In a bubble bath of fractal foams, the VM Dawn.

Vindicator Mishima, himself born from recursively mulched calendars, seeds his own forebrain with a plan for 'big payback'. A crossgrid stays in place midscreen. He hears it on his back like a Monkey Ramtha, a Rama Yana freebase diamondstar halo.

Now, he dies again, this time for a reason he incompletely will understand, though no less real or intense in spite of that; or he plans to anyway. Got silk?

He condemns himself: he sketches a mutation in the steamed mirror, watermarked in fiery scriptuals: ATTIS TECHNO WICKER MAN KEYPAD GODLET; and he sees himself in millions of pay-per-use home displays, a la those horribly 'officious' Corbis CD Roms.

False History: a Clandestine 25th Century Crucible Fiction? No. Corrective Lens History, he decides, squinting cowboy eyes, humming Brahms.

The Volumetric Mishima thrashes, salmonsilver, speckled with flecks of his beloved Brahms and Bela B. It's an old joke, but so, he decides, is gravity and hygeine. He can hear something rattling, overdue, flange-papered, upstairs, undead, wearing limited edition custom uniforms.

Attic Toys.