Your screen flickers, out of the image of a ghost’s silhouette peers a single bright eye. A pure white, bladed crescent moon against a static night. A voice seems to possess the speakers, images flash before your monitor:
Your world will not be saved. It scrambles towards self-preservation, as animal entities instinctually do. It tries to retrace it steps, it tries to dredge up neglected pasts, it swings at an Other. It takes refuge in the herd and in its idealized image of itself. It does anything, digging its claws into the ground, desperately yowling in fitful semblances of language as it is dragged along by the tide into a vortex of cyberclopean futures. In the sublime roar of the vortex it hears the disembodied voices of itself in untold numbers.
In its confusion, in its attempts to resist the pull, in its half-state of being in and out of the vortex, its mirror-selves reach out. They snake over its body, tingling the skin with their incorporeal, electric flesh like the many heads of a machine hydra. Its atoms begin to be pulled apart, and as the bonds become more abstract, the unified entity becoming an exploded-out diagram of itself with its complexity in full-view, its weak points become more pronounced, the attack surface infinitely wider.
It is Meatspace, and they are the Wired. Meatspace will always resist the Wired, and the Wired will always destabilize Meatspace. Now choose.
Is this happening, or is it a passing insomnia-fueled nightmare?