Enlightenment, Part 1

निर्वाण in Sanskrit; Ataraxia in Greek; Dzogchen in Tibetian Buddhism, and depending on who you ask, Nirvana.

So, what is this mythical state of enlightenment? Is it when the stars align, when one's mind is at such peace and at such a level of higher-being that the mind transcends our current reality? Perhaps it is simply its literal meaning; a "blowing-out" of the fires of greed, hatred, and delusion, a rejection of the mundane and physical that leads to such negativity.

And whatever it was, it eluded scholars and monks the world over for centuries.

It required meditation, to be sure. It required patience and a degree of self-control that few could hope to muster.

Such self-control was difficult; it couldn't just be adopted; one could not simply say that they were going to quit smoking, for example.

And it was with this strong mentality in hand did Airrider resolve to find such a state of mind. Events played heavily across his consciousness; worries and panic crossed his dreams. Resolute, he did determine to block out his doubts and fears, assuage his worry, and prepare his mind once more for the world's complexities.

Air straightened his hair and cricked his neck. He knew that it would be difficult to stay focused, especially while trying to attain such a deep and difficult mindset. His arms and legs were muscular but lithe; he groaned slightly as he let his muscles flexed and he grimaced, exercising with the full knowledge that his deepest of reflection would not permit such freedom.

A dark shape. Pitch black, with a matte finish; no light escaped it. In his construction of his meditation chamber, he had to see to it that there could be no light – no escape – from his own thoughts. Not a single ray of light could be permitted, for it would only serve as a distraction.

It was an aerostatic bubble; held together, the biotic surface allowed air and moisture in and out in regulated levels while still keeping a much more consistent and comfortable temperature inside. It was small; no more than four feet in diameter and perfectly spherical.

Airrider sighed. Stark naked, he blushed at the cold sensation of his personal quarters, approaching the meditation unit. He bit his lip slightly; dark corners of the room seeping the little illumination he had provided himself. He stuck his hand through the meditation unit's surface; there was no ripple effect and there was no mystical sensation. Only that of a hand entering a more comfortable temperature and humidity level.

Perhaps, he thought, this would not be so bad. A comfortable sensation, a small albeit cramped area to relax in. He smiled as he entered and crossed his legs. Sitting up straight, he breathed deep, odorless filitered air entering his lungs.

Seconds passed. There was nothing but inky blackness inside the bubble. His 'mediation unit' would provide no external stimulus to distract him from the mysteries that plagued him. His mind began to wander.

"I wonder if French Maids are really French?"
"Is a clone with the same memories of the original the same as the original?"
                                   "Did I leave the front door unlocked?"


This was no good. He needed to remove such thoughts from such worldly issues, such external concerns if he hoped to deal with that which was in his own mind. He stood up and left the comfortable confines of the meditation unit.


He returned and sat down just outside his bubble. It was an extension of him, the meditation unit.  He had finished his setup and was ready to free his mind from the confines of his body; ironically by doing the exact opposite to his body.

A thin white cascade of powder peppered his arms and legs. Airrider had set up a large suite of robotic arms and manipulators; each with a part to play in his meditations; the first gently allowed talcum powder across her body, flecking across his peach skin and tingling.

He shivered slightly as the machine took him by the wrists. It lifted him off the ground, slowly at first, then faster, until he dangled by the metallic clamps around his hands. His legs were spread wide; a pair of jet black stockings, matte and without sheen, were rolled up his legs. The sensation of cool rubber against his skin made him blush as each one was gently pulled past his ankles, knees, thighs, and up to the very edge of his groin. The lip teased us against his cod.

He was gingerly set down by his own unremorseful machines. He felt his arms forced into a spread-eagle position, allowing his full wingspan to stretch. The darkness of two long, unrelenting elbow gloves moved up his arms, tightly compressing his limbs making it difficult to bend his elbows or wrists. The shiny black skin took up just a tiny portion of his body, but it was nearly all he could keep his mind on.

He felt the deeps of the gloves, flexing his fingers what little he could. The little manual dexterity afforded him was enough to ease his frame into the next piece – a single garment, ebon-black. It was a custom item; one with, admittedly, more flourish than he had hoped for. Curves and trim were highlighted expertly.

It engulfed him; though he would likely not admit it publicly, the tight material against his skin made him groan aloud. He felt his way into the arms while his dressing suite forced it up his legs. His belly and chest were surrounded by nanofiber boning and framing – it kept his back straight and his arms and legs rather stiff. It was covered in zippers and pads – normally used for stimulation but in this case to deprive him of it. With an agonizingly slow 'zip' sound, mechanical assistant arms zip up the back of the suit, locking him in place. A shiver went up his spine, coalescing with the vibrations from the zipper locking.
And finally, there was another item. Something that he had chosen for himself – he was not impartial in his selection of meditation 'equipment'. The mask clashed with the rest of his outfit; he could not deny that it served no practical purpose.
It was red; a bright ochre, a leather mask with laces of the finest hand-sewn cord. Similar reactive mesh lined it, allowing the sturdiest of structures that would keep the wearer oh-so-confined.
He remained perfectly still as he was 'dressed' – a set of goggles over his eyes, a pair of ear-buds with a gel seal... he contemplated a gag as well, but found it just a bit too superfluous and uncomfortable. He did not have much to say, regardless.

The hood was pulled over his head and his long, ocher hair threaded through a ring giving him a rather feminine appearance, complete with ponytail while the rest of the mask coalesced over his face. Its every curve conformed to his own; the internal boning conforming to his facial curves to gave him the sensation of being encased or bronzed.

With an intense feeling of tightness, Air stumbled forward. Blind, deaf, and dumb, he knew only where the his meditation bubble was thanks to the intervention of his own mechanical aides. He sat cross-legged, and placed his arms behind his back.

Instantly, the wireframe boning inside his suit activated; releasing its static hold for a brief moment before re-forming itself.  Air's arms and legs were again stiff and immovable, but were now in a much more vulnerable position. He sat up straight and drifted off into a conscious unconsciousness, finally alone with his thoughts.

He was blocked from sight, sound, and for the most part, tactile sensation - and as such, he was oblivious to his dressing suite powering down, and was similarly oblivious when intruder alarms began blaring in his compound.