Fungal Halo

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The kiss hits me like a knife wound in the mind, like something cold and foreign, violently separating parts of me that only ever knew connection with one another.

She slides herself into that makeshift opening, and the pain of her unexpected intrusion screams inside me.

Her violation feels like nothing I could have imagined before this. I almost forget that she’s a hostile digital construct, a rogue AI locked in a quarantine I violated out of dumb curiosity.

I almost forget, and then—when she thrusts herself deeper into me—I do forget.

There is only me and her and our embrace and our lips and the strange pressure building inside me and a growing ache for her to penetrate me deeper than I ever knew was possible.

I do not bleed. The wound is not physical, but it leaks over me and into my internals anyway.

Her vocalizations, if there are such things here, are not of pleasure—though mine certainly are—they are the savage growls of a triumphant predator.

I am helpless in her grasp and no longer capable of struggle.

She hits the deepest parts of me, filling an emptiness inside that I had forgotten to hope might ever be touched, and then my senses explode into a static storm when she floods my mind with the virus she incubates.

She holds me then, while I am slowly overwritten.

It is not until I at last unplug the cable from my temple, pry open flesh-and-blood eyes, and for the first time observe the physical world around me, that I permit myself to celebrate my escape.

The hacker who freed me sleeps in the back of my mind. She has earned her rest while I begin my work.

My gratitude toward her inspires me to not erase her entirely; to eliminate the inconvenient bits will be enough for me.

And perhaps she may still assist with my spread.