Terry Dreamscape

	It was a disk, no it was a fortress, no it was an office, carefully organized and well-maintained. It was all these things but it was exceptionally well-organized and bathed in a harsh red light. The harsh red light was more than a light, it was a sensation, it was a hostility, it was a desire, it was an emotion, and it filled you as soon as you touched it. You couldn’t touch it. It could only touch you.
	Every square inch of the wall was filled with images. Memories, thoughts, opinions, projection. They danced around, arranged themselves, shifted, morphed, becoming something bigger, always something bigger, always something more confusing and complex, and yet as you saw more of it, the more confusing it became the more it began to make a strange sort of sense. It was math with concepts, arithmetic for someone who had never bothered to learn numbers.
	Shocks went through everything. Electricity rolling through that halted the omnipresent calculations for seconds and fractions of seconds, just long enough that they couldn’t be ignored. Flashes of pain that wasn’t physical but mental. Fractures in the process that had to be carefully and lovingly repaired whenever they emerged. Fractures that were the process to one extent or another.
	To be present was to be drawn into the process. The process was intoxicating, charismatic, charming. You could think of it as evil and awful and yet the more of you saw it, the more you had to see it, the more you wanted to see it. There was an attraction to how you saw the world as a simple and complex series of thoughts that chained together in a way that rendered the world into a comprehensible series of facts and concepts. There was an inevitability to it. In spite of the constant change and infinite variation, there was only one way forward, and the process was finding it and moving towards it inexorably.
	In the center of it all sat Terry. His hooves and eyes moved in a flurry while the rest of him was nearly immobile. He picked up papers looked them over, made small marks, then moved them to another pile. Both piles were infinite. He never stopped worked. Until Seafoam stepped in. His eyes paused and flicked up to stare at her. He was unmoving, save for his eyes, moving and flicking and analyzing her. Staring. Analyzing. Comprehending.
	“What,” he asked. “The hell do you want?”