Glittering, peppermint-green lights tumbled out of the tightly wound cord he pulled from what should have been a spine. The clattering did not register with the blonde face down on an impersonal, clinical slab of steel, while the Surgeon manifested the charges he was paid to carry out, knowing the intricacies of her circuits intimately, the way a lover knows what buttons to push and when. It was a simple arrangement in an otherwise complex universe, an eloquent execution that took nanoseconds to complete by an expert but could render her an eternity. These were highly paid, well educated men, not just puppeteers. Here the bills were foot by rich dreamers. Once upon a time, what you did while sleeping was free. Now, it was a luxury.
By the time the Surgeon was done, Tessalea was her ninth version. Unchanged in appearance bar the Director's commentary that her clothes were not colorful enough and that she needed some clash, and zany shades were added to an already customised eclecticism and memory ideal. More than some Sex Pistol's impulse had been juiced into her. When the thin tube was re-inserted, she was now more inquisitive. With her taste in music and fashion came rebellion.
When she opened baby blue eyes, the world was upside down just as it always was after a Cision. She was new again. And someone somewhere could dream once more. This time, however, the dream would go wrong.
Two Months Later.
A million tiny lights freckled the horizon. The Safe was too high to jump from, some fear, levels dependent on each Director, was built into every binary creation. The street surrounding the building, designed steep as a dam or aquaduct, run with dark as the sun dipped behind the obscured skyline, as other intimidating facades stared back at Tessalea and her fear. But there went that rebellion again, and she threw herself clear of the edge, arms out, legs light, her eyes closed. Space crackled. The pressure that held her snapped. Tessalea fell straight through not only the road, but everything.
Two blocks over, a computer monitor fizzed to life, static whiskered across the screen. A blue display. Ordinarily a desktop and now a window. Two holographic arms, wrists covered in spikes, beads and bands, reaching through...
By the time the Surgeon was done, Tessalea was her ninth version. Unchanged in appearance bar the Director's commentary that her clothes were not colorful enough and that she needed some clash, and zany shades were added to an already customised eclecticism and memory ideal. More than some Sex Pistol's impulse had been juiced into her. When the thin tube was re-inserted, she was now more inquisitive. With her taste in music and fashion came rebellion.
When she opened baby blue eyes, the world was upside down just as it always was after a Cision. She was new again. And someone somewhere could dream once more. This time, however, the dream would go wrong.
Two Months Later.
A million tiny lights freckled the horizon. The Safe was too high to jump from, some fear, levels dependent on each Director, was built into every binary creation. The street surrounding the building, designed steep as a dam or aquaduct, run with dark as the sun dipped behind the obscured skyline, as other intimidating facades stared back at Tessalea and her fear. But there went that rebellion again, and she threw herself clear of the edge, arms out, legs light, her eyes closed. Space crackled. The pressure that held her snapped. Tessalea fell straight through not only the road, but everything.
Two blocks over, a computer monitor fizzed to life, static whiskered across the screen. A blue display. Ordinarily a desktop and now a window. Two holographic arms, wrists covered in spikes, beads and bands, reaching through...