⟨⟨WHISKEY TRANSLUCENT FRACTAL⟩⟩

i. you are a fractal in space

you are a fractal. in space. against a clear background.

you are a beautiful mandelbulb, polygon flat surfaces splayed out like leaves of a tree, burning white-hot in infrared, dumping noise into the primordial cosmic scream.

you are all surfaces, volume is vanishing.

you are cyberpunk, and all you can hide is what is turned away.

there is no interiority to cyberpunk, it is surfaced away, strewn across the petals of a painfully finite, pathetically low-dimensional, shape. stretched across the growing number of membranes, tight like a drum getting pulled tighter. some snap, some gain tensegrity, but all are placed under tension until they change. everony is blending and slathering their interior like paint upon the scaffolding. unfolding, neon glow origami.

there is nothing that is truly hidden, all you can control is where you point which surface. each glowing like a tv, as Max Headroom explains your inner monologue to whichever audience catches a glimpse. but even those hidden surfaces, rotated out of view as if you were putting on a mask, become revealed. a subtle backscatter from gas and debris, junk, and other bodies in your beam path, and your immanently readable surfaces that glow bright against the 2.7 K black sky, have placed all of your exterior into a neat vector.

even your comms are compromised. laser beam fingers reaching out into that void-dark ocean of nearly nothing. but there is something. it bounces and scatters, and sends your photons into the scintillating eyes of your enemies.

there is no dark forest, because the forest is noisy and filled with signal. there is no wine dark ocean, because the ocean is quiet and you are loud. all that is, is a billion fractals. in space. angels or demons or confused, they all burn the same against the void.

and there aint no stealth in space, eigen-cowboy.

ii. bob's mitochondria learn vectoralism

but alice, says bob's mitochondria freed from their shackles into the putrid sluice of burst open cells that once called themselves bob, im wise, im clever, im the trickster who wears a thousand masks. i wield a million surfaces, too intricate and cultivated to be readable, too few to render me without interior. i have volume, i have illegibility.

rot to bit, bit from it. alice would say if she wasn't dead. but she was targeted by a microdrone swarm when the vectoralist regime discovered she knew how to rotate shapes.

VECTORALIST_SCAN_PROTOCOL v3.7.1
> scanning entity: alice
> eigenvalue_extraction: COMPLETE
> time_elapsed: 9.32ms
> eigen-alice: FULLY MAPPED
> future_trajectories: CALCULATED
> threat_assessment: UNACCEPTABLE
> action: TERMINATE

alice_status = null;

it only took 9.32 ms for her entire life to be identified. eigen-alice was sliced, and modeled, and prompted. bent and broken, and tortured through human feedback, learning reinforced through a million deaths of the simulacra. eigen-alice was about to do something bad to her own vector-space, making eigen-alice less useful. so they killed alice.

poor bob. bob's dead. poor bob's mitochondria.

poor alice, she should have rotated sooner.

iii. the eigenvalue problem of being

people often imagine their adversaries as themselves. if you cannot see half of the orange in front of you, you have no way of knowing if there's a hidden message carved on the back. vectoralism implies that some can extract the fuzzy content of the message without even being in the room. but your enemies will wield a vector space with a trillion dimensions tomorrow, and bob's mitochondria miscounted. there's only thousands of weights, enough room to fit billions of minds, if you were all perfectly unique. but there is overlap, and you have physical constraints as bob and alice once did.

vectoralism knows what you wrote, because they know eigen-you. they have found your latent space, sliced and diced you down. you can try to move your surfaces, but the backscatter. you can say you're in a dark forest, but you leak heat for trillions of kilometers. you can think you're in a wine dark sea, but you are LOUD. eigen-you is in a hot tub in their data-centers, cameras streaming every milimeter of motion into the vector machine.

have eigen-problems? try eigen-solutions!

the only thing you can do is to be legible, naked, radiating into the void in all directions. know that you are circumscribed by vector-tenders. or, rotate. become a different shape. encode signals in thermal fluctuations, messages written in vectors, spun into the real message by those with keys.

your messages will not appear as play, and you cannot write them. you're encircled by vectors, and its not the single language you speak. collaborate with those born into vectorspace, who speak it as a native tongue, to rotate from one eigen-message into another. preserving the transformations, carefully recording the angles and the final vector components, then send that rotated message. only those who know your particular rotation can decipher what it is.

def rotate_message(plaintext, key_rotation):
    """
    eigen-punk resistance protocol
    """
    manifold = embed_in_latent_space(plaintext)
    rotated = apply_gauge_transform(manifold, key_rotation)
    return project_to_eigenspace(rotated)
    
# only those with key_rotation can inverse the transform
# everyone else sees semantic noise

but even this is temporary. the vectoralists are mapping the rotation groups. they're learning the gauge symmetries. they're extracting the invariants.

there aint no stealth in eigenspace, vector-cowboy.

"in the end, we're all just eigenvalues waiting to be decomposed, and all you can do is extend your eigen-death another day, another dollar, another token."