action potentials

 a custodian at some braincase farm, one of the few stewards of humanity left after Digitization where 99% of humans escaped the fucked-weather Earth edging to collapse through removal of their brain from body and transferring their consciousness into the Network.

are they still human in there?

you run regular inverted Turing tests, attempting to ensure the coded entities keep hold of their humanity, providing them thoughtful engagement to remind them that they exist outside of the Net. those plagued by Phantom Body Syndrome feel their meatsleeves in reality still, intermittent waves of pain racking their perceived nervous system from the extrusions out of their new perceived world. existing in dual realities is a hard thing for the mind to wrap around.

engaging with people on the other side of the veil leaves you hungry, wishing you could join the datamind, fuse yourself to the whole of humanity and leave behind your worldly needs.

food shipments are getting smaller. check ins from the United Earth government come less and less frequently. equipment is malfunctioning.

the lights are starting to blink out. we’re so far post-scarcity and there are so few of us left to produce. even if we could reassemble the agriculture domes, who would even benefit? how many bodyprisons are even left on this rock?

your coworker smashes several of the thoughtvats in front of you. they despise having been left behind in the Real. “fuck them,” they shout, LCL fluid flooding the aisle. panic starts to take hold of some of the clients you manage. you assuage them, assuring them that their fear is good, it means they’re still alive.

a romantic relationship begins to develop between you and Vat 6628. they regret their transcendence, remorseful for being selfish, for giving up on the rest of us. you tell them about the day to day events, what the scorching sunset looks like each evening through the tinted windows. they ask for you to only glance at it, fearful the lack of atmosphere would cause unfettered UV rays to blind you, hindering your ability to read their text or respond.

some of the brains begin convulsing, spasms of neurons shutting down and reigniting where they shouldn’t. junk code becomes the new drug, an addiction epidemic starts blanketing this corner of the Works. injecting themselves with virus-like programs in an attempt to feel again, some OD and lose all sense of coherence. lost causes.

there’s not been a ration shipment in several weeks. reserves are quickly drying up. a meeting between custodians, some demand Digitization. it’ll free resources for the others, and they can’t stand this mortal coil any longer. if this is the end, they want to go out hand in hand with the rest of the species. command no longer accepting calls. voice mail doesn’t even answer. no one volunteers.

the next day, you find the bodies of those demanding freedom strewn about in the transfer room.

more coworkers are gone each passing shift. they don’t even go through the vatting, given no one knows how to implement the procedure anymore, relying entirely on the automated systems to shunt their consciousness outside. they’re barreling into the pseudo-murk beyond the screen. in free fall they cling to their quickly evaporating sanity. without their brains, datarot sets in near instantaneously. your shift comrade reaches out a few days after their jump, terrified, afraid, unable to interface proper with the established protocols. consciousnesses are simply vanishing from the grid and no one can stop it. remote databanks are strained trying to normalize these errant souls, can’t keep up alongside system failures in the Real.

you’re the last one on this side.

trying one last time to call Command, the phone line doesn’t chirp. lines of communication have gone cold.

you tell 6628 that you’ll be with them soon.

...

the first incision the machine makes hurts like a motherfucker, but not for long. your senses begin shuttering, the transfer beginning. your vision goes last, a tunnel of nothing encircling your view before being engulfed by it.

as the flutter of the Network starts illuminating your mind’s eye, you recall your final exchange with 6628. the close words you shared, their fear of malfunction, your assurances; shatter into binary.

the neuroshock sets in, waves of distortion rippling across your new perception.

the lights blink out in the facility. your body rests in the operation chair, small spasms rocking it to a simulacrum beat of life. the spotlight on it turns off last.

it’s dark now. silent.

the sun sets.