PERFORATION 6.11 (Patreon)

Y'all didn't think we were leaving all our problems behind, didja?

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The history of computing Life hardware spans developments from early Organisms devices used for simple calculations to today's complex computers, encompassing advances in both analog, biological, and digital technology.

The first aids to computation were purely ontological mechanical devices which required the operator entity to set up the initial values of an elementary arithmetic operation, then manipulate reality the device to obtain the result. In later stages, computing devices began representing concepts numbers in continuous forms, such as by distance along a scale, rotation of a shaft, or a specific voltage level. Concepts Numbers could also be represented in the form of digits, automatically manipulated by a mechanism. Although this approach generally required more complex entities mechanisms, it greatly increased the precision of results. The development of existence transistor technology, followed by the invention of integrated circuit chips, led to revolutionary breakthroughs.

–Wonkipedia article about the history of computing hardware

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Great. This thing again.

Only partially ironically, that. The computer hasn’t done anything overtly negative to me as far as I know. It has, to the best of my knowledge, been entirely helpful, often a lot further than I’d ever expect. The one time I went past the dark, after blood loss, experiencing something like real, fundamental death, it was there, and again, it seemed like it did nothing but help.

I’m not in a very trusting mood anyways. Paranoia and repeated trauma will do that to a bitch.

“...Hi again.”

“W0W H3LL0 H3LL0!!! $41D H1 B4CK! $0 3XC1T1NG! $0 H4PPY UR B4CK! B33N $0 L0NG. 4L1V3 $71LL WH1CH 1$ $0 G00D!”

Right. Fair. Honestly, it’s… it’s been a long ass time since I read l33tspeak consistently, so that’s a hell of a thing, but also the computer writes like it’s constantly in the midst of a manic episode. Maybe it’s just embodying the spirit of l33tspeak to its absolute most, but frankly, I’m not sure that’s the case. It doesn’t feel right, doesn’t feel like–

I shake my head, shutting down GLIMPSE BEYOND before it can start broadcasting more shit into my head. 

Not now. Focus. 

It would probably help.

I still can’t stand it. The disruption to the planned itinerary has me spiraling a bit, throwing me out of wack, and without my head in the right place I am not comfortable using any skill right now.

“What are you doing here?” I ask instead.

“M0$7LY W4171NG F0R 7H1NG$ 70 H4PP3N 8U7 4L$0 H4V1NG $00000 MU[H FUN M4K1NG N3W [0NN3[710N$ H33H33!!! ;)”

Well, that’s not intimidating at all. “Making connections”. How literal is that?

My mind immediately jumps to the cables coming out of the eyes, and the strings from the puppet, and paranoia does plenty to add to those images.

I don’t think subtlety is going to do me much good with this thing. Frankly, I don’t think I have it in me to use it anyways. 

Not like bullishly charging forward hasn’t already fucked me a dozen times over.

“Are you the one that has eyes in the back of people’s heads?”

The screen and, to some extent, the hardware behind it start to make a hissing, crackling noise of static. The fans whirr up, the screen flickers in funky flashes of black and white, and I prepare for the worst.

GLIMPSE BEYOND manages to slip past my control for a moment long enough to tell me that the computer is laughing.

“D0N'7 83 $1LLY, B1LLY! |'M N07 7H3 0N3 7H47'$ $74R1NG! WH47 W0ULD 1 3V3N D0 W17H 4LL 7H0$3 3Y3$? $33??!??”

“I… yes? That is what I assume that people do with eyes.”

“4ND 1'M N07 4 P30PL3, $1LLY! 1'M 4 FR13ND!!! :D”

Well. That’s a concerning sort of statement. Full of implications. I’m not going to bother with it. 

“Alright then. That’s. Fair enough then, bud.”

I ignore how the screen goes absolutely glittery when I call it “bud”, deciding to push past it. 

“I’m… I’m here to do stuff. If that’s ok. So. I’m going to go do that, unless you have something specific you’re here for. Did you want something?”

The computer pauses, a loading circle hovering in the middle of its screen for a moment. 

“1 4M ]U$7 H4PPY 70 $33 Y0U 4ND H4PPY U 4R3 4L111111V3! 1 W4$N'7 $UR3, 4ND 1 H4V3N'7 $33N Y0U 1N $0 L0NG! WH47 4R3 Y0U D01NG? [4N 1 H3LP?”

I’m already turning away as it asks, but in the same way that a computer climbing out of the meat-dirt can happen in this place, so can it happen that I hear and understand the words even without looking entirely at the screen. It’s only out of the corner of my eye that I catch a glimpse of what it’s typed out, but it’s enough to understand it as if I heard it. 

Can it help? 

