HoloLens Hands On
David Hollingworth takes a trip to the AR side…
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