The Tw@trix – a mini novel – Chapter 1

Sometime in the not too distant future (about half past 4 in the afternoon) mankind is under the control of the machines; PCs, PS3s, Xbox360s, Wiis, DSs, Kindles, and of course iPhones. Each connection to ‘the net’ becomes a drug straight into the cerebral cortex, stopping the user thinking too hard.

‘The net’ is the ultimate designer drug, the user controls their own journey into this alternative reality; be it the illusion of sending mail to friends, going shopping, having a game of 10-pin bowling with the family, or a hail of bullets in battlefield simulations (which are, in fact, directly controlling lobotomised military grunts in far-flung places like Afghanistan, but that’s another story altogether…)

For some, none of it is personal enough. Alone in their homes, or offices, or flats, or bedsits, or sheds, or hovels they crave something more – the illusion of human company. Too dim-witted to use ‘Second Life’ – as that requires having a first – some have discovered a form of ‘the net’ which is little known; double the strength of the normal ‘net’ and twice as addictive, they will sit for hours – days sometimes – their keyboard being the only outlet they have for their slow-moving, muddled thoughts.

For them, it is real. The personas they use when they are jacked-in have become more real than the the sacks of flesh who answer the door to the postman delivering their latest online purchase (except the online persona is infinitely better looking and sexier). With a nod to the near-religious experience they consider it to be, they call it – in hushed whispers – ‘JC’. To the rest of the net, this gravity well – a place where large bodies and low IQs sink to – is known as ‘The Tw@trix’.

Jacked into The Tw@trix, everyone is equal; the terminally stupid, the alcoholics, those with personality disorders or mental health issues, the nymphomaniacs and misogynists, the aging lotharios, the Tourette’s sufferers…

Some are more equal than others, however. The Tw@trix is patrolled by Agents; regular users who can morph into lethal machines, with the power to sever normal user’s connections. More often than not they just silence transgressors – digital duct-tape, if you will – their keystrokes washed down the digital plug-hole while they furiously type to, well… nobody.

The Agents follow a code of conduct known only to themselves, punishments depending on the prevailing wind direction and whether they’ve considered sleeping with the transgressor or not…

So, reader, the scene is set. Please, take the blue pill to return to your normal life and forget you ever read this. Or, take the red pill and see how low the gravity well goes in the following chapters, where all references to any people – living or brain-dead – and their ‘JC’ personas are entirely intentional.