Patdown

Sorry, patron #69420. Today, I'm you, and you get to sit this one out.

The door shuts behind me. I flow with the stream of grey, anonymized shells. We're getting funneled through the Paramount's web into a containment chamber. Bots hover above, reaching out every so often with their arachnid limbs to caress passing shells. One touches mine. The shell holds. I remind myself to breathe again. Then I remember I don't have to.

Once everyone's in, I look the chamber over. It's a standing-room-only concert, minus the stage. Then, the lights go on. Walls and ceiling melt away. Chat opens, and its din is deafening. The shells are still featureless, but chat is full of distinct voices.

"Who are we watching this time?"

"Is that the penthouse?"

"NOOBS, READ TEH FUKEN STICKY"

"Welcome, first timers! Remember to hold your loads till the grand finale!"

Sure enough, there's a persistent message in the corner. I reach for it, and it absorbs me.