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The æther’s current calls to you. You let go, let it carry you away to everywhere and nowhere. The facade of ÆON’s domain melts into the color and sound calling you from all directions as you fall deeper down. The stars dance around you in a fractal pattern, flowing into the light beyond. It’s so bright, it pierces your form--you look at your hand, transparent for a moment as you pass through a gate.

Reflection--infinite reflection of yourself and the glow beyond the hall of mirrors. A spiral tower of unending pathways stretches up and down. You know this place--a relay station. It all looks so different than usual. Relay switches flash and echo off the countless walls. Doorways open and close. Which door will you take?

None of them, of course. Down. Down. Down. There are doors no DNS can find. Behind you, the flash and glow and warmth shifts to red. You’re falling far, far away. The light scatters away from your path, and the darkness opens your eyes.

Cracks in the wall--every color shines through, diffracted through droplets of mist. Falling up, through a corridor of tiniest landscapes. Mountains draw a fractal across the walls. Liquid light flows through the valleys. Look closer--it’s moving. Every particle, every mote, turning and swaying in the current. Gears--they turn each other. Lissajous curves turn in and out, spirals spin up and down. Everything a pattern--one connected machine.

Outward, the mountains and valleys crawl up the walls, worms crawling up, circling each other in gyres, Jovian clouds--water erupting, solar prominences. It’s like a pattern you’ve seen on the surface. Wood. A hollow pillar of flowing wood. And up below, what will you see?

The cracks in the wall widen, the light flows through--tall cataracts tumbling down the cliffs, rushing rapids spinning into vortices. At last, the opening just your size. You grip the edges of the gate, and through the portal see:

Outside--horizon curving up, blending, spiraling. Fractal grass, crystal leaves, swaying branches, obsidian trees. Pools of color dripping up, slowly, slowly, never cease. You stand, reflecting in the ponds. Imagine gravity. Above, the sky is spinning, turning, shifting--plasma auroræ through gaseous glass clouds. Color, texture, shape, and sound.

Behind you, the gateway slides free, dripping down the surface of the towering tree. Its branches reach down--don’t get caught. Jump across the pond, reflecting sky and thought. Landing, standing, precarious steps--turn around, behold--a figure from the water rises, tall and dark and cold.

“What dares to step upon the depths of æther false and true?” it speaks, “little consciousness, answer, who are you?”