Murdersphere Mosaic [ManXMan] [BoyXBoy]

Chapter 5 Part 1 Welcome To Imagineering Consolidated's Content Generator One

"You should familiarize yourself with your parents." The robot wearing the guise of an NYPD officer says. "The story is generally thin, particularly since your true memories are of your ancient birth parents."

The robot's delivery is vigorous. "Your mother is an African American linguist whose parents, now deceased, emigrated from the Limpopo region of South Africa. Your father was a Latverian archeologist. He has no known famiily and took your mother's last name to honor her father. You were homeschooled. The three of you went on a dig in Ethiopia and there was a catastrophic accident. Everyone died except for you. You were found wandering in the desert. After many legal issues including peculiar, direct orders by your mother's executor you were legally emancipated and delivered to New York City."

It let the story sink in. Its telling of the story was much better than snarky-bot's. It contines. "There, very simple no? Any memory lapses can be attributed to the accident." "She" looks at me and smiles. "That's it."

"Really?" I say.

"Really." She says. "Everything else are things you are not privy to."

"Are we being filmed, now?" I ask.

"No." She says. "When we breach the city we will be. If you are planning a display of emotion, try to hold it in until you are at your apartment. It will reach the Audience directly and those who will take satisfaction in your distress, or have empathy for you, will receive the full measure of your performance." She frowns. "Oh fun. There's a thunderstorm over the city."

My ongoing storm of nerves and sadness are shoved away by a sudden need to be aware. Storms and airplanes were dicey. Storms and flying cars were probably worse.

"So, the place with no light is 'interstitial space.'" I say trying to take up the time with conversation rather than the quiet trip through the upper atmosphere. "This is different."

"It is the near-astral, but we just call it 'sideral space.'" It says, while navigating down through clouds at an extraordinarily sharp angle. "It is our working space. Hold on. We are about to hit the cloud storm clouds. I am going to bring us into real-space."

The car shudders violently as the strobing, colorful light falls away and all I see are black clouds rippling with lightning.

And I sense... magic. For a long moment I revel in the feel of it against my skin; the presence of it, the smell of it, the sensation of it washing around and into me; pouring in with a nearly audible sound that was blanked out as fingers of lightning and accompanying thunder attempt to follow it, but miss the dodging flying car. 

It is my fault, but I mutter. "I hope you and this car are insulated."

"The car is." The "cop" says. "Ready? Cloud or clear, rain or shine. It's showtime kid."

Right, we are now being filmed.

An alert shrills into the cabin, the cop barks. "What?"

"It's about time you answered the phone!" A new voice whisper-shouts over the car's speaker. "Where are you?"

"About a mile above the shelter." The robo-cop responds.

"Divert." She says. "That little punk looks like a mutant. I cannot have him seen coming in here or word will get out and I will have to deal with a bunch of freak Townies!"

"Fair enough." robo-cop says. "Where should I drop him?"

"I am at his co-op." The voice says. "Bring him here."

"Changing vectors." The cop responds and turns to me. "Put your hat and sunglasses on."  We change direction, gaining altitude briefly before starting a new descent path.