Vic Garg, sequestered within a fortress of discarded fast-food cartons and empty caffeinated energy-drink cans, inside his studio apartment, had no idea of his rapidly approaching demise. Not that he would have cared even if he had known. Garg has become known to his acquaintances as a man who lived on his driving impetus. And junk food, evidently. But mostly on his driving force. Mountains have been cut through, oceans have been bridged, and wooden horses have been thought up under similar drives as what drove Garg throughout his life. One dream, chasing after which kept him alive (there wasn’t much else acting towards that goal).
However, Garg would soon learn, or won’t depending on whatever posthumous world-view you subscribe to, that his drive has reached the end of its tether. There are only so many weeks you can go without sleep; only so much water and nutrition you can refuse to admit within your system.
Three of the monitors currently facing him (Or six, as he could see them at this point. Also, one of them was a water-buffalo wearing a straw hat and chewing a banjo, because hallucination) were a blur of cascading texts and codes. His eyes were on neither of these. Nor were they on the five others that were running, as it would appear, several simulations visually disconnected from each other.