I think the dancer looks a little like me.
We tracked his EMF disturbance to a Soviet-style apartment complex and a room with flaking, high school-green paint and wall-to-wall computers.
I stepped inside. Electric agony jolted me. Another trap.
I awoke wrapped in computer cables, plugged into the equipment, my brain feeling like it had gone through the spin cycle.
But he’d made a mistake.
There is a cyberspace spirit. And that spirit didn’t like the techno-mage’s plan for merging it with the astral plane.
The spirit and I connected.
Someday, I hope I can forget what I saw flickering in its high-def gaze.
A power surge, a shower of sparks and fire. The mage didn’t escape, and Brigitte didn’t save me. The cyber-spirit did.
But I wish I knew why.
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