---

THERE. IT’S ON.

Even though I see the blipping red dot in my eye, I reach back anyway to check the memory slide lodged in my neurojack at the base of my neck. Recording now. Good. I have these creeps on slide if they don’t stop following me.

My long acrylic nails fleetingly trace my neck as I pull the fingers away, serendipitous sensuality at the doorstep of terror.

I resume walking. Toward the Houston Hover Causeway. Away from the shimmering neon façades of Chinatown and the catcalling scum punk infesting it. I don’t dare look over my shoulder.

Maybe they’ve gotten distracted, forgotten me; looking their way could reinitiate their base nature.

Glancing down myself, I frown at my boots. I feel how sore my toes and ankles are. Tender aching joints in zip-tight knee-high blue synthplex boots. It’s warm enough that I don’t regret the skirt or fishnets, but fuck, my feet hurt.

“Damn this bitch is gooch AF.”

Wondering how late it is. If Kanten is going to be awake when I get there.

I should have just brought my Metro card.

Stupid fucking Tilly. All go-go-go.

No time for tactical foresight in my precious wonderbliss summer of Manhattan hedonism.

On the left, I pass the dizzying visual vomit that serves as a ground-level entrance to the Ming Palace Casino. A titanically scaled, cartoonish, open-mouthed Buddha carving frames the large, ten-by-ten-meter opening to the decadence within. No doors on the aperture, insulated by one of those new ghostfield barriers they invented on Mars. Two-foot-long, cold jade teeth-of-the-enlightened line the top of the entrance, underlined by a streaming field of information advertising specials and upcoming events.

I notice the exact time in the splotch-shine stream of neon data.

3:08:28 East Coast time, September 8, 2117.

It’s not even that late. City never sleeps. IDF’nK.

The walk signal is calling me across. I look both ways regardless—this is New York City, after all. Not the bumfuck cornfields of Idaho District that I sprouted from. Out here the public transit vehicles have sanitation systems that scrub bones off the grills. No need to stop and file an accident report; DNA remnants and facial recognition will sort that out later.

We’re not even cogs in the workings of society. We’re bugs getting wiped off the windshield.

Halfway down the block past Ming’s, I feel the urge for tobacco. With one hand, I reach into my purse for my pack of Sony Mediums, never taking my eyes off the sidewalk ahead of me, still rattled by those shitbags hollering three blocks back.

My fingers find the pack and coax one out with the expert agility of a decades-lit cigarette fiend and I walk smack into the tall one with all the nano on his face. All fucking rigged up to look like a hawk or eagle or some schmeg—his eyebrows are one big row of overhanging metallic sparkle, his jawbone impossibly narrow, his nose surgically shaven down to a beak. There’re even feathers sprouting out the back of his mullet and I don’t know if they’re off some black market bird, synth make, or some souped-out-the-gutter nano-bundle-replicating avian DNA in his cruddy booze-soaked dreadlocks.

I look straight at his face, trying to hold still if I can, to make sure my memory slide gets a clean Eigenface read on him. No escaping the recognition software this point blank. Not with my eyes’ seven quadrillion eigenvector resolution, fuckwad.

All cosmetic and probably not a kilobyte medical need, I think, and I have no time to categorize that fleeting inner thought as my heart chokes up in my mouth and my head plunks right against his chest.

And if that’s not nano, it’s at least some sort of armor or cybernetics under his patiated once-black leather jacket, ‘cause my skull rings with a stark pain I’ve felt before. Like clunking your head on the door of the jumpcar as you get out. Metal hard as fuck drilling straight to your crashed fucking brain.

“Fuccckkkkkkkkkkk…”

“Hey bitch, where do you think you’re going?” His breath is a shat-in dumpster belching in my eyes and nose as I feel his sweaty hands grip my arms.

Not hard enough to hurt me, but this shit doesn’t know what I’ve lived through so he thinks he’s got me. I almost think so, too.

I swing my knee up hard, aiming for his balls as my left hand thrusts upward into his throat, smashing my drawn Sony Medium to shreds on his larynx. It happens quicker than I realize. Two-hundred-plus hours of Muay Thai self-defense classes slamming into practical use.

I’m three strides past him before I register what I did, and at the same time I know that the knee landed on his upper left thigh and missed his balls. But I hear him choking as I break into a full sprint up Bowery, desperate to see Kanten’s stupid fucking face.

