When the urge to disappear, truly disappear, overtook me, I’d lock myself away in my pod at the bottom of the bunker. Virtual world, blink of an eye, I was somewhere else entirely. There, I could run the old rituals, tap in to a synthetic version of ayahuasca, drown out everything real, and melt into the kind of bliss only a good mind-alteration can bring. Did it work for me? Who fucking knows. But I felt it every time, so I kept coming back.
First thing, before anything could begin, I’d strip off, every last piece of clothing gone, standing naked in the pod with all the sensors waiting to see me for who I actually was. Hidden tattoos covered my body, sigils, marks, the real deal: spiritual protection and, more importantly, the secret key to why the pod really existed. These tattoos were illegal, no second chances. If anyone ever found out, I was finished. So I got clever: transparent bio ink, invisible to the naked eye. Only showed up when I pressed the biochip in my left wrist, triggering the chemicals that lit up the ink without killing me.
The pod was set for this – the release, the way the chemicals made the tattoos flare. The ceremony would kick in, and the ink started its dance: left wrist, spiraling up my arm, over shoulders and neck, right across my face, then spilling down my back and chest, winding over my ass and groin – no part skipped, not even the sensitive stuff – then cascading down my legs and ending at my right wrist. Last bit flowed out my fingertips. All of it was a nod to my ancestry: ancient Celtic, Pictish, Druid – not just for show, but for power, protection, and the kind of activation you can’t buy over the counter. The pod read the tattoos and opened, the lines glowing and looping, alive.
Then came the rituals. The Qabalistic Cross, right into the Lesser Banishing Ritual of the Pentagram, naked as creation, pulling power and clearing the air, energy levels ramping up for whatever came next. Then on to Lo Ban Pai – weird mix of tai chi, martial arts, some kind of shaman’s toolkit for breaking open reality, getting the energy to flood through body and bunker, setting the stage. When I’d run through all that, I’d drop into the throne-like chair, headset on, and drop even deeper. It was like teleporting into a temple, except the temple was built from code, meditation sliced so thin I barely existed. Most of it wasn’t Celtic, not even shamanic, but every occultist with half a clue used these tricks when it still mattered, before the world turned and the pods became necessary. It kept me together, protected, and – more than that – kept the line running back to my ancestors through every layer of the mess we called reality.
Feet flat on the earthing mat (another banned piece of tech, obviously), I’d ground myself, keep one link to the earth just in case I lost track of what was real. That sense of gravity held things together, even in the ultra-high.
Meditating with the rebuilt monks of Tibet, yeah, that was another level. It was peace, pure and simple, the only time I could hear my own heartbeat, remember I was alive. I made a point of it, every so often, so I didn’t lose myself in the noise.
Energy from the whole ordeal still ran hot through my skin and the space around me when the real meditation began. No wasted time: I’d mastered slipping past the walls in my head, letting go of bullshit thoughts and that insistent little voice of the ego. Total release, total transcendence. In that place, I wasn’t just me – I was everywhere, nowhere, perched on the edge of every plain of reality, seeing and not seeing, knowing and forgetting all at once.
From that pod, that throne, I’d break through. Ultra-high reality, still anchored back in the pod itself, but with both worlds bleeding into each other, merged until the difference barely mattered.
By the end, during the climax of it all, my naked self became just another streak of light. The tattoos weren’t just for show; they became threads running up to the stars mapped in the ultra-high sky and down into the pod’s walls, keys to the back doors of the code and, if necessary, gateways into the matrix I’d built. Even off the grid, I could reach out, slip through, pull off hacks or attacks—not that it was ever safe. Every door out could be a way in, and if I stayed out there too long, my own system would decide I was lost, gone, dead, and lock me out for good. No way back, just another ghost in the machine.
It always built up to this: deep code, heightened awareness, and then the Shaman appeared. Part of the program, part of the ritual – he handed me the cup, every time. I’d drink the ayahuasca. Bitter as hell, every time, but it worked. After that, I’d lie in the ground, literally: a monk would lower me into a shallow grave, heap dirt and leaves over my body, net over my face so the bugs stayed out (yes, bugs, even in ultra-high), only my nostrils exposed. Monk at my side, cross-legged, drum pounding and chant humming, keeping me safe while I drifted into the drug and waited to see if anything – or anyone – tried to break through.
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The Behavioural Architect: Chapter 23 -- A Mentalist Cyberpunk Novel
