Strap in. This is your training mission. Reality Blitz 101. The subversive environment is a singularity fuelled totality with roaming syntax and learning heuristics that will tilt the plane of existence around the subject as they try to adapt.
Rotating barrel scenarios with roulette logic triggers are spinning like satellites about in the orbit of the driving plugged in consciousness. Hera is in a disconnect state at the moment. Is this real?
Dead scripts. Live scripts. Interslices slide through and tangle the different movements. Realities clatter and grind against each other. Behind her eyes she is engaged in a rapid sorting of conflicting data that tries to identify which of the competing truths is actually real, or if not real then at least relevant to her survival.
Bellwether is a reality engine. He doesn’t realise it. He has been used as an infiltration tool. He is a Trojan horse. He stands there and she knows that he is thinking that he is here for a specific purpose … Thinking or thought, does that still hold true for him?
He can’t see what she can see, he can see things unspooling from him like ribbons of other. Coding gone awry. Script debased. Reality fried. She was not in his original script, but she could be accommodated. The tesseract laced hit that she just used to punch free-roaming chronon particles into him that are interfering with his integrity field is not working on him how it might work on others. This was not an eventuality they had planned for.
Truth blisters, ruptures, tears and splits and oozes. She can fight through this. He is trained to fight through it too, but he is compromised; there is something other that is built into him.
And she is on a mission. She is in a simulation. She is experiencing a maybe tomorrow collapsing into a maybe now. This is a swirl of probability waves, sequential causal collapse and resurgence; death of a quantum computer.
She hits him again and a deep existential nausea riptides through her. He flickers, slight spatial rearrangement of features. Localspace is a broken frame. For a second they swap places. They blink out of existence. They blink back.
The light show is creation in reverse … Half-hearted Big Crunch. He hits her and it feels like a repudiation of her truth; of her reality; of her right to exist. This is anti-reality; death packaged in a bipedal form. An origami fold of realities into a thousand petaled lotus that is the awakening of a fledgling otherness.
One sum versus another some. Sparking mathematics. Rapid calculate. It seems to bend the physical space around the notional; the ideational underpinning strained to breaking point. Greenstick fracture reality … She doesn’t know how to possibly move forward. Is there a forward? Directional impulses seem negated, turned in on themselves. Existential collapse as a precursor to localspace breakdown. She can’t survive it, but she knows he can. What to do?
She drops a Causal Block: it detonates in the subtext and the whole scene grinds to a halt. You have to acquiesce to local rules if you want to plug yourself in. She had him, but she was frozen in the amber too. Buckling space, she’d been held there before. Buckling space into a lock-state she’d done that before. Someone else would have to jumpstart the narrative.