The Icebound Clocktower and Other Noise Inspired Stories

The Overload

Perception Cloud, Circuit Bending, Babble Noise

It felt like being attacked.

Jolted out of the conversation midsentence, buzzes and screeches bounced around in the skull, spreading a dull ache down to the start of the spine. Noise. Noise and racing thought overshadowed the steady drone of the real world. Vision blurred out of focus until the only real thing was the electronic crisis that was tearing at the brain. Fingers tighten reflexively around something, realizing the smooth, cold texture of metal and identifies that as the fork that--

that-th-that--that--

Remembering made it worse. The face must've moved because some part is dimly aware of being talked to with growing urgency. Sounds that aren't electronic in nature--loops of music, ringing, and a steady, pounding drone rise and fall with just as much intensity, as if trying to compete with it's artificial assailant. Everything, inside and out, was closing in, was an irritant, or downright assault. Something gives the arm a firm shake. It might as well have been an earthquake, and the grip a crushing vice. Every muscle's wound up tight. The jaw's clenched so hard it hurt. There's an impulse to strike out at the offending stimulus, but lack of control and what little dregs of sense left prevents it. There's a weak attempt to pull away, but they just shake harder.

That angry impulse gets a little stronger.

After a brief eternity, the shocking pain snaps into silence. The pounding drone and it's faint ringing fades less abruptly. There's a throbbing ache left as well. The voices and clatter of the other people tune back in. The lights are a bit harsh at first but--

"Hey!"

The man gives off the tiniest flinch, like someone snapping out of a small trance. The fist with the fork in it twitches towards the voice, and for a second he looks almost hostile. He blinks hard, and comes back to reality with a stiff shake of the head.

"Sorry, Fischer, you say something?" He asks, so calm it seems to alarm Fischer even more. The man's olive skin has turned an almost corpselike tint, and Fischer could feel him shaking. He turns away and releases the fork, and sees a twisted scrap of steel hit the table instead. "Oh. Whoops." He can't help but stare vacantly, exhausted and disorientated. He turns back to Fischer. "Sorry."

Fischers mouth moves silently. After a minute he seems to snap out of his own trance, and gives his friend a small pull upwards.

"...Go?"

"Please."