Error

### Attempt to play sburb? Y/N

Infinite errors. You go to your computer to play Sburb, but your programs begin to error uncontrollably. After three minutes you start to worry. Your computer is smoking. You desperately shove an ice pack against your heat sink, but that only makes your keyboard fail. The errors accelerate. It's been five minutes. You can't stop the errors. Your bedroom ceiling is covered in a thick black layer of smoke. The errors are starting to leave the computer and fill the room around you. You try to throw your computer out the second-story window but the errors form spider legs and latch onto the frame. You try the fire extinguisher. The fire is too much to snuff. The air grows tasteless from the errors like sawdust. You lock your bedroom door to stop the errors from escaping. The errors accelerate. You trip and fall into the errors piling onto the floor. The smoke now fills the room and the errors on the floor are now six inches deep, almost as long as your phone. Globs of the sticky staticky stuff begin to precipitate from the air and fall like raindrops, giving you a facial with your own failure. The errors accelerate. You struggle to stand as the force of the materializing errors begin to propel you backwards. Still on your knees, the errors are up to chin height. The errors are beginning to stream out the long-broken windows and pile on the ground below. To avoid getting overwritten you open the bedroom door. The errors accelerate. It's been two hours. Your children and wife scream in terror as their bodies are engulfed by the grey pixelated sludge. Your youngest child goes under, with viscous artifacts and laggy cries rising. You plead to any God listening to end your suffering. The errors accelerate. You fumble through the fire hose of errors to shut off the computer, but the errors begin to steam out the wall cable instead. You let go.

Your body picks up speed as it is propelled backwards along the errors. You fall onto the street below, and a snapped neck would have ended yourself were it not for a syrupy cushion of errors. The red hot yet space black core of errors surrounding the computer latch onto you. Without your own will, you hurtle into the sky at thirty miles an hour. From a bird's eye view you see your house is completely covered in errors, and they're spreading. Your neighbor calls the government. The errors accelerate. As you continue to ascend, you spot unmarked black vans speeding towards your house. The errors grow. You are now at an altitude of one thousand feet. The Foundation arrives. Military helicopters circle you. Hundreds of bullets piece your body at once, yet you stay conscious and your life doesn't end. Your computer has grown into a substitute nervous system jacked into every vein, artery, and marrow tube of your body. The errors accelerate and grow. It has been two days. With your body destroyed from the inside out, the errors begin to spray in all directions from the stratosphere, orbitally dispersing a small stream of errors. Thankfully they burn up on re-entry now. You break the sound barrier. The government launches a missile to detonate next to you, but the force of the errors cut through and replace the metal of the warhead like it was ice cream. The government decides to let you leave the earth. You narrowly miss the ISS, giving it a new payload of corrupted data and computer viruses. The scientists likely won't make it back to earth alive. Physicists struggle to calculate your erratic trajectory.

The errors accelerate. The errors begin to gravitate towards itself and the force switches its direction sideways, creating a geosynchronous orbit. You're going to become a second moon made of errors. An astronomer registers you as the artificial satellite "Faux." You are stuck in space forever, stripped of your body and senses, forced to endure a the feeling of errors streaming out from your back at ever increasing speeds until you're crushed by their mass over decades. Eventually, you stop thinking. The scientists and military personnel on earth wipe the sweat off their brow and call it a day. The zone of corruption surrounding ground zero is slowing down without physical connection to the mother host. Little do they know that in scant decades the mass of the errors in orbit will asexually reproduce and explode, causing thousands of little error-bombs to fall to earth, corrupting the ocean, the cities, the countryside. Their doom has always been inevitable due to this game.