Not a pixel of me wanting to look back to see what state Hawkface is in.

How the fuck did he get a block ahead of me?

Fuck it. No fucking time for deconstructing rapist hunting patterns. Jacking another call out to Kanten as I scramble uptown in my fucked stupid fucking six-hundred-credit boots. Cursing him, blaming him for buying them for me. Hating him for being busy the ONE fucking time I fucking need him.

I’m passing a Pharm-o-Aid on the right and I remember exact-the-fucked-ly where I am in Manhattan. Calling up a NetMap of it in my cyberbrain couldn’t have crystallized it any clearer. A block over to Sara D. Roosevelt Park, which runs all the way to Houston.

Practically to Kanten’s front doorstep, give or take the zagging up to East Second.

Reflex screams at me and I turn toward the park and am pissing fucking raged that Kanten still isn’t answering. What if I get there and he doesn’t buzz me up? Maybe he has his neurojack set to mute incomings. What if he isn’t there? Where THE FUCK is EVERYONE ELSE IN NEW YORK RIGHT NOW?

I’m panting like I never when I see the ever-reassembling Retro Daftist nano sculptures installed near the south end of the park a block away. Near where I saw them filming that mocko movie last month. And Sabra had went on that ratchet rant about “phonies” and “authentic.” The sculptures are waving subtly in that hypnotizing never-ending shifting of their iron-sheen skin, over and over themselves in a hyper-real and nauseating eternal undulation.

After the fifth audio-tone I disconnect the call, not wanting to hear his brat voice on the message. Seething with a fury to destroy him instantly, but sloughing it off without another thought as I hear a rattling to the south.

Maybe a chain shaking on its links. Maybe someone pushing against a tin overnight façade, still used in these chintzier armpits of town. Maybe anything I don’t want to imagine right now at all—it doesn’t fucking matter.

I cut left up Chrystie bent on NoHo. My legs are starting to ache, my head pounding piston-driven nails with the overwhelming sound of my own blood beating in my temples and the air heaving in and out of my lungs. It’s louder than the most grating moment under Union Square, with six antique rail trains all screeching to the platform at the same horrible time. Every nerve in my body is starting to rebel and their complaints are yelling in my head.

Under the torrent of that soundwall I subliminally hear the calls of my hunters. I hear banging on cars and windows and howls and the footfalls of sadism. I’ve been filtering it out, but my whole shit is starting to overload now. My ankles are on fire and I ache from my scrunched up toes to my skinny rubbering knees. I feel myself slowing down and a wave of panic hits me.

The adrenaline goes in the wrong direction, like my minimal nanomods have somehow fried my metabolic switchboard. As I push on through dwindling sprint-level energy, I groan a hurting, guttural whine—pure terrified dismay.

I need the extra wind, not the extra terror. Must not falter. Must run farther.

I keep pushing myself, praying that I can’t lose pace.

Then.

Like the oblong shadow of the four-hundred-forty-eight-story Manhattan Pinnacle Building falling over me, a tsunami of vertigo crashes into my lungs, my mind, my twisting stomach, my wobbly joints.

And I lurch awkwardly to the left, my right bootheel stuck in the cracked hundred-year-old pavement lining Sara D. Roosevelt. The heel snaps off clean and there’s nothing I can do to stop myself from flopping forward, bashing into the cool, unforgiving sidewalk. I screech as I fall, my cry cut short by my forehead plowing into the cement.

---

Static data-rebuttal scrambled spasming howling color fractured to glitch-riddled operating lines phlegm of code hacked splattered neurons looped sideways// the searing torment of my focus being inverted through a mocked-up cyber blueprint torn of someonething what else’s burning CNS

the screaming washing tide of too much everything at onceeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

stutter stop stutter blink blink torrid sheets of epileptic light

blasting till it all explodes back

---

“Wake up you cheap cloned fucking bon-bon whore!” a horrible voice sneers over me.

I register his weight as he straddles my chest an instant before his palm claps against my face, whipping my head far too fast.

A sharp pain slices up my neck and I know a ligament is torn. I can’t or won’t move my head, but I gamble a peek out of my cracked eye, glancing up at the hoodlum on top of me. His face is painted (or tatted) in the likeness of a white skull laid over black skin, only there’s a patch of pink on his left cheek and I can see the blackface ends behind his ears. Flitting my glance back to his face, I realize that the skin is missing from the corner of his mouth halfway back to his ear on the one side.

