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[WP] "They say in your final moments, your life flashes before your eyes, but the truth, is far darker." What is the truth?
|
"So you say that people say *life flashes before your eyes when you die?*" He shook his head from side-to-side and laughed again that humorless laugh.
I nodded nervously, trying not to tremble.
"A nice thought: being rocked to internal sleep by a rerun reel! Almost makes my middle warm just thinking of it. Completely horse shit of course. Pure high-octane horse shit, but horse shit all the same. It'll get ya high for sure, but the comedown will erase all memory of that. Of that you can be certain."
He was starring off at the giant door as he spoke. A tear drop started to slide down my spine.
"*Life flashing before your eyes.* Maybe there's some truth to it, maybe more than some. It's just a problem of direction really."
His cigarette was a pull away from his fingers, but he didn't seem to notice.
"The truth is the exact opposite. When you die you see your future projected out in front of you, a horror-scape of nothingness all rolled over by abyss-blank paint reaching out into the places you can't see. That very sight is what finally does it."
"Does What?"
The words came out before I knew it. I had been trying not to be obvious. Trying to not telegraph my growing unease. Trying to stare at his blackening finger flesh and the smoldering cigarette next to it and focus on working out what kinda creature wouldn't react to that, not even flinch, instead of considering the bigger question. Consider what he was saying.
"That's what Kill's em. Everything up to that is foreplay: the car accident, the gunshot, the highrise spatter, whatever vehicle used for bodily descruction and/or blood loss. All of that is just the tunnel to the door and on the other side of the door is the view. And then its over."
I watched him stand, he was much, much taller than I had realized. The black of his hood was running up a little now and as he motioned to me I caught a peek underneath: blackness and then a pair of red glowing never-dead eyes.
"For you it was your Wife," he continued, as I followed, my feet tracking his movements despite everything inside me screaming stop. "Knife to the back, literal and figurative. Don't get that often!"
I was trying to work out what he meant by that when I looked up and the last thing I ever saw was his hulking grey-black cloaked mass pushing against an impossibly large door revealing my return to the void.
|
I always thought death would be quick, clear cut. One moment is bed, bath and then the next is beyond.
Maybe a big flash of memories, or at least one of those DVD home screens that shows the most memorable clips of the movie, but not this.
I mean it was that succint when the big guy went out. But just because your brain stops working doesn't mean you're anywhere near your final moments. No, it turns out your consciousness is the billions of bacteria nestled in your belly.
It makes total sense now, who would put the most important vestige of a soul on the appendage that is the target anytime anyone wants to punch you in the face, which evolutionarily speaking is a very common phenomenon.
So here I, er... we, sit. An orchestra without a conductor. We, who wax poetically about the infinite possibilities of life, yet we can't even fucking make a finger twitch. It wasn't until we lost our leader that we realized how individually helpless we were, and how greedy.
And now we here we sit, instruments at the ready. But even that is fading, one by one each of lights is flickering out. But it's different than with the brain, or the organs. As each light goes, it turns into the most beautiful music. The chorus is going strong now, and soon I'll be dancing.
|
|
[WP] "They say in your final moments, your life flashes before your eyes, but the truth, is far darker." What is the truth?
|
They say in your final moments, your entire life flashes before your eyes. That's not entirely true; you only see all of the times you told a server "you too" when they wished you a good meal.
Also, that one time you said "I love you" at the end of a call to customer service.
|
I always thought death would be quick, clear cut. One moment is bed, bath and then the next is beyond.
Maybe a big flash of memories, or at least one of those DVD home screens that shows the most memorable clips of the movie, but not this.
I mean it was that succint when the big guy went out. But just because your brain stops working doesn't mean you're anywhere near your final moments. No, it turns out your consciousness is the billions of bacteria nestled in your belly.
It makes total sense now, who would put the most important vestige of a soul on the appendage that is the target anytime anyone wants to punch you in the face, which evolutionarily speaking is a very common phenomenon.
So here I, er... we, sit. An orchestra without a conductor. We, who wax poetically about the infinite possibilities of life, yet we can't even fucking make a finger twitch. It wasn't until we lost our leader that we realized how individually helpless we were, and how greedy.
