![]() ![]() For Case, who'd lived for the bodiless exultation of cyberspace, it was the Fall. The damage was minute, subtle, and utterly effective. ![]() Strapped to a bed in a Memphis hotel, his talent burning out micron by micron, he hallucinated for thirty hours. They damaged his nervous system with a wartime Russian mycotoxin.But the dreams came on in the Japanese night like livewire voodoo, and he'd cry for it, cry in his sleep, and wake alone in the dark, curled in his capsule in some coffin hotel, his hands clawed into the bedslab, temperfoam bunched between his fingers, trying to reach the console that wasn't there. Just another hustler, trying to make it through. The Sprawl was a long strange way home over the Pacific now, and he was no console man, no cyberspace cowboy. ![]() All the speed he took, all the turns he'd taken and the corners he'd cut in Night City, and he'd still see the matrix in his sleep, bright lattices of logic unfolding across that colorless void… ![]()
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