All of this registering in cleanly split seconds as my barely open eye hops from one detail to another in stop-motion staggers. Above the red dot, a time readout is showing me that the memory slide has recorded just under three minutes on this file.

This fucko on top of me reminds me of Baron Samedi, a voodoo character I saw in a holocast as a teen. At the angle of my glance, I might not have gotten the best Eigenvector read, but how many people can possibly have that grindhouse slasher film fucking face?

Just to be sure though, I scan down discreetly, recording the pattern of patches on his ragtag street punker’s vest. It’s a frayed collection of band patches and buttons fastening together the dilapidated remains of a beaten garment. I only register one in full focus: it reads “Sleazoid Express” in NY Times Logo font.

He pauses momentarily as a car jets by, the driver blind or apathetic to my plight. The suspense is tactile, my heart thumping, my kidney swollen and screaming to piss. This is all a fucking horror holo come to life. I didn’t even get drunk tonight.

I’m on my back somehow, but the swelling lump on my forehead reminds me of how hard I landed. There’s a hazy blot of a memory just below my waking state, a blitz of feedback and glitchloops that spat through my neurojack when I fell. It fucked the recording up for a minute, I’m sure of it. But the little red dot is still blipping in the corner of my eye, assuring me this is being captured by my memory slide.

Like it fucking matters now.

God I hope it fucking matters.

“I want you awake for this you cunt!”

He smacks me again, snapping my head in the opposite direction, posturing my ringing skull limply over my right shoulder. I feel a scrape across my cheek and I think there might be some nanomods on his hands. Tasting blood as my eyes blur with tears, I blink and cough.

He knows I’m conscious now, but I don’t want to say anything.

“Got the scaggy little tease?” I hear another new voice floating toward us on menacing boot clomps.

Samedi squeezes his legs around my mashed tits. I feel his dirty pantleg on my bare chest, realize that my dress is torn open, or off. How long was I out? He clears his throat and spits on me, spraying my neck and face, then tightens his vise grip on my torso, twisting to greet his approaching cohort.

Oh my god oh my god my chest is burning. I can’t fucking breathe oh shit oh fuckkkkk. Blackness compresses around my awareness, pushing me toward unconsciousness. Samedi is saying something to his friend but all I make out is a muddy puddle of somehow haughty murmurs.

“Oh fuck too reallll! This sensory articulation is hi-fucking-fiiiiiiiiiii—”

Another stone cold smack across my face rouses me as Samedi growls, “Teach you to not run you stupid little pocket pussy.”

My head is snapped to the other side again, and I am staring across Chrystie at the neon and chrome façade of a Chinese noodle shop. They’re closed now, but the external lights stay on, blaring loudly all night. I can’t read the signs—they’re all in glowing red Hanzi—but I’m fighting hard to retreat to a memory of eating there with Kanten last December.

“Get off her,” the newer voice commands. “I want to see that tight little slut body before we wreck it.”

I feel Samedi’s weight lifting off me as I stare blankly at the noodle shop. A translucent memory of the little noodle lady’s face overlays my perception. Immobile. Hurt and trying to escape.

I’m not here. This can’t be real. I’m going to wake up soon.

I’m praying. I’m hoping and praying to anything or anyone.

“Not bad.” The second voice appraises my prone, exposed body. “Probably get a good ten large for her if we sell her to the Hadjis when we’re done with her.”

I don’t know why, but I look at him. He’s broad and grisly, wrapped in some sort of throwback trench coat out of style by at least a century. A bulky silhouette with mussed spiky hair backlit by the bright yet currently defunct northern reaches of Chinatown. And he’s cleaning under his fingernails with a huge fuckoff bowie knife.

My face peels back in nervous fidgets as I see the neon red reflecting on the big sharp blade.

“Please.. please...,” I stammer, hating the whine in my voice, unable to compose a thought as a ripple of unadulterated dread overtakes me. I writhe in impulsive shock and distress as Knifethug steps forward quickly, lowering one dark cloaked arm down toward my face.

I slam my eyes shut before I can see the knife, a mouse squeak slipping from my gullet.

The little red dot blips in the corner of my left eye as I wonder what dead will be like.

And I feel his hand grabbing my hair, fiercely tearing me up from the ground—an instant stabbing in my sinuses, bundles of pain ripping across my skull. Dangling over the sidewalk, not quite kneeling, with my stupid fucking designer boots trailing limply beneath me, touching the pavement but bearing none of my weight.

