over the crowd, visible in their faces and movements.

She feels some contentedness in the knowledge that she can contribute to their well-being, even if most of it is chemically induced. She leans on her private bar, accidentally popping up an AR display for club stats. The holostream shows a steady stream of ledger connections, with no failed transactions. Business is good tonight.

Liz thinks back to her years of meaningless jobs in Old City, and New City alike. To the abusive behaviors of bosses and patrons, regardless of industry. To the anger and frustration of the daily grind. To the overarching pressure of expectations from strangers. To the sense of meaningless day-to-day routines with no end in sight. She muses on the meaning of humility, and what a privilege it is to own one’s own business.

The door buzzer snaps her out of her ruminations. Exhaling another cloud of dank ganja, she gets up and quietly walks over to the door. She taps the viewport, the screen suddenly coming to life, the microphone icon indicating readiness for her input. “Who is it?”

A hooded figure tilts their head towards the camera, an invisible face in the shadows. “It’s me.”

Liz freezes for a second. She was not expecting The Founder to show up in person. She thumbs the green “unlock” button on the viewport.“Come on in.”

The door slides open, and The Founder glides in like a wraith. Their bright yellow hoodie with geometric purple highlights clashes with their subtle presence. Liz looks into the void in the hood to catch a glimpse of their face, but can’t make out anything distinctive. The idea of facial features present themselves, but she can’t seem to pinpoint any specific details.

They turn away from her as they grab a seat at her private bar. They speak with a voice clear and crisp, that is simultaneously laced with what feels like digital noise in a tunnel. “How’s it going Liz?”

She sits across from them and offers them the joint. “It’s going. Didn’t expect to see you in person today.”

Smoothly accepting the joint in one fluid motion, they speak. “I have something very rare for you today. I worked with a very unique artist recently. I wanted to give it to you in person.”

He raises the spliff into the shifting void in his hood, its fiery end suddenly brightly visible in contrast to the darkness around it. As they take a puff, a shifting tapestry of human features is illuminated in ember-light, eliciting a gasp from Liz. Amidst the chaos, two infinitely deep eyes of swirling colors stare out at her. They reach out and present an open palm with a tiny purple package in it.

Gently picking it up, she holds it up between them. She can’t help herself and blurts a series of questions out: “How do you do it? How are you bridging realities? Is it all chemistry?”

Offering the joint back, The Founder rises to leave. Their voice sounds like it is traveling from a great distance to reach her. “Everything is chemistry. Reality is here for us to explore and shape. Do not forget who you are.” Gesturing around with one hand, “This time, this place - none of this defines you. Thank you for your help Liz. I will see you again soon.”

Before she can respond, or ask about the delivery, they drop a smallish, neatly wrapped, and nondescript container on the floor. Without losing a beat, they make their way to the door.

Liz squeezes in a few words rapidly.“Thank you. What is this rare one you gave me called?”

“It is the Natirupe Pill. Remember what I told you.”

Once they are gone, Liz watches the crowd downstairs dancing for a bit. She finishes the joint, wondering who, or what exactly The Founder is. Maybe the real question is who she is. She opens the tiny purple package and discovers the most absurdly kawaii looking pill she’s ever seen. It is even wearing what appears to be cat-ear tipped headphones, and a little HUD displays 8-bit game stats. The container is adorned with what appears to be gaming controls and stickers of anime characters. A purple glow emanates from within, drawing her in slowly.

She presses on one of the buttons, and the container opens silently. She plucks the pill from its tethers, and looks at it closely. She speaks to the empty room, “What in the fuck am I about to get into?”

Liz tosses the pill in her mouth.

The transition is immediate.

Part - II

The heavy beat stream of the live DJ set resonates its way out of the floor, through the stool, and steadily into Liz’s soul. Like a pendulum swinging endlessly, the tempo indicates the passage of time, without any markers tying it to a time of day. As the beats shift through moods, she flows from one thought to another.

Taking a long drag on her spliff, Liz lays down her media-pad. Thoughts of feeding boredom with meaningless drivel remind her of the desperation of the masses. Looking at a sea of elevated souls dancing below her, she is reminded of their need to hurry towards the next exciting, stimulating thing available to them. They are always racing towards anything that can make them feel better.

