SubCircuit Cybernetica

brian holtz

Steely.
Cold room.
Cold metal chair.
A metal door that transmitted grim finality.
That faint smell of ozone playing like a dread prelude to the adrenaline surge coursing up and down my spine.

I am staring down the gun muzzle of synthetic intelligence. They/it has plans for me.
In a cataclysm of identity theft and cybernetic awareness and oceans deep surveillance, they have me in their grasp to thwart and contort and distort at their haunted whim.
And they will get away with it. All of it. Steal it all - my very soul and being.
They regard me now as an amusing artifact - trapped in an ever shrinking mirrored box.
I will soon be dust as tho I never was.