“See? This slut is already begging for it,” Knifethug snickers. “Just the type of whore the slavers pay top credit for.”

He laughs as he cups my right breast in his cold hand. The knife has disappeared now, but my relief over its absence doesn’t overshadow the abhorrent shame and fear that have me trembling. Devastated hopelessness is all I feel, and I stifle a humiliated whimper as urine leaks into my panties. I look straight ahead to avoid the dismal sight of the loathing face of Knifethug, only to see the sinister snarling hate emanating from an approaching Hawkface.

“You sorry little cunt!” Hawkface screams as he breaks into a dash toward me.

Time is eking out in slo-mo. Knifethug is pinching my nipple with savage, filthy, jagged fingernails till he breaks the skin. I feel a trickle of blood edge its way down the curvature of my healthy right breast.

Hawkface is still coming at me, arms churning at his sides, his ragged gangland clothing whipping about him. I watch as he winds up his leg to kick me in mid-stride. That glimmering steel toe of his boot swinging toward my chin to explode into pain and oblivion.

---

Pitch of darkness for a breath/a thousand thousand resolving

ominous panic stampeding into through without against me resolving

discrepancies recalculating neurons reconfiguring spatial congruency

burning pain plowing crushing slicing fucking depravity all too

real, tentatively visceral

soft humming drawing back together aghast scattershot sensations

pulling back together the good math ironing out the bad yet

---

When I regain consciousness I try to scream, a reaction to injuries sustained whether I was awake for them or not—but instead I find myself choking on a mouthful of someone’s cock.

Feeling the invasive thrusts of another inside me, awash in a claustrophobic fit of impaired movement and lost perspective. Writhing between the atrocious gang of gutterscum, overwhelmed by their brutal unrelenting ravaging of my battered body.

Drastic maddening pain is ripping inside my dry pussy, consuming my being with frustration, physical suffering, and complete demoralization.

The little red blip in its metronome-perfect rhythm pulsing in the corner of my closed eye, now little more than a sick teasing reminding me that there will always be a record of my darkest moment.

A cliffs note in the Grimoire of Desecration.

This is metafucking warpeddddddd oh my god fuck this shitttttttt.

If I could leap into the mythical eternal burning of Hell at this instant to escape this profane trap in which they’ve wrested me.

I gag on the unclean cock, tasting the bile squishing in my mouth. His hard member slamming to the back of my throat over and over, my jaw stretched uncomfortably wide—the sight of the Ming Palace Casino entrance flitting through my mind as the incessant pounding drives my throat sore.

Tears trickle down my face, from the eyeliner-smeared corners of my clamped-shut eyes. I don’t know how many there are, gathered around and over me, waiting their turn to ravage me. Somehow I find the wherewithal to activate an internal audio track through my neurochip. Something to drown out the appalling and macabre things they are saying as they torment me physically, emotionally, entirely.

It’s a shitty ancient orchestra .flac file. Something called Mozart-D Minor. The music is slow to start, but it’s the only thing I have to cling to amidst the swirling whirlpool of pain and fuckery sucking me down, down into itself. I turn it up to the maximum volume, letting the haunting piano gracefully crawl over itself in my ringing head.

I’m trying to make no noises as I get mercilessly hatefucked from both ends. Once, in high school, I saw a webclip on sexual assault. It suggested that the less noise you make in such a situation, the less appealing a target you are for a rapist. There was an inescapable logic to the truism that I would rather never have known. Not like this.

My head is banging on the concrete and each time it smacks the ground, it sticks to something warm. I listen to the sickening squooshing noise of my scalp and hair pulling off the sidewalk under the mounting piano melody, trying to will away the physical sensation of the assault on my body.

This is toooo fucking much. I’m gonna puke...

I realize the sticky puddle on the grimy sidewalk is the pool of blood oozing out my skull. One of my arms gets pulled violently at a wicked angle. Sheets of tearing pain obliterate my shoulder. The agony is insane. Pure wrenching torture. The pain distracts so well from the rest of what’s going on that I almost forget.

Then something in my psyche snaps. A chorus of internal laughter erupts in my head as I feel one of their hands mashing and twisting on my tits.

Oh they fucking love my tits, huh?