In sync with the beat, bodies move both fluildly and erratically. An audio-visual machine made of a million organic parts, it feeds on a frenzied factory of dopamine and endorphins. As the swarm picks up momentum and energy, time starts to slow down exponentially. Liz holds her breath as she realizes the temporal shift unfolding before her.

At first the dance is visible like a hive of bees working in unison. It then transforms into a series of mechanical movements triggering each other; a domino effect of motion from one limb to another. Suddenly, the causality turns into a testament of will, as the intentionality behind all movement becomes inexplicably apparent to Liz.

She can feel the frenzied resolve in every single person before her, dedicated to escaping time by stopping it as best they can. This overwhelming realization hits Liz with great force, and suddenly the scene before her is drained of all color. She sees a dance of the dead before her, their inevitable mortality suddenly on display, like an x-ray for their souls.

The dance stops. Every single person looks up at Liz. She staggers backwards in fear, feeling a wave of desperation, realizing that she exists to feed their boredom. She trips over a neatly wrapped container on the floor, and falls backwards.

And falls, into a landscape where color is melting away. Eyes peer out from shadows, their bodies formless. Deep down at the core of things, something breaks, like a spring popping loose. Liz feels unhinged and she falls.

And falls, into a tunnel lined with iridescent cables around her, light pulsing with a beat that thumps along with unstoppable force. The sound feeds her soul and fills it with color and life, and strands of electricity begin to surge through what was once her body. The sense of falling morphs into a sense of floating, and she finds herself one with a multicolor void around her.

Reaching out with her mind she gives shape to her body. She looks down at her familiar hands, and looks up to find herself in a very busy cityscape, surrounded by people. As she observes individuals, she can see their lives unfolding before her. She can see their hopes and desires, and their futility and sadness. They are on tracks made of electric currents, propelling them from their irreversible pasts, towards their inevitable futures.

Realizing she is not on such a trajectory, she takes a big inhale of air. Everything around her slows down drastically. She exhales, and things speed up again. She tries it again, and watches a person in a trench coat slow down in front of her. The further she decelerates things, the more she can see aspects of the person’s life. They are in a hurry to get to work, in a hurry to get a project finished, in a hurry to be free to jack into a metaverse drama stream. So much urgency.

She lets go of the reins and everything returns to a normal cadence, the deeper details once again obscured in the regular pace of society. The horde of humanity continues to chase itself towards its inescapable end. Turning away from the scene before her, she dissolves back into the colorful void, uninterested in the predictability of life.

Feeling a sense of euphoric clarity, Liz allows herself to evolve above the notion of expiration, and reforms her corporeal self into a serene scene in nature. A vast ocean lies to her right, an enormous range of mountains to her left, both running down the coast before her into the horizon. She turns around and finds herself at the entrance to a beautiful Japanese Temple, steps leading up through an archway. Beyond this, ridged tiles cascade elegantly above lotus shaped windows, and big open spaces with well kept gardens.

Monk-like figures tend to the details, some gardening, some engaging in carpentry. She walks up and into the Temple, taking in their actions, learning what it means to be patient. Filled with a sense of hunger to know more about everything around her, she follows a pathway to the center of the complex. Here she finds a little girl playing a video game on a holoscreen before her, with an early 21st century controller in her hands.

Peering over her shoulder, Liz realizes the game is a puzzle, where she is matching a series of shapes and colors. Looking at the stats on screen, she realizes the girl is on level 1111 of the game. She asks her, “How long have you been playing this game?”

The girl puts down the controller, and looks up at Liz with galaxies swirling in her eyes. “Forever. You can never die in this game. I am still learning how to play it better.”

A little hamster pokes its head out of her shirt, and looks at Liz curiously. She feels something gentle brush up against her shin, and looks down to find a gray and white cat passing by.

The little girl holds the hamster out to Liz and says, “You can take Tito with you for a bit if you’re feeling lost.” She gestures at the cat and says, “And Michu can help lead you out of the Temple if you like as well.”

Liz accepts Tito, and watches the girl go back to her video game. Looking over at Michu, she realizes the cat is already walking away. Looking up, she realizes she cannot find the way she came in. She starts walking after the cat, and Tito suddenly says to her, “Do not forget who you are.”

Startled, Liz drops Tito, who in turn runs back to the little girl.

Turning back towards the cat, Liz finds Michu staring at her. He says to her, “This time and place does not define you.”

