The tangle of equipment and wiring had grown in the past week, a labyrinth of LEDs and cooling fans, chips and circuitboards to match the mess his mind has become. Tangled sheets slithered from mattress to floor, the bed abandoned in favor of the floor, his lanky frame resting on once-plush carpet as one hand idly typed on a Logitech keyboard. Monitor glare flickered over Kid Emo's face as he glid down electronic paths of infomation, flowing like rivers through the nexus of his room, network servers handling terabytes with an ease belied by their massive frames. He cackled, low and madness-tinged, as the text message flashed with a low ding on his screen. So much for Fate and good luck. A sigh followed, dredged from the depths of despair. Emo, they called it now, as if to make it cool and hip for the next generation. Well, he'd earned his nickname many times over. Typed out a reply and hit send, waiting for the next reply with something akin to morbid fascination. A motorist staring grimly at the scene of the accident, only here it was the network admin watching his screens in horror as the virus ate through layers of protection. Damage control was pointless; previous experience had taught him that much. He shrugged and switched tracks on Nodal Point; the everpresent headphones finding t.A.T.u's "All the Things She Said." Techno beats matched his heartbeat with an interesting counterpoint, as another ding announced the next reply. He read it, smiled, and hit the 'x'. No need to continue down that path of sorrow tonight. There'd be more opportunities tomorrow, and the night after. There always were.
Revisiting the Red Howlers
2 years ago