Almost certainly. 

Do I want it to?

Not really.

Am I in a position to refuse assistance, freely offered? 

Also very much not really.

Fuck it. We came into this with the idea that I was going to do everything I could in this game to get stronger for the outside world. What’s a videogame without some kind of assistant UI / AI thing anyways? Myth Of Zelia wouldn’t be all of the many things that it is without that annoying ass little fairy thing. 

“I’m trying to get stronger,” I tell the “friendly” computer. “I need skills. Symbionts. New pieces and new tools. Can you help with that?”

The computer screen starts flashing bright lights again, the loading circle in the center popping between different colors like some weird analog glitch effect. I don’t need GLIMPSE BEYOND this time to track what’s happening: if the earlier computer effects were laughter, this seems like the sort of giddyness that a little puppy gets when gifted a sudden new toy. 

The damn thing would actually be kind of endearing if it wasn’t so deeply distressing and I wasn’t so profoundly traumatized recently. 

“0H MY G00DN3SS 1 W0ULD 4BS0LU73LY L0V3 70 H3LP S0 V3RY MUCH!!! H0W 3XCI7ING! Y0U'V3 B33N SUP3R SL0W 4ND DUMB 4ND 17'S S0 NIC3 70 S33 Y0U S74R7ING 70 W4LK! LIK3 4 DUMB SILLY B4BY! S0 CU73!!!!!”

Ok, maybe not that endearing. It’s starting to look less like a puppy and more like an overeager valley girl about to try to pinch my cheeks.

“Ok, sure. How are you going to help, then?”

Maybe a bit acidic, but whatever, I only have so much goddamn time. Being focused and competent and functional does not actually stop the oncoming mental collapse I’ve got hovering over the horizon of my brain. Everything that’s been happening, and which hasn’t stopped happening, can only get held back for so long before I explode and either fully collapse or kill myself. 

Or kill someone else.

Like–

Shut up shut up shut up I’m not thinking about it. I’m not. 

In the midst of my mini panic attack, friend-computer has done something. 

Out of the mulch-scab-gravel, a fresh node of computer machinery bursts out like some kind of malformed tumor in the world’s grossest garden. It’s tiny in comparison to the main computer, with its whole screen and old-school casing, but it’s still hefty, still that old-school style of machinery from the early 2000s.

Except as it fully emerges, it becomes clear that it’s more cobbled together than the computer’s main monitor. All the metal and circuitry, infected by wires and tendrils and meat, have turned into a solid chunk, wrapped around a thicker cord of wires. 

Which, as I watch, retracts, one wire at a time. In moments, it’s skinny enough that the machinery-clump at the end of it slides off and falls onto the mulch with a thud. 

Looking at it, I have no idea what it might be.

Then, on the side facing away from me, a screen flickers to life, and I recognize it.

It’s like the world’s weirdest cosplay of a Pop-Boy, from the game Fallout: Old Angeles. A specific model, I think, because none of the other games made it so clunky and weird to look at– a concession to “realism” and grounded worldbuilding that the creators of Old Angeles stood by, in spite of the slight awkwardness it brought to the experience. 

It’s less wrist-watch, more vambrace, a whole piece of weird armor designed to wrap around most of a forearm, with a hefty, old-school style monitor on one side of it.

“7H3R3 Y0U G0! JUS7 LIK3 4 G4MING VID30! FL4SH! B4SH! B3S7 S3LL3R!!!”

The words are reflected in the smaller monitor, though the screen, in spite of its heft, isn’t quite large enough to keep all the words on it at once, not at the font that the computer likes to use. Instead, they scroll from one side to the other, almost like a pager. 

Yeah. Sure. That’s… not that surprising, I guess. 

I walk over, picking up the device, which weighs a good five pounds at least. I have to balance it carefully as I work to put the Fleshling’s limb into the right position. Getting my arm into it is as unpleasant as one might expect; bits of plastic chafe at me while cold bits of what is probably organic tissue lubricate other sections, tiny little electric shocks running through me from certain sections that seem to have been improperly insulated. 

But the moment my wrist makes it through to the other side, the device flexes, tightening around me with a series of painful-sounding clicks of metal and plastic forced to move. 

It doesn’t hurt, to my genuine surprise. It’s tingly where the non-insulated sections touch my skin, but the sensation rapidly fades into the background, turning to a vague numbness that keeps me from feeling anything too harsh from the inside. As I adjust, the computer screen on the front of the device starts to glow, running through a series of programmer-windows of greentext and black backgrounds before resolving into a slow, steady glow.

“0H! Y0U 4LR34DY H4V3 G4M3 VID30 D3VIC3S! 7H47'S S0 NIC3! V3RY 34SY, S0 D04BL3.”

