Dream RunnersChristopher Broom
Sweat is always the last thing I feel right before the neural jack slips into the back of my skull. My heartbeat increases and my palms are wet with anticipation. I close my eyes, grit my teeth, and clench my fists. I can smell the sweat rising off my skin and then it happens; a long thin piece of metal no wider than a toothpick is slipped between the folds of my skin and hits its mark, the patcher. The interface embedded onto my spine that makes dream-weaving a possibility.
I force my eyes to open as the pain in the back of my head begins to ease. Three men off to my right are standing near a massive machine that spanned an entire wall. The amount of buttons, lights, dials, and wires that amounted to the amalgamation was enough to make my head spin. They s
