/jp/ - Otaku Culture

Some days, I like to leave the mask back at home. Just walking among the rest of the human population, part of their culture. For a few hours, they don't look away in fearful respect, and I don't get the weight of shame on my shoulders when I see one of the survivors of the neurovirus.
Today is not one of those days. I pull the cloak over, covering most of my upper face and the mark of shame in my forearm. The uniform always reminds me that we've turned into real monks. I turn the mask on. Facial features are lost, my eyelids closed, eyesight replaced with a HUD even better than the glasses they use nowadays. My skin turns into a dark shade of green. A white string of seemingly random characters shows up across my forehead. The shame.
The sign of anonymous left behind on meatspace, still trying to earn our way into the real hivemind. Tripfags until we can evolve.
It wasn't always like this, I remind myself. Before the neurovirus meme was unleashed on the populace, most of anonymous were composed of meat, only a few of us crazy enough to upload themselves into a higher level of understanding. Only a few of us crazy enough to decimate humanity, crippling their progress with an irrational fear of technology. The Internet of yore is nothing but automated spam and some dedicated sysadmins. Most are uploaded anyway, but still keep at their regular tasks. Something as usual as breathing, they just can't stop it.
Clearing up my mind, I step into the relatively busy streets. It's nothing like before of course, with the collapse of modern civilization and economy and all that. But if you look hard enough, you can see that humankind still works hard to be the dominant species, even under the looming shadow of higher intelligences of what they used to call their own.
I don't bump into anyone. I understand their uneasy respect. We still wield the power of whatever technology the hivemind hands us down, and they need it.

But they can't understand it, elements so alien by now that they don't seem crafted by human minds. The printers do a good job, but the blueprints are just too unnatural.
Eyes in the back of my neck. The HUD informs me of a small pack of children walking behind me. I decide to grant them a little entertainment before today's mass. I turn towards them and smile. They are afraid of the green, eyeless face, but that soon disappears of their small faces as I drop a small lion widget from my sleeve.
"GAO!"
The small toy roars, its face turned into the familiar text based expression.
"It's a lion! Get in the car!" the kids exclaim in glee, chasing after it. I'm sure most of them were born before cars were phased over, but they still remember that for some reason.
I continue my walk to the small church, seeing as the lion roars at the kids for a while, before exploding into small cloud of colored paper and candy.
A small gathering of people around the church. Far bigger than in other days. Of course, the mass has become the only source of entertainment these days, with the copyright wars and all. I walk among the unwashed masses, all of them knowing that they're not worthy of my position, or my presence. It helps to know that there are lower levels than me.
Stepping into the pulpit, I raise my voice.
"Rejoice mongrels, for Anonymous delivers!"
Excited murmurs. Vocal communication, so goddamn primitive and slow. For the last ten years, I've gotten more used to the high data exchange of images and sounds that go along with the actual message from my fellow anonymous.
I switch on the overhead screen. Everyone just gawks at the pretty animation, while some of them use the provided sensory outputs. It's so much a better experience than just watching and hearing. Many are afraid that it will corrupt their neural paths, like in the old days of the Meme.
Nonsense. Superstitious folk, they don't deserve this gift of the gods.

Discussions go on, touching this weekfs delivery and the anonymous experience. Anonymous of Airstrip One has decided to go into hiding, the Luddite sentiment to hard over there. Lucky man, he's probably going to move into one of those self sufficient bunkers, grown into abandoned missile silos.
At midnight, as ritual, we all exclaim in a single outburst of transmitted emotion. The data stream gets hectic, but it's always a good release of the pressures.
"SO RONERY ;_;" fills my view. It's been done this way since even before the Meme, who am I to go against it?

"I'm heading up for a while" I post.
"Good lurk, Anonymous of Area Seventeen" I get replied.
I call into view my helping tools, the only way my mind can comprehend the complex communication protocols of the higher MetaWeb. Some like to call it the Wired, a reference to something long lost.
Only darkness. I start to freak out a little, this isn't supposed to happen.
"Maybe they switched frequencies..." I murmur to the walls.
Diagnostic tools show nothing. Connection is established, but there's nothing.

"Anonymous of Area Seventeen, how long have you lurked in our midst?"
A clear voice. It's the anonymous hivemind, and it's directed right at me.
"Ten years already"
I had no time to answer, but I heard my voice, clear as the disembodied hivemind talking to me.

"Sir, when will we be able to experience the new season of YWUIG?"
I look at the low-level asking. He could probably survive hooking up to the web. And I could use a hand around the house. It's not unusual to take apprentices, but they always are hard work to educate...
"I heard that the ZUN entity is working with Anonymous to deliver an exciting new season in a few weeks." I answer, not letting him know of his potential.
He runs off to join the rest of the congregation. They leave quickly; commenting todayfs showing between them.

Back at the tower, I look at the wall full of storage drives. Teras and teras worth of data, both old media and post-Collapse. Most of my life has been spent over this videos, sitting here locked up in this tower I separated. 10 years of watching the media, 10 years of being a part of the meatspace anonymous tripfags, 10 years of lurking in the metaweb, watching in silent as Anonymous crafted new stories and delivered down new technology for us. Never resting, and always discussing in quick bursts of pure data. I managed to interpret with help of my own gear some of it. Most were images they created out of nothing.
Slumping back into the old couch, I let out a long breath, and switch on the circuit in my head. The Internet is before me, far more real than what my ancestors used to use with primitive screens. Ever since the Meme days, this is a small place, very quiet and slow at times. Only tripfag anonymous come here. Only we can connect without getting gran mal seizures anyway. It's a great experience, the first switch-on, not knowing if you'll become a vegetable, a rambling imbecile, or one of the privileged.
I greet some of the usual. This is usually a mix of plain text with images and video out of the day. More efficient than talking.

Asimov would be proud.

Maybe.

kyou copypasta where

tldr

>>387562
Not fanfiction.

Not related to /jp/

Also fanfiction = b&

>>387562

>>387555
I've been doing bits and random scenes for it in between AND. Since the final deadline for the VN is pretty flexible, I could finish it first. I'm already writing a lot of ero already, a few more can't hurt.
I'm having trouble with the fem-dom bit though.

I wish I had more images of writer-tan. This has to be my favorite episode of any series, ever.

>>387534

I'd fuck her if she was real

>>387598
/jp/ - blogs

>>387611

>>Since anonymous are already some sort of modern monks

>>387534
>>387536
>>387537
>>387541
>>387543

Not your fucking blog.
Also, fanfiction. Reported.

>>387631
that's exactly the thread I had in mind. Thanks for posting it, I had been looking around my 4chan folder for hours.

>>387647
Don't worry, I'll delete the thread myself in a while.
For now, the Akiha picture I owed you. And relax, enjoy the day.

>>387647
>>387652
Sweet Christ, who's the real one?

>>387684
The one that tells us to have a nice day.