He switched on the Augmented Reality goggles, and became Ch0023r. A flash of chrome was all the warning he got before hi-jacking in. Scatterframes of nanobytes swirled around in cykene kinesis like foxtails, neon slipsteams racing through flow-wire circuitry, fraying the nanoform of iNet. A grayscale membrane saturated the tunnel-vision of the Augmented Reality stream, and then it was like a curtain being drawn back on a silverglass LCD holoscreen; a steamstack fringewire colossus rose out of the Linux universe like a motherboard metropolis, made of microchips and metacode, root programing streaming in beta like a thousand shooting lights across cyberspace.
This was iNet, the virus-plagued serial-world where malicious software came to die; annals of an archived version of the old internet that still existed in an IRC database now served as the garbage dump paintball arena for glitched profiles of the parallel shooter MMO to constantly replay their gruesome death-matches. Like digital zombies of dead gamers, the profiles existed locked in pseudo-combat eternally glitched in clan-battles that had been played out in the publicly released version of the game months ago. The games were fake, but the psion beams shot from pixel-deleting magna-weaponry was real enough to fry a consol controller, hotwired to hell by overhacking and code-splicing, real enough to kill a wayward avatar, and delete the backtrail for an unfortunate hacker hi-jacked into AR to logout. This was the deathzone, accessed through fullmetal ICE programs classified above Top Secret, originally formatted by military-grade intellegence codecs, and displayed only by GraphX mods purchased on the Tokyo black data market in cold hard cash. This was illegal, this was stupid, this was suicide.
This is where Ch0023r would find the AXIS.