Exolymph is a portmanteau. “Exo” means outer, as in “exoskeleton” and “exile”. Lymph is “a colorless fluid containing white blood cells, that bathes the tissues and drains through the lymphatic system into the bloodstream” (according to whatever dictionary Google sources from). This liquid is a key part of the immune system — hence sick people often have swollen lymph nodes. Trivium: inflamed nodes are a hallmark of AIDS.

In one of the semi-imaginary universes that we haven’t invaded yet, exolymph is a drug, a viscous intoxicant to be rubbed on the temples and inner wrists. It is an outer protection — exo lymph — that which soothes yet exposes. Users find their eyes opened too wide; their nostrils fill with the pungent scent of rosemary. Exolymph has an effect similar to cocaine. It’s a party drug, chosen by rich shoppers.

Street rat via photographymontreal.

The woman who took exolymph an hour ago wears very high, very black, very stiletto shoes, but the substance filtering through her skin has improved her balance. She strides to the DJ’s raised booth, unnaturally confident, and rests her fingertips on the edge of the table. The DJ looks up at her visitor and smiles with a red mouth. She can tell that the woman in heels is high — telltales smudges gleam on either side of her forehead. The DJ says, “Yeah?”

Across the dance floor, a man is angry when the music changes. He is standing near the bar, facing the shelves of liquor. He turns around, gesturing with his drink and speaking loudly. As the man moves, his elbow collides with the woman behind him. It’s an accident. She drops her cocktail and he offers to get her another one. Taking advantage of his guilt, she asks the man to buy a sim session for her and her boyfriend. It’s a little more expensive than the cocktail — but she might be bruised.

The sim machine is whirring when they find it. Already occupied. The man, the woman, and her boyfriend all wait outside, awkwardly, until a group of laughing friends emerges. The man gestures for the couple to enter. They duck into the sim chamber and he presses his palm to the screen. Angry beeps prompt him to try two more times before the biometric database accepts his handprint.

None of this is revolutionary. Drugs and payment? We have those now! Maybe everything is already contained within us. Even dark impulses are mundane when you experience them daily.