HoloLens Hands On

David Holling­worth takes a trip to the AR side…

Hyper - - EDITORIAL -

Holy freak­ing balls, there’s a gi­ant in­sect on the ta­ble.

Like, se­ri­ously, it’s big­ger than a god­damn football, it’s cov­ered in spikes, and its chiti­nous shell is just sit­ting there, gleam­ing at me. For now, it’s not mov­ing, but I think, if it did, I would won­der which of the CSIRO jerks leer­ing at me now in mute un­der­stand­ing have slipped me some acid. Was it in the cof­fee? No, too mun­dane… Maybe one of them is some LSD-ex­ud­ing mu­tant, the last sur­vivor of a se­cret ini­tia­tive now for­ever shut down by our tight-arse govern­ment. Maybe.

Ei­ther way, they know what I’m see­ing. They can prob­a­bly sense all of my fear. The bas­tards are smil­ing. “Hey, why don’t you see what’s out­side the room?” One of them sug­gests? 'Is this the trip­ping pa­tient zero?' I won­der. Or is it his mate, who seems to be able to see the same things I’m see­ing. He’s weav­ing his hands through the air like a gen­uine shit-wiz­ard, and I can only won­der what they’ll sub­ject me to next.

Sci­en­tists, ba­si­cally, are bas­tards, and these two are re­ally en­joy­ing them­selves. I step out of the room, watch­ing them both, bugged out eyes swiv­el­ling in my head as I try and watch both of them at once. I’m hold­ing it to­gether, calm and cool; can’t let the boffins know that I’ll be dream­ing of that damn god-bug for years to come.

And out­side – I shit you not, readers – there’s a lu­natic as­tro­naut, hang­ing there in the air. No wires, no pro­jec­tions. The idiot’s just… float­ing, weight­less, wav­ing at me. Thank­fully, he’s only three-feet tall, but then again, pygmy space ex­plor­ers have got to be a bad sign.

“Walk around the cor­ner,” one of them sug­gest, and his mate is wav­ing his arms again, an in­can­ta­tion calling forth fuck knows what night­mare this time. I walk around the cor­ner, pro­ject­ing calm, pro­ject­ing the idea that I am not see­ing a bloody tiger sneak­ing through the grass that is sprouting out of the car­pet. It shakes its tail, the pre­cur­sor to a leap, a sig­nal seared into the shrink­ing, wis­ened mon­key brain of all higher pri­mates.

But that’s all – the thing is con­tent to pause, wrig­gle, pause again. I am in some sort of hell stuck on end­less shuf­fle. A gif of the damned.

There’s an en­tire cor­nu­copia spring­ing up around, a Pan­dora’s box of things. A gold fish, swim­ming placidly a foot off the floor, as I try to back away from the re­peat­ing tiger.

“This will be fun,” says one of my tor­men­tors, I can­not tell who, be­cause now more bugs – these one metal­lic, like mini-Borg with lots of legs and blink­ing LEDs – start to swarm out of the wall. And the walls

are col­laps­ing, too, re­veal­ing this gap­ing ex­is­ten­tial void beyond. Is this a build­ing? Or an­other di­men­sion?

Just what the hell was in that damn cof­fee?

The bugs are rush­ing at me, though. “Click on them,” one of the CSIRO goons screams, and so I try to click like a mad­man, know­ing that I am now truly one of them, flail­ing mean­ing­less, trapped in my own world of hor­ror. I click, tap­ping my thumb and fore­fin­ger to­gether like I’m try­ing to make a scien­tol­o­gist ner­vous. I click- tap, the bugs ex­plode. 'Power!' I think to my­self. Is this, I muse, the sense of en­com­pass­ing might that turned my cack­ling com­pan­ions from the shining path of sci­ence to… this?

I don’t care. There are more bugs now. I click. I cackle, too, know­ing that I am lost to what­ever el­dritch power they have cast upon me. Per­haps it’s not blot­ting acid, but some­thing older, deeper. Is that a whistling on the wind, I hear? What fresh hor­ror springs now from im­pos­si­ble an­gles! IA SHUB NIGGURATH!

I CLICK. I CACKLE, TOO, KNOW­ING THAT I AM LOST TO WHAT­EVER EL­DRITCH POWER THEY HAVE CAST UPON ME. PER­HAPS IT'S NOT BLOT­TING ACID

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