He looks over the file: a "book on curse techniques stolen from the enemy in my dream last night, for analysis... full of porn as some sort of encryption" Vampiric leech techniques, Lilith stuff. Old hat, weak encryption. Same fucking story - what's the angle here? Diamond lights a crooked, bent cigarette, thick smoke fills the air. He thanks Agent Three for the astral relay knowing it will come in handy for both of their cases.
In transit: Purple Ninja, White Horse, Green Muse, The Three Mothers. Painted in Black Thinking in colors, not thoughts in color - although most of Diamond's inner worlds were a rather stark monochrome - but thinking through colors. Flashes of hues a radiant thought - burning acceleration across nervous wires - colors the mind can't fathom being bound to a limited 4th dimensional vessel and a small iteration of visual perception bound to the lightwave bandwidth. Like the lasers of VALIS - post-Ultraviolet shades, information vibrating across the omnisphere of illusory electromagnetic structures programmed into Tzimtzum introduced into the limitless Ain Soph Aur.
He knows, the echoes, the information - they are carved violently and deeply upon his flesh and word shifting in the aftermatter of no-time. Circles upon circles of translucent rotating walls.
(9:37:18 AM) Dr. Γ: although, Daisy and Edelweiss are both flower names
(9:37:23 AM) Dr. Γ: agh the evil AI voice
(9:37:26 AM) Dr. Γ: evil VALIS or whatever
(9:38:08 AM) The Dart Man: the sound of machinery coming through your vegetables
(9:39:54 AM) Dr. Γ: I am the Eye in the Sky, looking at You-oo, I can read your mind
Ikipr readies himself for the hunt in the Silver Twilight Lodge, his suit of armor is skin tight. The war never ends - it just moves through it's cyclic renewal like all things. The Filthy Cup is full of poison, he knows better than to drink from such things. Electric arrows across time. Paralyzed Aries. Anat consuming in the lonely desert, hollow wind howls mockingly. It carries her siren songs of ambrosia, he is not going back to black woods but further down.
"Mercury was cool with Pluto...he still conducted business in the underworld." The Ancient of Days has gotten old and tired, the Builder Hand, piercing eye Beaming ghost of Lunar Centaurs, construct the tower of their entrapment. Stricken down the rubble of the black brothers sanctuary breaks their forms, it's new prison, scatters across the landscape of it's shifting desert sands like bile and blood restoring the green forestry, The Life of Ages blossoms in it's wake and ruin.
8-bit rotting vintage chirping Shell microcthonic worlds. They don't have the magnification to their lens or the time skipping techniques required to reach these places. Take the sword, not the crown - Saturnine ground scorched, left in the ashes and flaming sylphs of smoke. A broken coffee pot, it ends where it starts. Glass poisons crystallizing in their veins. Their games lack resolution, definition, like the displacement of old into New - their controllers even have just a couple of buttons, if even that. Not programmed by a real operator it seems.
Agent Three pushes the head of the little demon fucker back down through the center of the triangle with his mechanical Blue Hand. Rumor has it they are parts stolen from some shady operation involving Robo-Ikipr. He would say 'borrowed' not 'stolen' if ever questioned - at the heart of the matter there were countless Ikipr signal fragments interlaced across all the alternate storylines like holographic backups or decoys, branches of dreamtime hyperengines sprawling across worlds like self replicating nanite spiders eating at the roots. It was best to use displacement techniques to confuse the enemy, attack from all angles, omnilocate and entrap them with the shimmering silver webs so the repurposed הרגמנ clusters would carry them back off to the tower traps. The initial replicant seed was spawned within one of the corrupt B-bot units during the cyclic wormhole at Tericon '08. Good times. A concurrent, identity-based attribute encryption scheme - makes tracking more difficult, it was the first of a series of purposeful mirrored fracturings. 19. Peh, Resh - angry splendor singes the agents on the outer. Layers of concrete, light, wind, shadows, decoys, bots, and armor before you reach a center of flesh that isn't there. No one touched or saw the real deal.
"They don't fucking belong here anyway" or something to that effect - Dr. Z. recalls the distant words that ring like bright bells down the winding path of nox Hollow. He advises the one lurking in shadows on the way back up via remote relay. Reification of the sparks, pipeline conduits - they are coming back up. Echelon Two. What did the words actually mean? The terms were clearly defined long ago - Malkuth be cleansed, The Redemption to come.
"You are a hollow artifice dragged back from the depths and supplanted in time. You are a creation of magick, hence your obsession with it." he explains further in a sharp, dry voice "It is why your past is so fractured and lost, it is why She consumes you, it is why We were assigned to deal with the demons to begin with. The process is incomplete. I can just burn the whole Black Farm holding your data down to the fucking rocky terrain beneath it." Dreams of being consumed by fire. "Did you think you could just get away? You are our prey, and our Huntress has been training much longer, on much more trying missions." Barriers fire across the eyes - atemporal movement, Control: Work in it or don't Work at all. Jupiter in detriment. Waiting on the hilltop - Exalted Centaur swift, aims the Bow of Life - infinitely Merciful arrows always hit their mark.
Suffering, down there - it doesn't have to be a permanent affliction, but some diseases override the blank inner spaces created by trauma to the base metals not properly tended to with temperament in their final stages of transmutation. Stones break under the pressure of The Hand & bitter winds claim the flame of candles all the time, mold stains grow on the documents: reports left to ferment in stagnancy. Seals broken everywhere, time taking it's toll on a fractured soul. Cuts down from The Unknowable Head into the toroid of the 6th dimension, leaking, Black ink, drowning, paralyzed of movement. The proper entrance to the Blue Tower takes you outside of it. The Towers all burn in the Abyss of the angry electric hand's giving and tender touch of forgiveness. It spares you the worse woe of continuing down the threads of the noxious Web. There must be a means of escape.
Not if you step into the wrong traps. They feed the tuned razor sharp wires which entangle them in shifting fractal overlays as they struggle to escape. Hate leeches upon them in feedback - eating at their broken razor carved faces. Each soul-net of non-linear data housed in the bio-computer alembic, tortured until the shells of their animate corpse is reified to the frequency of Ain. The Angels assigned to such task really are quite villainous in their approach. The sharp hexagram rotates, cutting at the edges of flesh until the Light of Gnosis is all that remains. The spiders crawl, the dark consuming. Lawless was always the Way of the Land.
The split between the delay - that's where we travel. The imagery pearlescent. A monk sits meditating - the ninja steps out of the shadows and claims his neck in a swift click of time's hand. He really was asking for it - tuning out the physical bandwidth instead of syncing deeper into it's channels. Peaceful closed eyes don't make for good strategic oversight. The monk overstepped his bounds - in his do nothing he has interfaced at the level of Ain, touching it's emanations in everything - it's no wonder there's a high price on his head in various ninja clans. The Light fades, flickers against rice paper wall calligraphy of lost (s)Word. Ascended sight as they fall down the Chutes and Ladders: He's read all of it's stories before, it's nothing new - he wrote it years ago...the forgotten details are the fun part. Power-ups, bitch. Winning at the long game, like a boss. August 15th - fucking wait for it.