Abruptly, she is aware of her full potential. A sense of infinity swells up inside of her, and the Temple around her begins to resonate with a steady, rhythmic vibration. Michu blinks at her slowly, and Liz blinks back to show gratitude. She finds herself in a weightless void of iridescent color. She blinks again and is staring at the soulless gaze of a million eyes. Blink. She is back in her office, looking down at rave culture. She shakes her head and takes a hit of the joint in her hand to make sure she’s really back.

The beat drones on, and the crowd below dances into the night. Liz pulls up her table-top AR displays, and jacks into her neural interface. She is ready to redesign her lighting arrays, and enhance the acoustics in her club. She has so much to offer her patrons.

https://opensea.io/assets/0x42c6bcbbd42b0df212564f101d2edac7fb908b9b/44

Part I

Old City shallowly breathes a deep night fog, as the humidity presses down with all its weight. Street cars roll by slowly, labored, like ghostly apparitions looking for their final destinations. Neon highlights from bar windows cut through the misty swirls left behind in their wake. Occasionally, a patron exits a bar and disappears into the darkness.

Looking up, Ringo takes in the blurred, star-like glimmers that are the lights of New City, hundreds of meters overhead. He wonders what it was like generations ago when the actual stars in the night sky were visible. He remembers how he caught a glimpse of the moon in the sky once, as a teenager. It was so fleeting and obscure it could have been a light globe he mistook in a haze of stims.

He takes a puff of his hand rolled cigarette, and breathes a plume into the dreary scene overhead. A drone whizzes by carrying a small trapezoidal package - Ramen being delivered to satisfy a late night craving of broth on a couch. Things are oppressively calm tonight. Barely a soul outside, thoughts sitting heavy on the mind.

Shifting his gaze back to street level, Ringo notices a pair of professional drinkers stepping out of The Coffeeshop to smoke. Why anybody would name a bar like that is beyond him. Then again, most people don’t really understand why Ringo does anything Ringo does.

He takes another tug of smoke, snuffs and pockets the butt, and steps off his scooter towards the bar. Crossing the street, he passes under a street light and the drinkers look up to see who is approaching. Noticing his multi-colored AR Lens over his right eye, and the bristle of chrome mods running down his neck, they quickly look away and give him his space. They must not be locals if they feel intimidated.

Ringo steps into the bar through a neon-lined entrance, with obscure graffiti tagged all over the short corridor. It is pretty empty tonight; an abandoned pool game is flanked by chairs and tables that wait patiently for somebody to occupy them. A low laugh from a couple drinking in a dark corner cuts through the Blues playing through the sound system. Traditionally themed, this bar even smells like ancient Americana. Ringo walks straight to the bar, and waves hello to Aerik, the owner of this fine establishment. “Good Night!”

Aerik grins, “Good Night Ringo.”

Posting up on a stool, Ringo subtly passes his ledger over the bar. His AR Lens brings up a menu, and he blinks through to something colorful. It looks like a pink vacation in a cup, with a parasol sticking out the top, and thin swirls of blue ocean dancing through it.

“Business good? Looks like you got some new folks to sling drinks to outside.”

Tossing together the pink vacation drink absently, Aerik says, “There’s been more new faces coming this week, but things are slow everywhere overall.” Leaning in closer as he serves up the drink, more quietly now, “One of them asked about The Founder.”

Ringo stiffens a little on the stool and gives the room a shifty look. The two smokers from outside are back inside and occasionally gazing over at them.  “Word’s been getting out I see. I’ll have a new batch for you soon.”

“Looking forward to it. What trouble are you getting up to tonight?”

A Steady sip on the pink vacation, blue swirls shifting lazily beneath the surface. “I think I’m going to try the Phantom.”

Aerik’s eyes widen. “I heard it takes the weight of the world off your shoulders.”

Ringo nods, finishes his drink, and gets up to leave. “Sounds exactly like what we all need to be honest. Thanks Aerik, see you soon.”

“Enjoy Ringo.”

The street is as quiet as before, the fog sulking heavily amidst the ancient architecture around him. With no particular direction, he begins walking into the night and tosses a pill the color of an overcast sky in his mouth.

The transition is immediate.

