a wanna be racing jock slams her fist down onto the control deck, and the huge forboding screen menaces, grinning with a big "game over". she turns to survey the onlookers, those who admire the level she had reached, and those who snicker and beam in their elitism– the ones whose handles appear in the highscores lists of the game. her glittering eyes fall on one who did not see her defeat. from her platform, she can make out the form of a boy, trenchcoat drapped over the sides of his chair and dragging through the sticky spilled soda on the ground. his eyes are closed, and his fingers are alive with activity, lunging at the empty air infront of him and tracing lines, or making symbols or clawing and grabbing gently at objects.

he must be a cybergamer. a fiberhead. illusionari some call them. they make their own reality.

she steps slowly from the platform, him locked in the corner of her eyes. she asks the beaming face of the bartender for a lemonade, and flashes him an innocent grin. spinning on her stool, she crosses her legs and slouches back, starring at him and his now minute, precise hand movements, her face leaned down to sip at her straw, but her eyes up, her gaze passing through the neon glare and throbbing air and burrowing into the side of his closed eyes.

"end game" trails across his vision, and he reaches for the plug pleasantly burning in his temple, pulling it out with a small *click*. he leans his head back, hands folded in his lap, mental exhaustion closing his eyes for him. the weight of his head pulls it to one side, and when he opens his eyes, they are locked by those of a girl at the bar, sipping at a lemonade. the cyber-high is still pulsing through him, his breath still a little faster than normal and his heartbeat visible through his shirt. he shows no faint trace of emotion on his face, a silent blankness giving him comfort and hiding him from the intensity of the music that keeps the others alive.

at least in there everything is clear. if only it could be like that here, in the darkness of the city. the rains dampens everything, and it's like walking around in a haze, just floating from one thing to another place to another person. am i missing something? is there something you wanna tell me? don't keep me in the dark. ah, so that's why they call it "in the dark", cause you can't see, and you're shrouded in shadows. you smile at me, luagh with me, but there's something hiding, eluding expression– i wanna know. give it up, it's too hard to keep secrets. secrets are best kept between two people when one is dead. don't die on me, cause i'll never know.

the lemonade glass slowly falls and shatters into thousands of twinkling peices. the largest is crunched under her heel as she begins to cross over to him, one leg infront of the other, evil but intising in gaze and grin.

i've seen her around before, sliding gracefully through the crowds, silent under the black lights. her eyes– i can see the fire in them, waiting inside glowing embers, patient and controled. if only she knew what it's like in here. so many don't understand the darkness. the rush of running from those who truly believe in the lies of the righteous and illusion of lawful mind and action. wake up and see what truth is. there is no right, no correct. there is only what you make for yourself. i don't even see what is behind the illusion, but i know there is something. i want to see. give me awesome clairvoyance.

her hand touches his cheek, her legs stradle his, and he tastes her warm breath, still slightly tart from the drink, but rich and gentle. she is smooth and agile, and his hands glide over her body, trying to know every inch. slowly, he felt something, so faint that it was almost indistinguishable, but it was there. as it grew, his nerves were silently lit, and the air around him began to sizzle, pricking with tiny needles.