The oneiric atmosphere was once again dictated by the dense syntax of Ayahuasca. But this time, the experience came with a drastic alteration in perception: a detachment occurred. I was outside my own body, observing the fabric of reality from a distant and ethereal perspective, like a camera floating in the vacuum.
I remember arriving at my base territory, coming from coordinates that my memory had erased. The disorientation was immediate, for there was an anomaly standing right in the middle of the hall: a child. She wore a long-sleeved red shirt. The visual logic made no sense, but the neural intuition of the dream was absolute: somehow inexplicably, I knew that little girl was my mother.
The Sensory Synchronization Failure
When I took a step toward her, the surrounding reality began to distort and melt, like corrupted code. The anomaly didn’t frighten me; I was completely transfixed by the presence of that child version. It was then that I saw her adult version—from the present—coming down the stairs.
I pointed and warned: “Mom, you as a child are here.”
She looked in the same direction, but her eyes passed right through. She didn’t see the girl in red, nor did she understand what I was trying to report. The weight of that communication failure, the fact that she couldn’t see her own innocence standing right there, hit me like a physical blow. An absurd and inexplicable urge to cry took over my ethereal state.
The texture of the dream degraded to an even more surreal level. The sensory asymmetry became total: the adult version ceased to see me physically, only managing to capture the frequency of my voice.
Trapped in this glitch, we began searching for my physical body, which was lost somewhere in the house. In my first-person view, I had the absolute certainty that I was at the front gate. But to her, narrating what she saw, my body was in the bedroom, completely static, facing a wall, locked in a bizarre position. The bodily sensation that dominated me simulated the weight of the ritual: I felt the density of my matter, but I was surgically isolated from it.
The Yakuza Extraction and the Hunt
The scene suffered an abrupt cut. I left the house and the narrative assumed a cinematic underworld aesthetic. I encountered an old ally on the street and, shortly after, we were intercepted by a modified car, exuding the aura of a Japanese criminal syndicate—the true Yakuza.
Curiously, there was no face at the wheel. There were three unknown, scowling men scattered across the front seats. My ally jumped into the open trunk. Another acquaintance appeared and did the same. Since there was no more space, I ended up hanging on the outside, squeezed in, anchoring my weight with all my strength between the rear door and the trunk.
The interior of the vehicle was a chaos of needles and fluids: they were tattooing each other while the car was in motion. The extraction was brief; we were summarily kicked out and dumped in the middle of an unknown route.
The next cut threw me directly into the city’s central block. It was there that the diagnosis of my own body changed. I had become a kind of mimetic anomaly: I could clone the features and biomass of the people around me almost involuntarily.
The Mimicry Virus
I noticed I wasn’t alone in this vector. Two people appeared beside me, operating on the same frequency. One of them possessed the exact same ability to imitate others. Everything seemed under control until this entity decided to clone the face and body of my partner—my most important link.
The revulsion was violent and immediate.
I knew in that exact millisecond that it wasn’t her. Seeing an impostor wearing her skin, stealing the bone architecture and mannerisms of the person I love caused a short circuit in my mind.
I was furious. I lunged forward and demanded, with brutality, that the anomaly stop simulating her form immediately.
The environment collapsed into paranoia. From that confrontation onward, the protocols changed: we were being actively hunted. We had become fugitives, and our primary survival directive was to keep our mimetic “powers” strictly hidden to avoid triggering the radars of whoever was after us.
But the same entity that had disgusted me by imitating my partner revealed itself as a critical security flaw. They were reckless. They used the biomass mutation constantly, shape-shifting frequently and unnecessarily, completely ignoring the lethality of our situation. The tension of the hideout, combined with the reckless use of those transformations that threatened to expose us at any second, pushed me into an unbearable state of alert and panic, forcing the dream to terminate before my awakening.