Part II

Old City breathes deeply, immersed in a massive fluffy cloud, in the reassuring grip of night. Apparitions with headlights steadily float through streets lined with old architecture, denizens of a timeless dreamscape. The neon glow of life within this metropolis reaches out gently into swirling mists, subtle indicators of the passage of time. Patiently, natives seek out their next destinations.

The shimmering lights overhead draw Ringo’s attention. He is enthralled by the juxtaposition of a massive and shiny city built over one that is millenia old. Suddenly, an alien, ghostly, pale white light appears in the sky. It is abruptly in view, its light wading through the overcast sky like a forgotten memory swelling up to the surface.

A gray creature with huge wings floats overhead, shaped like a manta ray, but moving like a bird catching a current of air mid-flight. In its wake, fog swirls, and suddenly expands, enveloping Ringo in what appears to be an enormous cumulus cloud. And suddenly, he feels weightless and elated as the surrounding brume raises him above the street he was standing on. He cannot tell if the city below him is falling away, or the city above him is rushing down towards him.

As he begins to reach the heights of New City above, he realizes that he is in fact drawing the Moon down to where he is. As he breathes in the luminosity of reflected sunlight, he closes his eyes, and becomes aware of an entire network of light and sound around him. It is the city, machine like, fueled by and responding to his awareness of it.

As he focuses on different sections of this newfound lightscape, contours outlining all manner of mechanisms come to life. His attention actuates them, and moves them together in harmony. Digital systems come to life, illuminating networks of fiber optics carrying his thoughts from one system to another.

He becomes aware of a layer above it: ethereal, and intricately detailed with geometric gossamers of electric radiance connecting an infinitude of points together. He reaches for this web, and finds it wrapping itself around his fingers and hands; a ghostly embrace. Slowly, it envelops his physicality, and he is himself a part of this network of data, swarming like a mass of particles forming a vapor.

Realizing his ability to now disconnect from the physical, he finds himself balancing on a threshold overlooking a vast cosmos made of airy constructs. He sees a nebula made of shades of grays bordering on blue, lined with luminous streaks and silhouettes of shining silver, like lightning organically weaving itself through any and all negative spaces it can find.

Feeling the totality of this lattice of energy he has found himself in, he shifts his gaze outwards, and somehow, down. He sees a shimmering tree growing out of an organic mass of moss covered rock, like an asteroid hovering amidst this psychedelic void. He shifts through this living chasm till he is standing before it, the moss a series of fractaled ripples around him. Subtle stratus clouds full of energy flank the planetoid he now stands upon.

The tree’s leaves are white and silver, glowing and pulsing with the pace of steady breathing. Its bark and knots an ashen gray, reaching out with complexity towards the light of the galaxy around it. Ringo realizes that perhaps the web of lights around him may be growing towards the tree itself. He is content not knowing which expansion precedes the other, and confident that he is a part of this slow dance of attraction.

He opens his palm and places it on the trunk of the tree. He blinks and feels warm electricity coursing through his body; he is light. He blinks again, and sees tendrils of fiber receding towards his fingertips. Blink. He is a cog in a machine that is a massive city. One more blink, and he is standing outside The CoffeeShop. He blinks a few more times to make sure he’s back.

Feeling light on his feet, he looks across the street to locate his scooter. He lightly saunters through the neon-lit fog, and hops on his funky ride. He is ready to ride into the night, stress free, without a care in the world.

https://rarible.com/token/0x42c6bcbbd42b0df212564f101d2edac7fb908b9b:13

Part I

City noises drift up from the urban sprawl below Ma’rud, as they squat on the ledge of the Legacy Overpass. It is otherwise quiet on this massive and ancient stretch of steel and concrete spanning 200 meters, floating 200 meters above Old City rooftops. The glow of neon light from holoboards advertising soulless fashion brands illuminate the emptiness of the city at this height.

Thousands of windows in surrounding buildings gaze out over the expanse with them, skimming the view for some sign of activity. It’s been raining for almost a week straight now, and everything feels wet and soggy. A commercial abruptly flickers into view nearby, the images of happiness in the models’ faces sharply contrasting the sense of isolation they are hovering over. One of the models winks knowingly.

Ma’rud frowns at the sudden, intrusive ad. They’ve forgotten how long they have been squatting there, and shift their weight a little. Left foot feels numb, neck is tight. They roll their neck around, the rain rolling off their black polyfiber poncho, droplets joining the steady rain’s descent into the chasm below.

