And this after more sleep than normal for a Sunday night. It's not right, I say.
On the other hand, I daresay there's a story in it.
The walls move past, slick as anything. The whole world looks computer-generated, from the slightly-repetitive skins on the sandstone blocks to the fractal trees. I don't want to look at them too closely. Maybe I'm still feeling the effects of last night's Key trip, or maybe I've finally fucked my own brain beyond recognition.
The first guard tries to stop me. I can see plenty of people inside. All of them have the marks on them. They're carrying alien memeware, and it's bruising their skin in telltale patterns. The guard isn't infected. I wish there was an easier way.
Snap-batons fall from my sleeves. In half a second, they're extended and I'm in an escrima stance, bringing both batons around to knock out the guard. There's another coming for me. This is the first real trouble they've had an I'm past the security blast-doors and sentry drones. I glance up as I'm clubbing the second guard. Ceiling guns. Hell. I knew this wasn't going to be easy, but if security command is infected then I'm toast. It takes maybe five minutes to turn a laser targetter into a pulse-based didactic laser, and then one shot makes me a carrier.
Just like everyone else here.
Their eyes are glowing. The meme must have downloaded somewhere molecular and messed up their local DNA. Workers flocking towards me. One spasms, eyes flashing strange colours as he pulls a gun from the inside of his suit. Good cut, looks like an executive, but even the code-monkeys and kitchen staff are armed now. Straight flocking behaviour. I switch to infrared vision, kick in the adrenal booster and the world slows down. The graphics look like they're flowing through thick honey. The stealth pistol on my wrist barks lower than it has any right to. I'm processing the world about five times faster than anyone else.
Four people fall. I don't want to kill any of them, but this place is now the prime site for a memetic contagion. What most people don't realise is that an alien meme outbreak would make Ebola look like a bit of a cold.
I don't want to kill any of these people. If I met them in a bar, I'd probably quite like them, enjoy sharing a drink and a chat and a couple of joints. This isn't a bar. This is kill or be killed. Whoever the aliens are, they're not advanced. One hostile threat punches them into kill mode. Someone should have told them that humanity's the best there is for murder.
The pistol barks. Whenever one gets too close, the now-electrified baton shuts off their neural shunts. I can't help but enjoy this, even though I know I'll be puking later. Now, I'm a gene-modified God of Death and all this killing is feeding my needs.
More of the neurozombies fall before me. Nice and smooth.