"HOW DO YOU PILOT THIS THING!?"
I howl into the radio, as its prediction-oracle algorithms tuck at my reflexes and turn my feint into a dodge for a master stroke that never came.
Always that little sting, that pinprick of instant pre-selected fight-or-flight addled by quick release adrenostimulants calculated in advance. When? How does it know? When did it figure all of this and how? When? When?! WHEN!? WHEN!!
I blink and the hand molded controls of my chassis is the potted plant in my room. The rapid inflow of targeting data and hull status that traces up my subjectivity-enhanced flesh us now... dirt speckles and sweat.
Now. When is now?
I resist the urge to hurl as my brain tries to connect the dots between possible future and active present. The ordained combat scenario reeled back to me throttling my plant 4AM ship-time.
Dyscrommetria, Chronostrife, déjà-vu for events yet to come.
It is as i slump to back to my bed that i have to accept that maybe, just maybe, that many missions back to back in the Amber Phantom wasn't the best idea.





