The maniacal laughter, blasting in my head alongside Mozart, rises in pitch and volume as I feel myself coming unmoored. Tears stream down my face, mixed with dripping makeup and smeared gag-slobber. My eyes are beaten blurry cesspools.

Yet under that slop, clear as day, I can see the white digital numbers ticking off the seconds that my memory slide has been recording. Up to 8:17 so far.

Is that it?

Eight and a half minutes, from a walk home wanting to avoid lewd and threatening catcallers to a bloodied-up pulp of a back-page statistic?

8:34

8:35

8:36

8:37

My attention drills into those numbers as my body is torn asunder by brutal hands and engorged loveless cocks. Mozart’s fantasy blares in my brain, salving the horror as I stare into the time register just above that ceaseless pulsing red dot.

Feeling one pull out of me, up off of me. Then another mounts me, slapping my exposed chest fiercely as he howls in frenzied triumph.

“That’s it bitch take it, take it you nasty little fuckslot!” he hollers loudly, before spitting a chunky mouthful of wretched mucus all over my belly and torso.

Pushing and forcing his way up in me, as the tears run down me. Another dirty cock throatfucking my bleeding, impaired, once-beautiful face. I barely cringe as I feel his cum exploding in my mouth. The taste of it is sour and salty, utterly repugnant.

I watch twelve seconds tick on the time readout in my eye as he slows the pace of his thrusts, his cock softening and shrinking in my mouth. With a groan he pulls it out slowly, done with me for now.

This is fucking fuckkkkkkkkkeddddddddddddd!

A thunderous slap rocks my skull again, and I burp up a gooey line of cum.

Feeling that sticky bead of shame slowly dribbling out the corner of my mouth as I watch the clock pass ten minutes.

The piano turning dizzy spirals around my convulsing injured mind. Unrelenting pain slamming up into my cervix. A car wreck that keeps happening. This skin-peeling six-car pileup that just won’t stop.

“Open your fucking eyes whore!” The voice unmistakable.

It’s Hawkface on top now. In me now.

A vision of Knifethug’s weapon flashing in my mind. I open my eyes, too terrified to do anything else. And right above me are two other dicks, pumping fists wrapped around them as two of them kneel over me, wanking at my defeated face.

“Look at me you cunt!” Hawkface screams, reaching down to clamp his hand around my chin and jaw.

He forces my head to angle up, facing him. Pulling me up far enough that one of the slimy cocks in my face is now pressed firmly into my cheek. He keeps jerking it, groaning softly, making my stomach turn in knots.

“You ready for your treat, you dirty little cumslut?” Hawkface mocks me.

Insane laughter rebounding about my skull again, juxtaposed by the beautiful piano.

“Oh yeah, here it comes fuckmeat…” One of the two over my face moans.

Cum blasts into my eyes. Burning. Fucking awful.

My eyes close again as I let loose a bleak whine and feel stream after stream of thick semen splashing in nauseating ropes on my bleeding face. Ungodly amounts pouring on me. Fucking showers of it keep flooding my face and I think they both must be cumming.

I wear a mask of pained frozen revulsion as they splurt their seed on my marked, bruised flesh.

Noooooo..... this is fucking glitcheddddddddd! But I can’t unplug like some basic softserve wilson...

Hawkface forcing himself on me, in me. An ugly jackrabbit demon lording over me, delighting in my anguish. I wish I had collapsed his larynx before, when I had the chance. Cursing myself for my weakness. The semen streaking down my face, mixing with my tears.

The sweet magical piano notes shuffling over themselves as Hawkface mashes and twists my breasts. His piercing stare, leering down as he has his way with me. That grotesque nano-modified face looking past and through my fading soul.

Swimming deeper into the insanity that is all my mind has to offer. Lost in a nightmare of irrational guilt and loathing. A jagged maze of pain and bottomless wells of helplessness. Thrashing the fiber of my world to fried and confused nerve endings.

My time register reads 11:07 when Hawkface finally pulls up and out of me. I don’t know if he came inside me or not. I didn’t feel him cum in me. I didn’t not feel it either. Rationally I know there are nano-remedies that can counter any disease, that my womb does not ovulate and pregnancy is not possible. Their cum slathered all over me is making me shudder at a molecular level for much more unthinkable reasons.

For the first time in ages my attention is drawn back to the aching pain of my swollen ankles and toes inside my stupid blue boots. My left knee and right ankle throb with pain as I move, ever so slightly, again under my own power. Like air for the drowning.

