Cassandra Keisling/Fang Anonymous Web Blog: The Ouroboros Bites It’s Tail
I’m not going to tell you who I am. If you need to know you already do.
I’m not going to barrage you with street jargon to give myself legitimacy. That stuff is all over the matrix.
I’m going to talk about snakes.
They’re an old symbol lodged deep in metahumanity’s collective mythology reminding us that every life form exists by feeding upon something else alive. We have existed their way, in a sort of brutal harmony, since millennia before man first descended from the trees.
But man isn’t a harmonious animal. The same intelligence that makes a slow, thin skinned hominid with neither claws nor fangs an apex predator allows us to break that harmony.
Many ancient cultures understood this well enough to predict that our own hungers might consume us. When the ancient Norse spoke of the end of the world they described the Midgard Serpent, a monster who—in its insatiable hunger--would devour all the world and then—with nothing else to devour—swallow itself.
The image of the snake biting its tail has other meanings. The Ouroborous is a purer representative of the serpent, an ancient alchemical symbol of renewal and resurrection on par with the fiery phoenix that is reborn from the ashes of its own funeral pyre.
Hunger is natural. The Midgaurd Serpent is not a force for annihilation because it defies nature, but because it exercises it’s prerogatives from a position of vastly unequal power. Neither gods nor giants can reign it in, much less vanquish it.
Today, in the 52nd year of the sixth world, a dozen Midgard Serpents threaten to devour us all. Their mass media devours our dreams. Their frivolous products devour our resources. Their unchecked pollution devours our environment.
We sleep while they nibble at our toes.
Unlike the Midgard Serpent, these apex predators—whom neither gods nor giants can challenge—war ceaselessly with one another.
I am a shadowruner. I am a fang of the Ouroborus. Sleep in peace, little snakes, you need not rise up against your oppressors this night. They will bite their own tails.
Fang stopped just outside the dead zone to do a final check of her blog, then sent it through the layers of anonymity a friend had helped her set up to post her first article. She’d been wanting to do it for ages—or so it felt. She grit her teeth to remind herself that her father—should he still live—couldn’t hope to find it any time soon. She revved the bike again and rumbled into the orc underground. Smoothly taking full control of the vehicle as it’s autopilot shut itself down without access to the signals that updated it’s navigational information, she drove slowly past the big rhino, seemingly a visitor out for a ride. She made notes of the places windows and doors, who might be watching the place and where she might find cover on the streets outside. A few minutes later she drove by the Rhino again.
If the RIDF tags or physical signs told her that no weapons were allowed, she’d lock her shotgun and katana in the bike.
The girl in black leather strode inside.