They hear the creak of a food vendor’s wheels approaching, a dangling LED lit sign slapping against the side of the cart rhythmically. They look over and see Moe; a living relic from a forgotten era, pushing his cart full of pastries, bagels, and coffee around. He waves and approaches, not speeding up or slowing down in the slightest, his bulking figure ambling steadily under a massive yellow and blue umbrella. It could possibly be the brightest thing in the universe.

Ma’rud nods in his direction, “Hey Moe.”

He pulls up next to them, the rain’s pitter patter shifting from their poncho to his umbrella’s colorful canopy. “Hey Ma’rud. It’s awful out, what are you doing out here? Hanging out on the edge of the guardrail like that, it always makes me so nervous. Aren’t you afraid you’ll fall?”

Slight grin. “I didn’t know you cared, that’s sweet.”

Moe chuckles, “Who else am I going to sell coffee to out here if you’re gone? This weather is killing my business, and you’re the only one weird enough to sit in the rain all day.”

While they riff, he pours them a coffee, throws a sugar cube and a swizzle stick in it, and hands it over. They tap their ledger on his dangling sign, and watch the LEDs signal a successful transaction. He hands them a wrapped danish, and they vanish it smoothly into a hidden pocket.

Moe tells some stories about the old days, but Ma’rud is is zoned out, sipping on the warm coffee, feeling the caffeine slowly move dopamine levels around. They greatly enjoy the rarity of real sugar Moe provides, which leaves no chemical after taste. They never ask after the source, even of the arabica beans, for fear of engaging more than necessary.

Suddenly a distant buzzing sound is in earshot, rapidly getting louder. Ma’rud immediately identifies the intrusive sound as Ringo’s ridiculous, hacked up scooter. What a piece of colossal mechanical shit.

Ringo pulls up, as Moe disapprovingly counts off a number of reasons why “kids today aren’t gonna make it,” and starts pushing away. “Sheesh, Moe really just hates me doesn’t he?”

Ma’rud grins. “Maybe he just doesn’t appreciate you pulling up to his place of business in that deathtrap you’re straddling. Bad for business.”

They both laugh.

Ringo digs around in his pockets. “Got something for ya. Owe ya from last time.”

They both look around carefully before Ringo hands over a neat little package. Ma’rud puts their coffee down and daintily peers into the packaging in their hands.“Is this a JL?!”

“You know it! It’s intense. Your curiosity is going to overwhelm you.”

“I went on a date and took a Morph last time, and that was curiously overwhelming”

Ringo’s eyes widen. “Holy shit. You went on a date?!”

Ma’rud punches Ringo’s shoulder as he giggles at their cheerless expression. “Yeah, just because I think you’re a dingus doesn’t mean I think everyone else is.”

“Well, I think you’re going to find this will be an educational experience. It made me feel like I was actually smart!”

They both laugh like idiots.

Ringo noisily scoots off in the rain, a cartoon-like sight of the times; a replica antique on unreasonably massive wheels, burdened by a claustrophobic cluster of various miniature devices and apparatuses. Who knows what any of them do.

Soon it is quiet again. Ma’rud glances around quickly, and vaults over the ledge. Swinging gracefully over the rails, they propel themselves into a hidden enclosure beneath the Overpass. Settling into their secret nook, they slide off their poncho, light a few candles, and take a look at the beautiful glass-like pill that has come into their possession. They lean back, and drop.

The transition is immediate

Part II

City noises drift up from the urban sprawl below Ma’rud, as they dangle their legs over the side of the Legacy Overpass. A festive day on this massive and ancient stretch of steel and concrete 200 meters above Old City, music and chatter permeate the air. The sun bathes the scene of vendors and those strolling down the stretch in warmth, a sense of community apparent in the waves of conversation rolling by.

Thousands of windows in surrounding buildings face a city full of history, culture, and connection; the architecture and technology part of a story that never stops unfolding. Teeming with life, the city dances its dance of commerce and progress, ever growing, ever expanding. Holoboards display models showing off the latest casual fashions with looks of contentment, a certain humility to their body language as they project genuine smiles.

Ma’rud remembers all the ads that have passed through these holoboards, and how the architecture around them has slowly grown and evolved over the last couple of decades. They grin up at the beaming ads overhead - and suddenly feel a surge of energy rapidly spreading out from behind their eyes, rushing down their neck and spine, and expanding intensely outwards.

