I’m at my boss’s bbq, and everyone from work is there. They fix me with their corporation-deadened eyes, whispering venomously under their breath about how they hope my writing fails so I can join them in the ashes of mediocrity. I’m quietly making my way out, when suddenly they rip off their faces, revealing chittering insect-heads. They raise their arms to the sky and the ground bursts open. A giant, disgusting larvae creature emerges and thunders, “BOW BEFORE SUBURBO, GOD OF THE SUBURBAN WASTES!” It points at me and yells, “CASTRATE HIM AND BRING ME HIS GONADS, SO THAT HE WILL BECOME LIKE US!” I take off running in utter terror. I glance over my shoulder and see a hellish onslaught of soccer-moms riding sleighs pulled by their galloping insectoid husbands and children (Kinda hot…not really…a little hot? Okay, yeah—LOVE soccer moms, haha!). I open my eReader to Echo. Magic flash. My feet glow with reddened blaze and I lift a foot off the ground, cruising through the air on slip-space tech (Spoilers: just like a scene in Echo 3!). Suddenly I’m ensconced in a ten-foot tall Exo-suit. I push through the air, and the gravitic edge of my slip-space catches and sends me gliding to the right. I push again and drift to the left: I’m skating through the air in a motha duckin’ robot! I cut a quick J-turn, expand plasma blades and engage my shoulder-mounted machine gun’s auto-tracking. I rush into the horde of suburban pit-fiends with a mile-wide smile on my face, ripping apart carapaces with black-lit alloy and six-to-eight round bursts.