I drive something that's only one small evolutionary step above two motorcycles welded together with a cookie jar lid on top. It's a Renault Clio, but an extremely old model.
J.J. is paranoid, and that’s just about the only thing regarding him we can be certain of. He is a veritable enigma, and one that hates getting unraveled. Loathes being touched, keeps his real name for himself and asking personal questions may result in him not serving you for the rest of the night. It goes without saying then, that there is no shortage of rumours surrounding the man, and by extension Cyberia as a whole. I’ve heard ravers claim that among his most controversial recurring ingredients is amanitin, the toxin that gave the death cap its grisly name. He has developed a technique that adds the otherwise deadly substance molecule per molecule to non-lethal doses, or so the story goes. Others have speculated that he used to get picked on due to having a rare kind of skin rash, which would account for his dislike of touch and his fondness of long-sleeved jackets. Cyberia comes into play as his escape, his way to be on top. Although I don’t find this latter theory any more credible than the other tall tales revolving around him, I happen to like that particular version. The little guy rises above himself, rises above everyone, and rather than gloating and taking revenge he shuts himself out from the world that despises him and creates a new and probably better one with and for the people he can trust. I’m no romantic but screw me if that doesn’t sound awesome. As much as I’d like to say that Cyberia relies solely on the trust of its frequenters, I’d be lying. Before we entered the unearthly wonderland, Teka (one of J.J.’s handpicked bouncers) guided us to a neural scanner, but not before he thoroughly checked our IDs and prescription cards, and whether they matched. I started a conversation while a wide cyan light swooped and rose in front of my face, searching for the true reason of Cyberia’s secrecy. “So Teka, how’s it going in there?” “I think you came at just the right time.”, he answered. “Haven’t seen any dealers around today though, so I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with whatever J.J. hits you up with.” “We’ll be fine.”, I assured him. The cyan lightwave of the scanner suddenly stopped and stabbed my eyes with a brief glint. The implanted unit guarding the memory of everything Cyberia had been found: all was in its rightful place. “You’re clear. Have you guys got your PSA’s or will you rent ‘em here?”, Teka inquired. I jiggled my pocket to indicate that I had mine with me while Rei showed hers. We were good to go. PSA’s, or Personal Sound Adjusters, and the neural scanners are the two most cutting-edge pieces of electronics that one could find in Cyberia and very few other places (assuming that the rumour about adding compounds on a molecular level is indeed nothing more than that). The PSA is a piece of headgear that can adjust the volume you perceive, and even ban the music to the background for conversational purposes. It is in fact so useful that I always feel like I went cold turkey on something when I go to a rave without said technology after a visit to Cyberia the night or weekend before. While the PSA system exists solely for entertainment, the neural scanner has a far more sinister purpose. The technical details escape me but it marks the area of the brain where the memories involving Cyberia are stored. It also has the capacity to wipe said memories. And by wipe, I actually mean destroy. It has a negligible effect on newbies (I’d wager they’d just get a blackout of the previous night) but imagine what it can to to us regulars. We meet people here. We learn here. We experience. We live. I wouldn’t want to have the most pleasant scenes of the film of my life cut out, and neither do the others apparently. Cyberia isn’t a “thing” yet. If the machine’s memory wiping ability has ever been used, or even if it hasn’t, it’s a pretty damn effective system. Keeping this in mind, Cyberia is in fact very much like an addiction. We all want access to awesome music, reality-warping beverages and sleazy members of the opposite sex (or the same sex if that’s how you roll). To retain this access, we are silent as a grave regarding this Shangri-la of technology and entertainment and guard it with our lives or at least our memories of this place (which to many are equivalent). This is quite possibly a stupid decision, given the possibilities. However, keeping our mouths shut is the only way to keep indulging in this harmless fun, so it is the better decision by default. Or is that what all addicts believe?
Don't Stop Me Now and Brighton Rock.
Not everyone in the world is American.
Linkin Park --- One Step Closer
We didn't score many medals because we know there are more important things to invest in than sports! /lameexcuse
I think people can use search engines nowadays.
I don't. I only recently put one there of my own, but I don't expect anyone to actually click it.
Go to school with a music player blasting Riot Grrrl songs. Folks will leave you alone.
