Wakebox

Jazzed in the wakebox. A night of piped dreams and rapid learning protocols spinning in through fractal patterns, while the body gets worked over by nano-mechanics and all those little issues get gone over and worked out. He woke up and felt like a new person.

The evening before he had been on a wreck and forget mission – another sad break-up. He didn’t emote-wipes, and he had a bad experience on beat-off-the-heart, so the good old tradition of liver and kidney damaging intoxication was the option he chose. It was expensive, especially in this prohibition speakeasy joint era, and the relief was temporary at best, but in the moment? It worked.

But he also knew he had to be up and ready for it this morning, so, being of a pragmatic nature he had budgeted for a rapid repair cycle in the wakebox.

He felt a little strange as he stepped out onto the street, his feet were heavy and he felt a little light-headed. His vision started to swim and when he touched his hand to his forehead he was burning up. His on-board bio confirmed it – a translation-viral leaping from informational to meat construct. It had him pinned and he was transmitting his location somewhere.

Dark in the wakebox. Was that a dream? No – this wasn’t the luxury facility he slept in last night … this was something else.

‘Hello?’

No answer. A dart jabbed him in the thigh – cool liquid seeped up his left side in a way that suggested bio-nano-goop to him; a fucking infiltrate. Designed to do what? Reprogram? Why him? He was a nothing – a non-important bookstore clerk.

The fractals cycled up, a vocal element was introduced, and the sickly feverish feeling spread and undulated through him in rolling waves. And then it ended.

Wet and cold atop the wakebox. His own wakebox at home. How had he been transported and what was the purpose of the kidnap?

POTUS liked to shop for books. He was working that day. Standing behind the counter, slacking off, reading Catcher In The Rye, a classic.

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