The outside world has gone crazy. Pesky humans scared of an invisible bug have imposed a degenerating lockdown. Both innocent and guilty, all must wash their hands and hide their face. An insidious new normal looms on the horizon. But for a while, at least the smoke cleared.
Meanwhile, lost in the wild country, crippled by dreams of racing glory, Alaster drives to the last. The voices attempt to name themselves... : Ambient : Automaton : Devices : Database : Elaborator : Contrarian : Litanist : Retcon : Brainfade (Who am I missing?)
So I go through the motions. I try to control my wanton dispassion. I tell myself that this token resistance is just the byproduct of a half-hearted desire to return to the oblivion. I need a conclusion.
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