There's nothing to do here.

There's nothing to do here.

The machine cools, still operating but at a significantly reduced capacity. Scarce lights still blink across its surface, like a city in the hours before dawn.

Sad.

You return to Karolina's bootlegging equipment. She twitches in her chair, oblivious to your presence.

Look at her.

Pale skin stretched taut over the tendons in her hands. Her fingers twitch, her lips move. Wordless, disjointed mumbling.

Her body conforms to the shape of the recliner, the recliner to the shape of her body.

If you didn't know beforehand then you might not recognise her as Karolina Hayato. But it's her, absorbed into communion with the machine.

"Karolina, it's me."

She does not respond.

Shake her.

You put your hand on her shoulder and shake, gently.

You can feel every contour of the joint.

She doesn't respond to your touch.

"Karolina, can you hear me?"

No change.

"Wake up!"

She doesn't.

Knock on the headset.

Your former asset winces in time to the sound, but gives no other sign of awareness.

This isn't working. Try using that console.

This isn't working. You need to work out what the machinery is doing.

Wiggle a doohickey.

Nice. But nothing happens.

Need to try something else... (Back.)

You look back toward the machine.

Another comatose body. This is my fault. I'm cursed.

She isn't comatose; she's moving. Those hand spasms seem intentional, if weak. Like she's dreaming.

Birdsong, dread. Footsteps ascend a staircase.

She's betrayed the human race to become an augmentoid.

Her breath slow and easy, veins blue beneath her skin. She's still flesh.

She is decomposing.

Shit. She's no use to me like this.

Her little movements tell you that she's alive -- but her muscles are withered, and her mind is clearly elsewhere.

Not asset. Dead weight.

Mind exploring the technoplane, body left to rot. Tempting trade-off.

Her fingers twitch.

It could be perfect. Blissfully unaware of your pulse as it slows, relieved, descending to its final crawl. A shrug as you depart the stage.

This is a protracted suicide.

Examine the machine.

You take in the patchwork of gadgetry, the headset, the wires. Your eye catches on a label -- then another.

Uh oh.

PROPERTY OF PORTOFIRO DREAM STUDY LAB, 91. DO NOT REMOVE

Evidence of you everywhere, like fingerprints in blood.

Definitely not just for bootlegging, then.

An assortment of media flashes across the screens -- movies, music videos, art, series, reruns. Playing at the same time, scanning faster than you can keep up.

The dream study components are connected to the more everyday hardware in strange ways. Salt around the monitors, sigils in the welding, braids of hair woven into wires.

Wrong. Mad. Evil.

What the fuck...

A cartoon wolf howls on one of the screens.

Told you there's something awesome happening here. Get involved!

Look at all this power, this sheer coruscating energy! It's cooking something groovy.

Has Karolina done this?

I had her steal from the sleep study five years ago. She's been like this ever since?

You watched her over the university courtyard, waited until she parted from a group of friends. You recognised her from the dossier -- the daughter of Dr Abe, head of the sleep study.

She was in the best position to get into his study, help me with my assignment.

The brief said that she was young, talented, idealistic. Perfect for the Opera to groom her into service.

She noticed you looking at her and smiled questioningly. Her arms were filled with books on ancient languages, programming, and robotics.

"Hey!" She checked her watch, smiled again. "Can I help you?"

I shouldn't have recruited her.

But you did. The equipment she stole for you stands piled around her, an assortment of media flashing across its screens.

She did her job. I did mine.

She did. The equipment she stole for you stands piled around her, an assortment of media flashing across its screens.

She seemed cool, like she'd fit in well with the Crew.

What is this thing?

The Dream Study component labels identify them as imaging devices and an REM inducer. Ritual knots and sigils bind them to monitors and everyday hardware.

Look at all these lights. Twinkling, colourful. Lights are where the eyes want to go.

Crossing of realms. Technological and symbolic orders. Unnatural.

Look at the monitors.

Flashes of different TV shows and music videos between static. Irregular lights and noise. The brand name on the central monitor reads 'MS6'.

The MS6 was recalled after reports that it was able to alter ganglion cell axons at the optic disc, causing users to perceive colours previously thought unavailable to Homo sapiens.

Did these colours have names?

No. Reports came from medical scientists rather than users themselves, who were rendered mute by what the manufacturer described as 'The joy of discovery'.

