I sparked a joint and stepped out into the night—I needed space to clear the oppressive clutter in my mind. The devil’s words, dangerously sensible, were seeping into my thoughts, twisting them until they weren’t even my own. That was their damnable strength: getting you to believe your own ideas were yours, while they pulled all the invisible strings. And what could I do?
The obvious solution loomed—a perilous task that would take an eternity to code into the fortress of Ultra-High. I’d be trying to jolt people awake while they were in the grip of their altered minds, but the system’s defences were ironclad. Even a whisper of change would trigger alarms, flagged, and scrutinized as sedition—a crime punishable by death. I wasn’t exactly afraid of death; it was the wasting of time and effort that truly chilled me. I needed a more insidious approach, a subtle subversion—maybe gradually handing them real control from the inside, even if it was just an illusion.
Perhaps there was another way—a clandestine route where I could enlist the devil’s aid, maybe even grasp Legion by the horns. They wouldn’t suspect the intricacies of my code, designed to block any attempt by either of them to hijack the system for their dark ambitions. I could tap into ancient technologies that might spark recognition in the devil’s eyes but would baffle Legion, all while melding these with the cold logic of behavioural AI, ultra-high coding, and my cryptic behavioural nudges. This was a plan to recruit the insiders—masters of illusion embedded in Ultra-High—who could reshape their warped reality from within. It was a possibility that had been tried by a few, believed in by some, and completely invisible to most. I had mastered the art myself, a central coder straddling worlds. The shock on my co-workers’ faces, when they learned that this was not only my creation space but also the epicentre of my most ruthless victories, would be priceless. My secret blend of code and pagan magick was forbidden, dangerous, and if caught, considered an existential threat.
There were unmistakable parallels between the chaotic tapestry of Ultra-High and the raw, gritty reality we lived in. Everything and everyone were interconnected, but most remained blind to these threads. In real life, the connections were even more ghost-like—a subtle energy, a near-imperceptible emotion you had to coax into being. But those who were attuned to it could manipulate Ultra-High reality. I had the chance to seduce these rare souls, drawing them into my intricate schemes, and teaching them the dark arts of reshaping two interwoven worlds. The challenge, however, was to do this without detection and without my potential allies trying to seize my power. Yet deep in my mind, the embers of a colossal plan smouldered—I just needed to fan them into a flame.
I hadn’t yet decided whether I could trust the devil. I knew I shouldn’t, but that certainty left a sliver of possibility. With them, I knew exactly where I stood; everyone else was shrouded in secret agendas. The devils, at least, were brutally obvious—if you believed the damn press.
The best course was to initially enlist the devil’s help through charged debates and theoretical banter that masked my true intent. I possessed the programming mastery, the training in behavioural architecture, and the notorious claim to have ended the life of the most potent demon in recorded history. All of that was on my side. Yet these primordial forces had witnessed epochs before time began—they knew things I couldn’t even fathom. Overconfidence was a lethal trap, so I had to keep it in check.
I stubbed out my joint and returned indoors, pouring a whiskey, and sinking into my favourite chair. I had to remain as composed and unyielding as ever, an outward mask to conceal the brewing storm inside. I cranked up Max Richter from the album Sleep, its hypnotic strains a siren call for both of us to slip into a shared, dangerous reverie.
“What’s this?” they snapped, eyes glinting with curiosity and menace. I curtly replied, “It’s nice.”
“It is,” I murmured, then fell into a deep silence. I took a measured drag from my e-cigarette and sipped my whiskey, letting the music and the weed send me spiralling into a semi-hypnotic haze. Losing focus wasn’t ideal, but in that altered state, my creative flow surged—raw and unfettered. The idea struck: light another spliff and offer it to the Devil. They hadn’t sampled my weed yet; I was nearly desperate to see what chaos it might weave into a demon’s dark veins. Initially, they hesitated, so I invoked a potent mix of blunt charm and a not-so-veiled threat to coerce their participation.
I observed every twitch in their expression, feigning indifference while waiting for the intoxicant to work its malevolent magic. I offered them a whiskey—they accepted as I rose to pour a glass. I dimmed the room’s harsh light, lit flickering candles, and set a crackling fire in the fireplace, transforming the space into a dusk-shrouded stage. I could sense them unwinding, their ancient composure melting into a vulnerable, hypnotic state mirroring my own.
“Have you ever considered how the tangled web of Ultra-High reality mirrors the intricate connections of our existence?” I began, launching into the uncharted territory of our shared delirium.