The Overpass turns into a glass bridge spanning the vast stretch between buildings so far up over the centuries-old architecture below, its rooftops visible through the floor. The windows in the modern buildings all around slowly glow, their glass panes now stained with color, each one refracting day light across various colors of the spectrum of light.

As Ma’rud shifts their gaze over towards the vendors, they spot Moe with his beautiful vintage food cart, approaching with a percussive rhythm singing of an era defined by analog machinations. Moe waddles over steadily, and they both wave at each other.

They exchange hellos, and he hands them a cup of coffee, and a pastry, and Moe begins telling some stories about the past. He speaks about old bagel stores in Old City, and a Turkish cafe that smelled like rose water all the time. Ma’rud sips their newly acquired coffee and listens intently.

He asks them, “Have you ever had Turkish coffee before?”

Before they can answer, their world melts away into a million panels of glass, and reforms into the scene of a weathered neighborhood with a bagel store on one corner, and a coffeeshop right next to it. They peer in through the cafe window, and experience a surge of knowledge rush into their mind. They suddenly know so much about Murat, the shop’s owner. They know where his coffee beans come from, why he only uses a copper cezve to heat his Turkish java, and just how much sugar he believes is best for a single serving. They can taste it now, the aroma filling their nostrils, and the caffeine sharpening the senses.

And everything falls back through the myriad of stained glass facets, and they find themselves in front of Moe again.

“Turkish coffee is so strong!”

Moe laughs and nods, “Indeed, a delicious shot of energy! Do you remember when it first became so difficult to find a decent cup of coffee?”

Reality transforms steadily into a mosaic of stained glass panels, and Ma’rud watches with fascination as the restructuring of their environment brings them to an older version of the city. They look around and see buildings made of brick and glass, streetlights dangling from wires held up by ancient aluminum poles. A noisy car passes by with neon detailing all over it, the driver staring up at the sky in awe.

Ma’rud looks up and sees massive structures falling out of the sky and recognizes this day as the day all the satellites fell out of the sky. Burning streaks of flame and smoke shooting across the sky, terminating one by one all across the sprawling city they live in. Screams are suddenly audible all around them. The knowledge that the corporate conglomerates and governments all got their systems hacked at once comes spilling into Ma’rud’s mind.

Their data networks breached, their corruption exposed, and now their satellites programmed to fall out of orbit and crash back down from whence they came, a time of change and great hardship followed. Impact sites were devastating to the already frail environment, their resulting toxic fires billowing plumes of hazardous chemicals into the atmosphere. Communications networks were shattered, and the global financial system collapsed in a matter of seconds.

And from the fall of the uncaring giants running the planet, came a time of reconsideration. Entire generations grew up watching the rise of new technologies geared to rebuild society. Massive scrubbers were built to filter and clean the air. Droids and recycled polymers were developed to build over and above existing cities. And a new interconnected network called the Metaverse replaced the old web, allowing people to escape the dreariness of the world.

Slowly, some old human tendencies came back; overpopulation, meaningless jobs and economic hardships, and escapism resurfaced. And amid it all, the cities grew, and grew, until the sprawl enveloped the majority of the planet.

Ma’rud allows everything to fade back into a collage of glass shards, prepared this time. And instead of falling right back into the Legacy Overpass, they freeze the transition halfway, and find themselves looking at a masterpiece of stained glass with floral designs, and a beautiful sunflower right in the middle. Each petal of each flower a window into potential futures, the green leaves apertures outlining vignettes of nature scenes, and blue skies a patchwork portal of translucence drawing tears up from wells deep inside of the human spirit.

They reach out to touch the sunflower at the center, and suddenly experience the tactile sense of running one’s fingers across finely gilded precious metals. They have only ever seen such antique materials in movies and holobooks. The sensation envelops them in a feeling of intense sentimentality, both foreign and familiar. Memories from another life, another time overcome their mind, and they feel their vision blurring with tears.

Ma’rud cries, and Moe gives them a hug. They hear a distant buzzing that can only belong to Ringo’s awful crapmobile. Wiping tears out of their eyes, they look over and see people getting out of the way as he approaches. They blink and suddenly are staring at a stranger making coffee. They blink again, and are looking at light shining in through stained glass portholes. Two last blinks bring them back through a vibrant city and into their nook below the Overpass.

