!flux11 The coffee shop itself shivers at the edges of perc…

!flux11 The coffee shop itself shivers at the edges of perception, walls bleeding phantom cyan into weeping magenta, smeared as if the Z-buffer just gave up. Slumped at tables swimming in scan-line tide pools are the wireheaded. Cranial jacks weep thin trickles of data-static, optical ports hum with ghost-light beneath slack eyelids. They aren't here, not really. Reality is a low-priority background process. Fingers, detached from conscious thought, perform micro-ballets above the glitch-streaked table surfaces - ghost-flicks, tiny, spasming inputs firing commands into neuron-laced LANs. Synapses blaze with the light of internal campaigns, mapping territories unseen, waged behind eyesockets mirroring the dead cyan glow of corrupted display firmware. Aberration screams across their vacant faces, splitting cheekbones into vibrating red/blue echoes, pulling features into a nauseating, unbalanced fisheye warp. They are utterly zonked, lost vessels adrift in the phosphor-burn sea of their private, overloaded games, the tangible world just noise, just artifacting at the periphery of the real game., fisheye lens