Tracks: Surfer, The Catalyst 2020 FC _Another Cypherpunks Oddysey_ [Scene 1] The dream haunted him. It did every night, chased him usually within one lonely and vicious time track. Lately he'd been noticing little things - he still died every night, but the fear was reducing, and the nightmares more often metaphors for reality. Wearily rubbing his eyes again, he noticed the sweat transferred to his fingers. "Again!" he mumbled to his elf, to nobody and to everybody, wondering how many thoughts he had to not finish the formation of, how many he could speak before the watchers would reset the night, as they so often did. That "childhood fancy" as had so often been dismissed had stood him well - that healthy, if excessive paranoia kept his mind alert, eyes open and "Life, secured!" as the weary joke ran. "Such a weak and emotional child" - the distant memory rang out to no one, from everyone, ancient black and white lorenzian swirls danced with the haunting sound track of Ye Olde Dr Who. Swinging his legs off the bed, The Catalyst wiped his damp hands on his dry nightshirt, picked up the pen and notepad, began to write the memories: A rotten hand reaches over the precipice. I knew when it touched my arm, that time track would be forever stuck. Damn, it got me again! ("Such a bloody trope!" he thought to himself, "powerful little fuckers". Yet those after effects - that knot in his stomach.) The next frame returned: he could see his idiotic brother, always bored as a young teenager and looking for mischief, grinning stupidly, but a bit evilly at him; "was that from life, or another time track" he wondered, unsure. Through the brush, had to get somewhere, out of here, time was running out, fear catching up, walking a track ("oh wow, that was a track" ... the writing had again caused his subconscious to give up an insight), following somone, he knew he should walk alone, or rather have the strength to walk alone instead of plainly, unthinkingly follow. ("I'm working on that" he realised.) Next, standing on a bridge, a solid cement and stone bridge, the old Knight's Pass, just one of hundreds of course. Ghouls looking particularly humanoid and bland, but sufficiently gray as to be "certainly" ghouls, slowly lifted their NPC arms, taking slow step towards me. ("So tropish man, this is getting ridiculous!" but it had already happened, his duty to write continued.) A great friend was next to him, the voice of friendship, handing him the usual silver rovolver with silver bullets ("YES! The tropes!" :D). He knew he could fire the gun, but that premonition extended to the slowness of the bullets (shut UP already) - he shot off one, two, three silver bullets and not only were they slow, they curved! Cheeky bullets! (Ahh, "faith", a long way to go young wanna be knight in training!) The closest ghoul was at least a big step closer, and barely a large step away. He took a step back. His "brother in spirit" stayed at his side. Bullets were returning now. Yes, cause and consequence - no matter the tool, action and reaction, thus the need to always surf. These did not curve, had a slight yellow tinge, but were only slightly quicker than slow, and oddly seemed to stop right in front of him. He double checked the time track; Yes, they stopped. And was just about to assert a complete faith failure for the night. "Well that's at least mildly edifying" he mumbled in his thoughts. Why did it stop? His hand had risen, a tiny shield, but a shield it was - ahh yes, a shield of faith. Hmm, a little disconcerting, more fear. Must need more faith (ya think?! "Yes boss!") Then there were two, three bullets in return, but they quickly stacked up in one spot, squashing each previous bullet in mid air. That was handy, the shield was useful. Fear finally crept over him and he woke. Lorenzian butterfly wings haunted him. He was compelled, "just wired this way" he thought to himself with a wry grin... Just as he began to pray for forgiveness and redemption again, to protect the DUMB warriors liberating the thousands of children, an instruction, a conjunction of real life snippets from the last two weeks, became evident or "presented itself" to his ever umble mind: "write" "it seems I share these dreams with you for a reason" "in faith" "it's for a reason" "sharing" "time track surfing" He yawned, donned some warmer layers and shuffled over to the keyboard from the Glory Realms. "Better get some work done" he muttered, confirming the ungodly hour of the morning as the screen came to life. Time Surfers, eh? Are we really surfing time tracks? "Yes" It wasn't even a whisper. Not even, barely a thought. A memory, forged on that bridge and from the voice of friendship. He shivered again, and not from the chill mid Winter air... "In faith" He stopped typing, trying to hold back the tears, never properly succeeding as his subconscious drew him deeper into service. "Just wired this way" he consoled himself. "Remember all" "all in this together" "the game, the consequences, are real, we live with the consequences" []