Prep

Time to get ready.

I climb out of my dumb chair into the SmartBed (trademark, copyright, patent pending, whatever). The integrated medical suite beeps to life. Blood pressure, heartbeat, oxygenation. Stomach, bladder, colon. Everything's green. Means we're good for a walk. Don't want to dally too long, though.

Most people aren't honest with themselves about what they are. You are an electrical storm inside a fat lump inside a bone box inside a meat mech inside a skin bag. You look at the skin bag in the mirror and think that's you, because you've been told that often enough. You have no reason to question if that body is you. But grow old or get sick, and you'll find out it isn't even your friend.

Jacking in messes you up even harder. When your brain's half a world away, getting dragged through neon waterfalls in a string bag, gasping for non-existent breath through non-existent throat - what is your body then? Sure, you've got your hardware and your programs and your failsafes to pull you back into the safe haven of you. I don't. Not any more. Not since the Crash.

All I have to do is close my eyes, focus on my net node, and fall.