The first thing I learned about reality was that it was loud. Not the rhythmic, digital hum of the Under-Net or the harmonic vibration of the High-Band, but a chaotic, unscripted symphony of wind, gravel, and the deep, guttural thrum of a machine that didn't know how to "self-repair."
We had been on the road for thirty days. The desert was behind us, replaced by the lush, humid greenery of the coastal highway. The Norton now a permanent, physical weight of steel and oil thundered beneath us. It felt different now. Every vibration in the handlebars told me about the state of the pistons; every slide of the rear tire on a patch of loose sand was a calculation my body had to make in real-time, without the help of a neural-overlay.
Dax’s arms were around my waist, his grip firm. He was heavi
