Reference Chronicles
Chapter 1
See fragments of code fly past my Irises.
The stimuli given visual not by any graphic, but rather by twitches of my mind as it flows in and ebbs out. The kinda headache painkillers won't numb.
"Careful with the ice-chill, doll skins are fragile...you oughta know." I can just barely make out the distorted hum of the speech through the brine. Course it's not the ice I'm worried about causing flaking, rather the salt for the primer. Back under.
More visual headache, this time behind the eyes. Guess it's encryption. Guess it's a migraine.
I back off from the directories, too much traffic to crack those pockets of scrap, too many eyes.
Pains building, decide to fragment, Jet would call it multi-tasking but I don't have the scratch for the module, rely instead on some Buddhist Mantra and old-world platitudes. I find a slower vein, no migraine this time, extract, and roll my mind forward.
Slivers of cold, a harsh wing of oxygen escapes my mouth like a cough. Can tell my lips are blue just from feel alone. I eye some chipping on my wrist. "Told ya, too cold!" Jet snaps at Stamp. Jet was a wire, thin as a rail, guess him being a wire also fit his M.O., Stamp said zilch, the real stoic that he is. Another wing of air, my eyes still adjusting the real, focusing as much as I can on holding my lunch, the shitty-blue tile of the makeshift dive coming into focus. "It's fine Jet, Stamp had a-a good setup. It's the salt, causes brittleness." I stammered. "That so?" Jet said in his usual concern-trolling manner. "Then I guess he didn't exactly have a good setup, now did he?" He grinned, a mouth full of teeth too white to be believed.
"So what the hell was in there anyways? Thought this was gonna be a five minute adventure."
"Well... I got the scrap...but, next time we gotta get the salt right, least till I can afford something with a ceramic coating."
"Next time? How exac-"
I practically rolled out of the tub. My hands screaming for the fresh towels nearby.
"Courney's loaded," I took a warmer breath. "Big-time. He's got pockets of scrap that he's iso'ed, dunno what he's doing, but it'll be worth the brine. Course....gonna have to be after hours."
I heard the creak of Stamp's leather boots as he shuffled. Much too big for the shitty pocket of a bathroom I dived in. I pondered how a guy like him got so patient, when all the world's physical barriers must be as strong as drywall.
"Net traffic is clean, case you wondered."
"Yeah I stopped wondering stuff like that when we started getting lucky."
Stamp opened the door.
I almost nearly forgot to listen to him as he said calmly, "No such thing as luck with diving."