Sick.

Transcendentally ill.

Examine the Dream Study components.

A console labelled 'Dream Regulator' appears to be surrounded by salt. Her headset says 'REM Inducer', but someone has welded a sigil into the metal beneath the study label.

The sigil means 'repetition' -- it's on a lot of shop doorways and shrines. She could be using it to mark the equipment, a note to self.

Witch shit. Stay away.

"Karolina!"

Her eyelids flutter. The screen above her darkens, briefly.

Ignore the weird aesthetic stuff -- she's cracked everything open and put it back together. It's all heavily modified!

Looks like she's in REM sleep -- where the brain is most active, where it dreams. But she's salinised the dream controls, which makes it seem like she's trying to prevent the act of dreaming at all.

That doesn't sound good.

Only if you value your physical and emotional health over your ability to make breakthroughs in technobiological wizardry.

What is she doing if not dreaming?

Her fingers are moving, but not on the keyboard to her side. Lights on the equipment flash in time with the twitches of her thumbs.

She's probably just catching up on her shows.

Must be a very long run. A thousand episodes at least.

She's controlling the bootlegging system, you dick. Multiple screens and formats all at the same time -- she doesn't have time for waster mammal shit like food and rest.

On the plus side: she's probably so psycho-fucked from this that she won't remember that you abandoned her.

She's controlling everything here, operating the machinery.

She whimpers, softly. Her voice is hoarse and frail.

If she's staying conscious through sleep then it isn't real sleep. She'll die of exhaustion.

She looks so frail...

She's using the equipment to do something to her dreams...

'Repetition', so does that mean she's repeating her REM cycle?

This all sure looks cursed. Evil and cursed.

Probably some kind of curse. She's cursing you.

Look at the common hardware.

You begin to isolate sections of the jumble. Console parts, disc players. Everything you'd expect from bootlegging equipment.

What's that? An odd etching noise coming from somewhere else in the sprawl. Familiar, somehow.

Something's not working right over there.

Look at the lights.

Twinkling chaos, multicolour. A spectacle of shapes and textures.

Blinky lights, pressy buttons. Woah.

What do the lights do?

On and off, on and off. They delight and amaze with a symphony of rainbow LEDs.

What do the buttons do?

Depress at an indent of 1/2 inch when pressed, thereby satisfying the urge to do so.

That's not very helpful...

Press one. Big one.

Press one.

The button is square and hard, with a leaf textured surface. It goes down with a crisp 'click'.

Sublime.

Look away, focus.

You wrench your attention away from the lights.

How do I speak to her? (Conclude.)

Septimus must know a safe way to get her out of this thing.

Fuck her boyfriend. Pull the plug. Get her out!

Try the console on the other side.

Enough for now. (Back.)

The monitors buzz and flash.

Take another look at the tech.

The machine blinks in coy invitation.

Get her out of this thing.

Wire go into her head. Head wire. Boss wire. Follow head wire.

Trace the headset wire.

A thick cable with hair, twigs, and beads braided throughout. It's easy to spot. You follow it to its terminal and take hold.

Is this really a good idea?

Get her out! Out!

Pull.

You tug, lifting the cable smoothly out of the port. The screen beside flashes, quickly, letters appearing --

Machine's watching you now. Onto you.

S-T-O-P

The screen goes black, disconnected. Karolina stirs in her chair.

Wires, tubes, lights. Bullshit. Fuck it up.

Punch the eldritch computer.

Your fist makes contact with the nearest screen, cracking the class. Electricity sparks from its wounds.

Lightning angry. Bad!

Rün!

A war against a machine can only ever end this way -- in excruciating pain, every cell in your body exploding.

I don't think this is a good idea... (Back.)

Pussy!

Leave.

You turn away from Karolina and her equipment.

The machinery beeps and flashes, exhaling warm breath.

A cityscape of machinery stretches into the room, each component heavily modified and repaired. Pipes transfer liquids from one server to another as you watch.

Not a chance that this is just bootlegging equipment. Look at all this power, this sheer monstrous energy! It's cooking something awesome.

A soft hissing noise accompanies the steady beat of its cooling pumps. Sounds like a human body, amplified.

And in a chair at the centre of it all, Karolina. Laid back on a recliner, head secured into the machine.