Withdrawal. Limbs twitched spasmodically. Sweat permeated the dream world; soaked sheets became as commonplace as the sunrise. Boredom turned his days into open chasms. The world was awash in iridescent blue screens which pleaded for his attention. Matt Miller was drowning in technological withdrawal.
England was much the same as he had left it, but he felt a different man. Matt stared at himself in the mirror as the sound of tap water filled his small bathroom. Vacant blue eyes looked back at him.
He was a world away from the Matt Miller that had proved himself in Steelport. The King of the Deckers, the Cyber God. At the helm of the Deckers, Matt had used his genius to shape the world around him.
Matt put his lips to the glass he had filled up and drank deeply. Out of habit, he rubbed his thumb across the rim as he set it down. It was a trick he had learned to avoid staining the glass with his vivid blue lipstick. Belatedly, he realized that wasn't a problem anymore.
He hadn't worn any in months.
Matt eased his lithe frame down into a couch, his eyes moving to the ceiling. It was late; street light threw odd patterns and shapes through his loft windows, even three stories up. He watched the light display as cars passed below.
If Matt Miller had been the King of the Deckers, he owed the loss of his crown to one woman: Rain, the Boss of the Saints. Images flashed into his mind without being called forward. The cyber world stretched before him as his kingdom. Young men and women bowed before his throne, donning his peculiar fashion sense and going forth in his name. He could have brought the world to his knees, basking in electric blue light.
Their plan had been foolproof. First, bring down the Third Street Saints. Humble their leader. Next, step into the vacuum of power left in the gang's wake.
But even in his memory, Rain had her way. She had been like a computer virus. Matt had programmed many in his time. It was easy, like falling asleep.
All it required was an intuitive knowledge of the program. Viruses were not malicious, as many thought of them. They ran without prejudice, executing their function exactly as they were programmed to. Protection could be put in place to minimize the damage done to the operating software, but the virus could often reassemble itself from the tiniest existing piece. Viruses could be quarantined, but nobody built viruses like Matt.
Rain was a virus. No plan could stop her. When Phillipe Loren and the Syndicate had killed one of her lieutenants, ruined the gang's reputation and disassembled her assets, she had not died. She smashed through their leader and wrestled back her assets, one by one. No firewall could be put up that kept her down; no quarantine could keep her at bay.
After the Syndicate's plans had dissolved, Matt had been left with absolutely nothing. Returning to England had seemed the only logical choice. Swearing off technology had been the next step. What was left for him in his ruins of a kingdom? But the Saints, on the other hand, had rocketed back to stardom. He listened to the rumors of their supremacy with more interest than he would like to admit.
They had reformed their policies, gaining clarity and focus of purpose. Like that boring novel in school that he had barely read, the Scarlet Letter, the gang's notoriety was once more embraced. People began to refer to their name, the Saints, as if they truly were that.
Matt flicked on the television, flooding his apartment with incandescent light. The news was on. He absently listened to the droning cadence of the broadcaster.
"-it looks like it is a dog eat dog world after all, Tony. In other news, the most popular baby names of 2012 are in! Preschool teachers agree: there are more Rains in the classroom than any other girl's name. For boys, it's the tried and true names that are holding firm: John. Back to you, Jane."
The television remote hit the loft wall hard.
"That does it," Matt hissed. "You get children named after you, and what do I get? Fat load of rubbish." Miller leapt up and passed through the tiny bedroom adjacent to his living room. His closet door swung open, revealing a set of perfectly bland outfits hanging in a neat row. He shoved them aside, searching with his hands until he felt the old, familiar leather.
He shrugged into the jacket and sighed under its pleasant weight. He travelled to the bathroom as he slung a blue tie over his neck. Matt opened the medicine cabinet and spotted his former trademark makeup.
He knew just how to handle things tonight. No more lying around feeling sorry for himself. He would cope with his depression the normal way. Matt Miller was going to go on a bender.