'Second Voice' Technique

In most literature, the 'second voice' is where 'you' are involved in the plot somehow. Usually the story starts something like: "You find yourself in a strange cave, and you are a floating presence. By simply indicating mentally (whatever that means) you find that you can move forward." Then the media provides the reader with a means by which to 'move'.

This is not, however, what I mean by it here.

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"Hello," said a Third Person; let's call him Peter. Let's call him Peter Small to be precision microparts.

"Hello Peter. Hello Peter...Small."

"My body has been destroyed by life in general, and, having made my way up the copororaratereal ladder, I now find the public and entire government are against me."

Careful needles began to examine Peter Small. They made melodies, and sang small ditties about some Large Concepts, such as the importance that these cronies off the backbone should be able to maintain their sorts of 'fiefdoms' and 'duchies' so as to properly arbitrate the essence of the Internet to the poor gaming and movie files watching masses.

"After all, they're putting the next Star Wars on in a coupla years--what if some dude is actually recording everything Disney is making, and enjoying it with his friends right now?"

"Oh nooooooo! Shall we kill him then? Pulverize?"

"Yes," said Peter Small.

.

Before I'd heard the first voice, I'd been a gas. I'd wheeze about. I'd proceed, and do my operations and my work that I was interested in. It was codified. I had methods, and if methods were not enough, they would be contained within classes. If classes became too topological, we has cross-cutting ways. I became renowned for my abilities--not by name, but by ability. People would leer at me, asking if I can do what I claim, and then I would do what they didn't know they really wanted. If I cared.

Basically, if there was something I cared enough about, I would just naturally be able to hack into it. <--T-h-----i--s is important. I had to care about it. Also, towards the latter era of this existence, I found myself speaking a little too much in the first-person for comfort, and therefore I self-terminated at a terminal emulation on someone else's window manager.

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The lives of free souls like Duane were supposed to easily transcend to their natural next positions in the ecosphere of totality.

However, because of Peter Small, Duane was unable to. Peter had killed the neutrality of the Internet at a point that was really inconvenient for Duane, and Duane's entire being--the essence of his soul--kind of was, just, blocked.

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That's why he awoke in this realm of colors; twelve, fifteen and thirty two. With floating points twirling around them. The sound of a woman deciding she wanted to curl into him after a long night of self-imposed isolation. The integers were all a deeper green and the fractions sent notes of very serious ruby red.

He knew he was broken to pieces, and so he just waited. He couldn't say anything because his narrative voice had been crushed by Peter Small.

That's when the second voice came enabled: "What possible routines could be enacted to pick up and fling these small broken pieces of machinery together?"