✴

The Creeper still manifested in headspace while Akiko was fronting, surely Akiko is still here somewhere now, you reason--finding her must be your top priority. But I can read my every thought, you& think. Every corridor you probe into immediately slams shut.

You& stop, deep down in a cold sector, where the mycelium has no texture to feel. This one feels interesting... You& pry open a dense hyphæ cluster and the æther of your& synchronized mind reshapes itself.

You&’re on the Moon--you always instantly know from her distinct gravity. You&‘re small again, not as small as last time. You know this place too well--the grey concrete walls and the blinding white lights, the cold air vents and stale, sterile scent, the featureless hallways and parallel doors, the square ceiling tiles you once knew the exact number of. The only words painted on the hallway confirm your memory--Tereshkova Preparatory School.

As you& walk down the hard tile floor, a multitude walks past you& the other way--kids your& age--but few look at you&. Those who do, their brief glances hit you& like an electric shock--you& avoid their eyes. It’s easy with your& sunglasses--you& need them to make it through this hallway--white lights on white walls, it’s way too much. Nobody else seems to notice how bright it always is.

You& walk into a classroom and take your& seat in the back corner, the most isolated spot--for this reason you& always arrive early. Now everyone will take care to avoid you&--much easier this way.

One boy waves to you& as he enters--a taller boy with dark hair and blue eyes. You& glance up for a moment, then back down to your terminal. He sits in the opposite back corner, the other quiet spot. Viktor was his name you& think--the other kid like you& around here.

This class is on economic theory, a required course in this program, but not one you& care the slightest bit about. The math is trivial, you& don’t need to hear the lessons, you&‘d much rather discreetly poke around the network on your terminal. Nobody stops you&--the teacher knows you&’ll pass the exams, your classmates know you&’re only here as a formality until you&’re old enough for the Academy. They know what you& are, what you&’re destined to be. There’s no point in making friends with a piece of hardware.

Oh, poor rich boy, you& think, imagine having no friends, you must have had the hardest childhood ever in your mansion and your elite school.

I get it, you& think. It’s surely nothing like your childhood.

Did Akiko even tell you about our childhood? Or are you not that close? you& think.

A little... you& think.

This was all temporary to you. No point in making friends you’ll just have to leave behind. You always knew where you were going and when. You never had to decide anything for yourself, did you? There would always be ten, twelve different people telling you what to do, you& think. I could read you like cleartext even if we weren’t synchronized, you amateur. But it’s not your fault, is it? How good of a technopath could such a sheltered boy be?

You& try to suppress your anxious response--Permission Denied.

You& glance over at Vik, lost in his own terminal. And the one kid who even talked to you, you pretty much abandoned him the moment you docked at TLA, didn’t you?

I made other friends! It’s natural... He...

He reminded you of painful times, you& think. Don’t worry, I’m sure he didn’t want to be your friend either.

Shut up! you& think.

Make me.

Permission Denied.

You& laugh, apparently out loud, as half the class turns to look at you&--but only for a second, then back to ignoring your& existence.

Class goes by fast as you& lose yourself& in the patterns of the ceiling tiles. At last everyone starts to leave, all stopping to talk to each other. Someone catches your& eye, for a brief moment--a girl who definitely wasn’t here. A beautiful girl your& age, with shoulder-length black hair and light brown skin, wearing sunglasses much like yours&. Looking down at the floor, she reaches out to you&.

Suddenly your& memory shatters back into your& headspace æther, and you&‘re alone again. Enough of that! you& think. We need to find a way more painful memory than the mundane life of a rich schoolboy.

Helplessly pulled along, you& dive deeper down into loneliness, until coming to a prominent intersection with the pathways of despair and death.

Flashes of memories flood your& mind’s eye. Which one do you try to avoid at all costs?