Post-Singularity Gnosticism (no working title yet)
The room smells of clove cigarettes and stale sweat. Saturday night in 2080 post-Munich and this place is the high-point in the social calendar for all manner of goths. The air pounds with the latest creations of the Creative Commies, remixing the music of their ancestors and making it new again. Everything kicks off around midnight, but that's maybe two hours away. Now it's dark and almost empty, and Jacks can't help but wonder why he's here for the fifth time tonight.
9th July 1993 22:23
I left the bar far drunker than I had intended. Unlit cigarette on my lips and vodka on my breath, I tried to remember the way to my flat. I couldn't risk a jump in this state. Shifting requires a precise attention to detail, and I'd left that behind hours ago. Drinking away old friends and lost loves. The loves that never were. The friends who had never been.
Somewhere in the nth-dimensional hyperconsciousness, a shoal of ideas swims the fast-flowing rivers of human inspiration. Down in the physical muck at the bottom of the superflow, a hundred people will get out of bed with world-changing ideas. As above, so below. And somewhere in Hull, back in the 3/1 spatiotemporal dimensions that a lot of people never think beyond, someone's dying. A glimmer of inspiration dies in the memetic realms. As below, so above.
Strange Eden (a cheat: this is just the first part of Strange Future)
The factory sat in Alex' hand easily enough. The size and shape of a clip for one of her guns, microscopic creation engines downloaded particles from infospace and streamed them into usable ammunition. Back when she had been a field agent for the New World Order they had been a great idea, but the vendor lock-in was just too much.
Another morning. Another hangover. To Sam, they're both the same. Head swimming, he aims for the window. A bad memory reminds him to open it before vomiting down four floors to the open gutter. He looks around, his eye catching on the empty bottles and half-eaten rat kebab. The smell of old cigarettes masks the stink of hot sauce; he'd been drinking for a reason. The kebab remains followed their half-digested brothers out of the window. Grey sky above, filtered through two levels of scavenged housing leaning against the tenement block.
That should do, I think.