The candles are burning a little lower, but there is still enough light to write by. From a deep fold within their discarded poncho, Ma’rud pulls out a notebook and pen, antiques they discovered years ago in Old City. They begin writing furiously, stories flowing out of them like a chemical torrent: distilling the experiences of a million past lives.

https://rarible.com/token/0x42c6bcbbd42b0df212564f101d2edac7fb908b9b:43

Part I

The pitch of windchimes overhead contrasts the dreary weather pressing down on everybody. Collars thrown up, shoulders hunched down, figures shuffle through the rain in colorless outer shells. Their haste reverberates off the food stalls’ walls in the form of sloshing footsteps. The smells of ramen and roasted pork somehow cut through the heavy air, triggering memories in synesthetes, and hunger in normies.

Xero watches the strangers move through Chinatown, as he sips his chemtea at Chu Hua’s Zen Hovel. Today he is trying a lavender and raspberry combo. He can almost forget it’s synthetic, but the saccharin aftertaste always lingers.

The sun has not shown itself in 2 weeks, and the rain has been nonstop for a week straight now. There is a tension that rises to the surface, when things get soaked in dullness to this degree. Many are escaping into the metaverse, jacked in for hours on end. The ensuing headaches that follow don’t help with the mood, and it shows in the beatless dance of commerce on this street. The rhythm of the city is subdued; there is no set tempo.

Xero doesn’t care. Tapping his ledger on the terminal, he exchanges a nod with Chu, and walks out into the rain, chin up, eyes alert. The tea did its job as always - mind alert, body relaxed. Smooth strides take him home, not a care over the water hitting his face. The grey masses occasionally look up to see his smiling face illuminated by the neon street lights, a visage exuding confidence.

As he turns onto his street, he sees Ringo pulling up on his hacked up scooter. A fiberglass 20th century Vespa replica riding on tubeless monster wheels, he has so much tech jammed into that tiny piece of shit, it’s a wonder he has space to sit on it. Ringo steps off his frankenbike and signs a hello with his hands.

“Sup.”

Xero sweeps back his oil-slick trenchcoat’s folds, and snakes out a tiny parcel wrapped carefully in mylar. Seamlessly, Ringo passes his hand over it, disappearing it into his sleeves; a quick exchange of skin to any observer.

Ringo then discretely deposits a seemingly identical parcel into Xero’s palm, a smooth reversal of their first handshake. In a flash, the second package vanishes, and their concordat is complete.

“Thanks Ringo, what’s this Argo batch about?”

“This one’s super emotive - throws you right into suppressed rage, internal screaming, but the tension just rises and rises till these blue tears squeeze out… and then it’s pure technicolor LIFE man!”

Xero frowns a little. “Woah. Sounds stressful. How’s the exit?”

Ringo paces a little, his face a mirror of deep thought.  “Pretty much the opposite of the peak; strobes you back, hungry to tackle the world, hungry to grow, to learn. Lays you down in a bed of motivation to set fire to the world. You comin’ back strong.”

“Shit. Sounds like you gotta work for it. This last batch was like that; there was so much information to process, so elegant, but had to engage to feed the hunger.”

Ringo fidgets a little “This the JL one, right? I heard it keeps you on your toes!”

Xero nods.  “Absolutely, you better be ready to answer some questions, kid.”

“Bet. Thanks! Let me know how it goes. And let me know if you hear anything about those Ancients. That shit RARE!”

“You’ve been asking for weeks. Be safe, don’t fucking die on that shitmobile!”

Ringo scoffs and climbs onto his monstrosity. Throwing a hand sign farewell, he scoots off into the rain without a care in the world.  The weather beats down in his wake, its steady white noise soon the only sound to hear, as his scooter fades into the distance.

Xero walks up to his stoop, greeted by a calico cat leaning into his shins on the steps. He greets her back, “Hey Babygirl.” He picks her up and walks into his house, an old gray brownstone contrasting sharply with the modern neon glow around it. He fishes out the package from Ringo and grins at it in his palm, and letting Babygirl plop onto his floor he says to nobody in particular, "It’s time to drop."

The transition is immediate.