Alright, so I've written this sci-fi/thriller fanfic (with some philosophical elements, I guess) that's VERY loosely based on Serial Experiments Lain (read: it has little to do with the story at all, and if I change a term or two it would be a completely independent storyline). I decided to write it on a whim one day and finished it in about four days. That being said, I'm wary that it may be lacking in quality: I switch between past and present tense and the plot might be full of holes. Therefore, feedback is more than welcome! === Access We were just past the halfway point home from our monthly hi-bye in college when our cells brought us the blissful news. CYBERIA OPEN TONITE Rei playfully shrugged. “Guess we have somewhere to go this weekend.” I nodded, although if I went by my gut feeling, an overjoyed dance would rather be in order. “Been long enough too: two months already.”, I said. Cyberia is the hottest club in the country and beyond, and with good reason: no one has heard of it. Based on bartender J.J.’s last estimate, about 550 people in total know of it and approximately 380 of them fill the dance floor every time. Pretty low-key for a joint that can make the improbable certain. Then again, it may just be low-key enough for a venue that only opens when it, or rather its quirky proprietor, pleases. “Then I’ll finally have a use for this.”, I boasted as I flipped a white card from out of my pocket. The train seats within hearing and viewing distance were virtually empty anyway. “No Boundaries…”, Rei read on the digital screen, “Wasn’t that the one you won the annual cocktail inventing contest with?” “Uhu.”, I confirmed. “Got a prescription for it the moment the winner was announced. Got a text from J.J. advising me to check my card. That’s when it appeared. How’d you do?” “Horribly.”, she moaned. “Seventh place! I don’t think I’ve ever done so poorly. I don’t get it either: people who tasted the Window In The Sky all told me they loved it! Thought long and hard about the name too.” “It’s because you basically shoved it in people’s mouths!”, I teased. “You didn’t drink anything but that stuff last time we went to Cyberia, and ordered it for people who didn’t ask for it. There is such a thing as too much advertising, you know?” “It wasn’t as much advertising as it was genuinely liking the damn thing. I felt like I outdid myself.” Rei shrugged again, but I knew she was still disappointed. I’d be too, if I had done my best for a change instead of fooling around with crazy ingredients and giving the result a flashy name. As it turned out, intuition is what works out best for both of us. Don’t know what to make of that. “Better luck next year.”, she said flatly. “Besides, has anyone ever won first place besides us?” “Ransack won it once, I think.”, being pretty sure that he did. “But that was a fluke.”, I immediately added. “I know, right?”, Rei snapped. “No one still orders his Ransack Mk. V anymore, if they ever even did. ****** generic-ass name too. I mean, come on…” She’s right; half of the drink is in its name. Ethereal or badass names seem to work best in garnering attention, but there are almost as many exceptions to this rule as there are examples. The other half of a Cyberia cocktail is the experience of drinking it. Taste alone just doesn’t cut it. Texture, colour, and even being aware of what you’re drinking are all part of the package. Because believe me, Cyberia’s compounds contain ingredients you wouldn’t deem potable, from paraffin to motor oil and yes, actual drugs and medication as well. J.J. has never been shy about admitting that he mixed antidepressants into a generous percentage of his own creations. In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s where the term prescriptions originated. Speaking of which… “How many prescriptions do you have by the way?”, Rei asked one stop before our destination. “54, since I scored the No Boundaries one. You?” “Same here. Eden’s Elevator was my latest addition. Want me to set you up for its prescription?” “Depends. What’s in it?” Rei scrolled on the card until she met the list of ingredients. “Gin, banana, lemon juice, Xanax, sweeteners, some vitamin supplements…” “No, thanks.”, I broke her off. “Is that what you’re gonna kick the night off with though?” Rei flashed a smile. “Nah, I think I’ll stick with Wealth & Taste tonight!”, she decided genially. Recalling that this was her winning entry last year, I smoothly replied: “Make that two. The No Boundaries can wait.”, and I saw her flash another smile, detecting a subtle hint of randiness behind it.
Actually, I was thinking about the scene in PotC: Dead Man's Chest where Ragetti (the guy with the wooden eye) saves Elizabeth's life by cutting off one of the Kraken's tentacles. But yeah, yours counts too. I guess that entire battle was a mixture of the first and the second one. Sora would have been toast if Riku hadn't rescued him during his brief moment of being playable. I loved that fight.
I can afford Dream Drop Distance. Too bad I'd have to buy a 3DS to play it.
Lurking in a condescending manner.
Also... That one too.
Also, your dead father is alive and is secretly the old guy who gave you advice in chapter four.
Well, if it's ruined anyway... If you take iron supplements, your shit turns black.
James Bond would have died about 2000 times if he and his foes had any kind of realistic accuracy.
Even the name "Date 50+ Men" sounds suspicious. You don't know whether you get to date more than 50 men or whether you get to date men aged 50 and up. That's the joke.
The Last Airbender It met my expectations, but said expectations were low.
I think genderbending is lame given the sheer amount of female characters from various media settings available for you choose. That, or the fact that playing a guy won't kill you.