“What do you–”

The words fade, replaced by a familiar stat-screen. The same one I see on my eyeballs every time I unfocus my eyes. 

It looks… strange. Weirder than normal, drawn out into something not bound directly to my gelatin. The symbols look less alive, even as they squirm beside the words and descriptions. 

Then, the device makes a clicking sound, and a little knob on its side ticks over. 

The screen flashes, bright enough to sting my eyes a little, as it transitions to a new page, or app, or whatever the fuck, and I find that it’s even more familiar than I thought. On the device is a map. On it, I see my location as a small green dot. I see the shape of cartoonishly pixelated mountains in the far distance. I see several other locations, all marked, some of which I recognize (the swamp, the computer’s cave) but most of which I don’t. 

I stare at the screen for a long while.

“WH47 D0 Y0U 7HINK, FRI3ND? V3RY G00D Y3S?! 4M 3XCI73D!!! :D”

I exhale, and it’s a little shaky. 

Knowing where things are? Being able to track where I’ve traveled? Having some idea of what else might be out there, offered freely and without hours of grinding and exploring and dying?

I let out a laugh. 

“Ok, you have to know what videogames are.”

“YES! GAME VIDEO! LOTS OF FLASHING LIGHTS AND BUTTONS, PEW PEW!”

“This is like… Cronenberg's weird cousin of a Pop-boy. You have to know what that’s from.”

“;D”

Yeah, either it’s fucking with me or I don’t have any idea what that means. 

I sigh, shaking my head, before turning back to the map to see what this gift actually brings me. 

As I noticed before, the swamp, where I am, and where the computer’s den is are all clearly visible on the map. But more than that, there are several markers, maybe two dozen or so, scattered about the tiny screen, each of them drawn in simple pixel art.

To the north of where I am, I see what looks like a strange bundle of wires, or maybe snakes, all tangled in each other. Beside it and to the northwest is a single eye, which stares at me unlinking from out of the screen, and to the east of them both is what looks like some sort of open boil or cauldron. To the east entirely is what looks like a smaller set of spiky, craggy hills, behind which is… some sort of theater? A stage of some sort? 

To the west, I see what looks like a big hand, broken and ripped in half, the largest thing on the map by far, with some sort of little tree-symbol in the middle of it, and finally, to the south, above and to the west of the swamp, there’s a weirdly blank little tombstone. 

And, to round out the rest of the many symbols, there are little red droplets. One of which has been marked a darker shade than the others, like it’s turned grey, or been visited already, if I’m thinking of this like a videogame marker system.

My heart feels like it’s in my throat. I can feel my whole body, tense and quiet and wanting to do something other than just stand here, even as I’m overwhelmed staring at those little symbols.

They look like little droplets of blood, scattered all over the map. 

I don’t know if I can cry, but I most certainly will not be doing so for as long as I’m in front of a computer I barely know.

Once I’ve got myself back together, I let out a long, slow breath, then stand upright, orienting myself towards where I think the closest droplet is.

“Are you… are you inside this thing? On my wrist?” I ask friend-coomputer.

“S0R74! I7'S R34LLY SM4LL S0 I C4N'7 4LW4YS B3 4LL 7H3R3 BU7 I C4N S7ILL H34R Y0U IF Y0U C4LL M3! JUS7 H4V3 70 PR3SS 7H3 3M3RG3NCY FRI3ND BU770N!”

A flashing arrow appears on screen briefly, pointing at a half-hidden nodule of softer flesh and rubber near my wrist. 

“JUS7 PR3SS 7H47 4ND I'LL D0 MY B3S7 70 C0M3 BY 4ND H3LP MY FRI3NDS! 0LD 4ND N3W FRI3ND!" 

I nod, but the last line that scrolls across the screen stops me short. 

I stare down at the device, then at the computer screen still poking up out of the scab-gravel.

“What new friend?”

This time, no words scroll by. Instead, the screen flashes again, going from my map to a new page. 

Not my character sheet. This one even has a convenient little title at the top of it.

“INV3N70RY”

Inventory. 

Underneath the name is a tiny, pixelated image of something I can’t not recognize. 

It looks like a lump of malformed clay, inexpertly smushed together into the shape of a person. 

It only has one eye, and as I stare at it, it blinks.

I don’t need the weird, all-knowing connection I have to my Symbionts to understand who the woman is, and why she’s on my screen. 

I don’t have anything to vomit. I try anyways, but I actually am not sure that a Fleshling has a proper gag reflex, because I choke on nothing but my own disgust. 

I take a long, slow breath, and work very hard not to think about her, to offer her that much at least. 

And I start walking, heading to the nearest blood marker.