The num lock indicator. The on light of the speaker. The occassional blink of the router, only indication of activity. The monitor connected to the server, the virtual world, rendered in detail. The photons streamed out of the glass surface. a band drew them rapidly, running down the screen faster than human vision.
And in the naked light I saw
Ten thousand people, maybe more
more. much more. trolls from around the world forming a hive mind. thought got stuck here, everyone is on the same plane, thinking and doing the same things in a loop. most of it was killing.
secrets and in jokes. pass words and shibboleths. it was a bizzare prog, in the liminality between exploitation and hacking. The elite were better than the machines, and were frequently accused of being bots. The best bugs were not reported. They were allowed to hang around for potential use.
The blood flowed freely. Nubs were ganked. Those who played fair were rushed. There was no mercy, no quarter. This was not a simulation, pwning here meant pwning a naked soul taken out of it's element. vulnerable human beings who thought the interwebs was fair game, not knowing they were stripped of their physicality. this was a rabid assault on unprotected creatures. a genocide that was not even a crime. this was the raw pleasure of pillage and rapine. In between the keystrokes that belted out the virtual strikes, dodges, shields, heals and magicka, there were the rapidfire keystrokes of text. snide remarks and off coloured jokes. referring to spectacular failures of family members. unnatural laughter... kekekeke. Pinoy, spanish and french rubbed shoulders here with english. There was no universal language, only a garbled
BASIC.
"comando armer for sail, pm check inbox pls prv me"
This was the final frontier, the brave new world, and the promised land. Cyberspace.
People talking without speaking
People hearing without listening
Battlecries and death. The unnatural weapons sing as they belt out the shots from energy sources. The wind turns an army of waiting rifles into a giant organ, taut, fleshy and
noisy. the wind howled tunes lamenting the soon to be dead through the slight variations in the angles of the barrels. The worst song was about to be sung, the song of violence, indescriminate bloodshed. The enemies were always a race, a faction. it boiled down to meaningless faith and conviction, choosing a side. This was not order vs chaos, red pill vs blue pill. This was just blue vs red, square vs circle. The rivalry was clearly manufactured, and that was the point.
Kill them, rape them, make their entire species destitute, humiliate and punish them, and if they show signs of humanity, make them regret it. Cut them to pieces, rip apart their limbs, burn their bones, rejoice in their ashes. Pests, aliens, monsters, bosses, enemies. Does not matter, destroy them or die, respawn and destroy them again. It was not real anyway.
People writing songs that voices never share
And no one dared
Disturb
the sound
of silence
There are beggers outside every temple. The curse of doing well... the curse of fame and reputation, responsibility and duty. All lifted, all evaporate, in a single instance of re-incarnation. You keep everything but your identity. You are your own as long as you escape the things that define you. Gold. The dirty secret, the guilty pleasure, the unspeakable horror of wealth.
Clothes, gear, equipment, weapons... level, are all insignificant as long as you can swim in the coin.
Don't ever show you got rich. Fools, buy low and sell a little higher, and then use the profits to buy more cheap stuff. No need to make anything, no need to farm, just use the cash. Gold breeds as the rat. Farmers, scammers, price fixers and gamblers watch on, gloat and gleefully rub their greased hands, and wallow in the profit, as gold is planted and nurtured.
"Fools", said I,
"You do not know
Silence
like a cancer grows
Hear my words that I might teach you
Take my arms that I might reach you"
But my words,
like silent raindrops fell
And echoed
In the wells
of silence
It was a temple, where forsaken spirits could be revived. This was a space for retribution, an outlet for rage. The targets were innocent, caught in the crossfire, not knowing what unworldly hate they were at the receiving end of.
a child walked in to the world for the first time. it knew no better than to be good, to be model, to be human. it did not realise that this arena was full of spies, griefers and trolls. reason was the enemy and the meta-quests were cheap dreams, quick thrills and easy kicks. it was nice, it begged just a little, it played as well as it could. there were baser creatures against the monsters and bosses, the cutthroat vermin, crabs who wouldn't allow any others to escape the crate. leeches and parasites, the vast majority of the masses that played were just content for the elite few who paid.
And the people bowed and prayed
To the neon god they made
the boss monster loomed overhead. many guilds, and veterans of many raids, prepared their weapons for the perfect timing. then the epic battle started, everyone rushed to the boss, to inflict maximum damage before it managed to heal itself. A crowd in the cess fought as one against the boss monster. It raged, glowed, spluttered toxic blood from all it's wounds, and faught back, killing off groups of rushers in single strikes. Mages rushed in, reviving the dead, and retreating to the outskirts of the pit before the boss could strike them. The resurrected paladins and templars fought with new vigour, not caring if they died in the onslaught. This was just the distraction needed for the assassins and ninjas to start belting out damage. The mages bravely entered the skirmish as well, and the fight got a little chaotic. The boss monster seemed to grow stronger, started glowing, and it's blows became haphazard and furious. The two sides were evenly matched.
And the sign flashed out its warning
In the words that it was forming
And the sign said, "The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls
And tenement halls"
And whispered
in the sounds
of silence