Argo Pill - II

The pitch of windchimes overhead is an explosion of multicolored bliss coupled with the rays of the sun beating down, like a deluge of golden warmth flowing into everyone’s hearts. There is a sense of determination on the streets, everybody moving forward with meaning; relaxed, but zoned in. The steady rhythmic footsteps create a multi layered percussive harmony to the market. Everybody experiences olfactory-memory synesthesia as they catch whiffs of ramen and roasted pork, a healthy aroma dancing on the light air.

Xero watches strangers move through Chinatown, as he sips his chemtea at Chu Hua’s Zen Hovel. Today he is trying a lavender and raspberry combo. The taste reminds him of sunlit fields, with insects buzzing busily around-

“OUCH”

A sudden jarring sensation, like a bee sting. As quickly as the thoughts of fields dissipate, the sense of disgust rushes in, like a torrent of sickness riding a tsunami. Xero snaps his head up to look around him and notices the sunlight fading, as if a cloud is suddenly blocking its rays. Its brightness is replaced with the neon glow of the city, the purple-red-blue lights illuminating the features of everything around him.

The pedestrians are no longer exuding confidence. They are instead emitting a frenzied energy, a sense of indescribable urgency. They walk with a sort of run-down quickness, but alert. Xero suddenly sees the desperation of society, tied to their jobs, their banks, their governments. The day-to-day is no longer a routine, but a forced and joyless system, draining the creativity and caring out of people that have succumbed to it.

Xero remembers now - he remembers his past life. A dead-end job writing software for a corporation that farms user data, his coworkers faceless automatons buried in their info tablets. His commute in the dreary weather on a daily basis, constantly feeling wet and heavy. Food picked up at the market providing temporary solace, but no lasting satisfaction. Coming home to an apartment devoid of other life, the ads on his holoscreen displaying bleak reminders of the company he works for.

As he remembers, he feels an internal pressure; a tension at his very core of being. It’s expanding outwards, growing like a tumor. And he realizes suddenly that it is a scream. A primal, jaw stretching, lung deflating scream. But instead of a vocal release, he finds himself crying.

The tears are azure blue, like an impossibly clean river from another era. Their chemical constitution of purest remorse and nostalgia. He watches them splash down in front of him, and form a lake teeming with life, surrounded by fields peppered with deep lavender and vivid raspberry hues. Further off in the distance he sees mountains forming a sawtooth horizon, a deep gold and red explosion dawning where the sky meets it. Clouds above softly reflect pastel variants of the palette he has discovered before him.

Big inhale Big exhale

The unevenly jagged horizon now begins to approach him vertically as well. Steadily, the zigzagging lines begin to form fractures in this world he has come to awareness in, and he becomes aware of chasms opening up all around him. The cracks in the tableau shining a bright technicolor light, pleasantly pouring into his vision, drawing him to their source.

As Xero melts through the light and back into the market stall, he finds himself looking down at his cup of chemtea. Chu nudges him gently, “Xero, you good?”

Looking around, he sees the sun is back, everybody’s frantic energy is gone, but their confidence is not restored. He sees fissures in every person around him, narrow and jagged windows into their worlds full of azure blue remorse, and reminiscence. He sees their inner chemistries: unharnessed balls of creative energy they are themselves unaware of.

“Yeah Chu, I’m good. Great tea, thank you.”

Tapping his ledger on the terminal, he exchanges a nod with Chu, and walks out into the sun, chin up, eyes alert. He passes by strangers around him made of colorful shards, their faces slowly glitching in and out of confidence and despair. The monolithic city around them is seemingly unchanging and ancient, while they live out their short lives in its shadows.

As he turns onto his street, he sees Ringo pulling up on his hacked up scooter.

“Wait a sec-“

Everything shifts, and Xero reels backwards and then forwards. He braces, expecting impact, but there is none. He blinks, and his city is replaced with a view of a lake. He blinks again, now he’s at the market, but everything is dark. Blink - at home with Babygirl curled up in his lap.

Xero blinks a few extra times for good measure. He’s definitely back. Babygirl stands up and yawns. Big stretch. She sits and squares up with Xero, “Meow,” lazy.

In one fluid motion, Xero gets up, plops her on the floor, pours out some kibble for her, and throws himself into his art room. It’s time to plug in and make some art. He can feel pure intention ready to shoot out of his fingertips as he settles into his console, ready to push his endorphins to the next level. He melts towards his new journey into discovery.

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