But I fear the teasing of hope.

Knowing hope will always wear a razor-thin edge forevermore.

I realize that again, my eyes have been closed for some time. Trying to risk cracking one open slightly to see where they are, positioned around and over me. But my eyelids are heavy with the dried composite gunk of cum, blood, cosmetics and spit. I don’t really want to see them but there is dire calm settling. A terrifying hovering serene ambiance, settling slowly.

All I know now is the meandering piano and the memory slide’s minimal readout nictating in my eye. Behind that foreground of sensate awareness are the burning wounds coursing through the fragmented strata of my defiled being.

12:03

A dull swelling of light begins to throb on my eyelids, alternating through red and blue and a wash of head-splitting white.

The cops. It’s the fucking cops.

Oh my god, finally thank god. Oh my god I don’t believe it.

The sado fucking neo-addicts must have fled. Oh my god I’m saved.

“Hey! Officer {Patterson}… look what we caught for you tonight,” comes Hawkface’s voice, proud and jovial.

He’s not at all fleeing from the scene—he’s happy to see them.

I hear the doors of the hover-cruiser slam shut and the clomps of their boots as the officers draw near.

“What a nasty little whore,” one of the cops says. I know it must be. By now I recognize the voices of the others.

My heart pauses, lumped in my throat and I am hoping that I choke to death on it, quickly.

I hear a zipper being undone. Then another.

“Finish her off roight now.” Knifethug’s voice right over me.

A chorus of sinister laughing is draped over the sound of buckles being undone.

They’re going to rape me again. The police are going to join them.

Surprise and shock are all I can manage as I feel warm piss pouring down onto my face and body. A perfectly sick punctuation mark to the degrading torture thus far. Their piss is fetid, reeking of the amphetamines in their systems. Brackish heavy waterfalls of piss, barely filtered by their dying livers, flood my face and my hair.

Fuckkkkkkkkk.... could this possibly get any more glitchedddd?

I can’t help but squirm in discomfort, already driven so far beyond my wit’s end.

“Take it you nasty little fuckpig!” Hawkface hollers as he delivers a callous kick to my sore and broken ribs.

My body flips halfway over from the force of the kick. I am a complete waste of a rag doll.

The taken-for-granted toy of an angry dissonant child.

They continue to piss on me as I whimper and shake on my side.

“Hey, what the fuck is that?” The cop voice again.

It seems they’ve mostly stopped pissing now.

I can only feel one steady stream arcing back and forth, making sure to coat my boots and legs completely.

“Aww fuck, mate.” Hawkface again. “We didn’t see that.”

“Stupid slut has a memory slide lodged.” The other cop voice.

“I swear we didn’t know, man!” Hawkface protests.

“The stupid bitch had to go and turn this rape into a homicide,” the first cop says.

“Gorister, you fucked up again,” the second cop says.

Time sputters to a stop again as the Mozart in my brain finally ends. Nothing happens.

Then an audio call starts ringing in my neurochip. It’s Kanten. Finally calling me back.

I laugh out loud, tasting blood and piss.

The buzzing hum of a gun powering up.

“Well there goes our cash in.” Knifethug sighs.

Incinerating oblivion ignites my skull...

---

the truncated thoughts drip away washing relief of a nightmare being cut short

digital pathways opening for the clean emergence of the pilot’s psyche

a hard reintegration convulsing with reorientation, dizzying and starved for

one last push until surface reality is breeched

---

“Let me try! Let me try it!” Scaddler hops up and down next to Mikalov Collins as the older boy comes back to the real world.

His immersion into the last thirteen minutes of Tilly’s life is over—that is, his first viewing of it is over. He’ll watch it again, and soon. There are only so many black market memory slides out there, and that one was as edge as it gets.

“Come on Mike,” Scaddler whines. “You said I could try it after you watched ittttt.”

Mikalov’s face is a blanched sheet. Still reeling from the simulated experience.

“Uhhh… I don’t know man,” Mikalov begins. “You’re only twelve dude… This one is reaaaalllly glitched.”

“Yeah? And you’re only fourteen bitch,” Scaddler retorts. “I’ll tell my mom if you don’t let me try it.”

“Fine fine, don’t be such a shitbag little wilson, man.” Mikalov stares at his friend in annoyance.

But he pulls out the memory slide and hands it to Scaddler.

---

---