And now we here we sit, instruments at the ready. But even that is fading, one by one each of lights is flickering out. But it's different than with the brain, or the organs. As each light goes, it turns into the most beautiful music. The chorus is going strong now, and soon I'll be dancing.
|
|
[WP] "They say in your final moments, your life flashes before your eyes, but the truth, is far darker." What is the truth?
|
On death, everything you've ever heard has been a lie. Prepare for this moment, as I have, by learning your true being and trusting in what will come next. Truth lives only in the purest of your beliefs. Clarity like a bungee will pull you out of the infinite fog of death's grip over the mind to wherever your life has led you. And in so many cases, it will lead you directly to me.
You see, in the very last instant before death, after your heart has pumped it's final beat and your body has begun to cool, the last electric charge will course through your brain; the last ripple of life. Whatever your culture calls it--life flashing before your eyes, the soul's exit, a visit from death --this final beat is the last hoorah of your being. On the surface it acts as the great unifier for mankind, as an end to which all of our lives are simultaneously heading, but I have yet to meet two "souls" who shared the same experience. The fact is that in this moment we see what we always believed we would see.
Here, in this nanosecond of final thought, almost your entire brain is lit up, causing the aggregate of your beliefs and experiences to create one final dream. And like a dream it can seem to last forever, or pass in an instant. However, you can not turn away or wake up from what you truly believe. You must face it.
If you're a burning, but sinful catholic, expect a purgatory or hell; if you're an honestly weird sci-fi nerd, expect Cthulhu or Darth Vader; if you're a baby, expect mom; if you're a true blue atheist, tough shit. I know this because I have been dead for an eternity, so long I can hardly remember if I had a life or what it was like. I have come to everyone so far, and will come to you one day, if you so believe. I come in many forms, and I will continue to do so for an eternity. Whether or not this is my hell, I may never know; perhaps I'm just waiting for a replacement. But when I follow my own advice I know that I have to accept my death.
For when I was alive, I believed I was God.
|
I always thought death would be quick, clear cut. One moment is bed, bath and then the next is beyond.
Maybe a big flash of memories, or at least one of those DVD home screens that shows the most memorable clips of the movie, but not this.
I mean it was that succint when the big guy went out. But just because your brain stops working doesn't mean you're anywhere near your final moments. No, it turns out your consciousness is the billions of bacteria nestled in your belly.
It makes total sense now, who would put the most important vestige of a soul on the appendage that is the target anytime anyone wants to punch you in the face, which evolutionarily speaking is a very common phenomenon.
So here I, er... we, sit. An orchestra without a conductor. We, who wax poetically about the infinite possibilities of life, yet we can't even fucking make a finger twitch. It wasn't until we lost our leader that we realized how individually helpless we were, and how greedy.
And now we here we sit, instruments at the ready. But even that is fading, one by one each of lights is flickering out. But it's different than with the brain, or the organs. As each light goes, it turns into the most beautiful music. The chorus is going strong now, and soon I'll be dancing.
|
|
[WP] "They say in your final moments, your life flashes before your eyes, but the truth, is far darker." What is the truth?
|
Humans love to romanticize; they love to dream of things far removed from their grasp and tell tales of what they could be. Death is the most notable, as the end of your own existence is a frightening thing to contemplate. Where do we go, once our bodies are one with the earth, when our flesh sloughs off our bones and we become naught but a memory? Moreover, what is dying like? What happens in that last, brief moment where you're fading from this world, neurons firing in your brain, desperately trying to keep going?
Some say your life flashes before your eyes; that you see all the wonderful memories of your days on Earth stream by like a cinema screen in your head. Unfortunately, though it sounds wonderful, that's simply not the case.
The only thing that's flashing is the neural network in your brain. Your body is dying slowly, but your mind still has just a little bit of leftover electricity, and it's going haywire. Signals are fired all across your nervous system, desperately trying to get some kind of response, like a mother crying for a lost child.
You feel it as pain. You can't move, but your nerves are going berserk and it feels as if your blood has been turned to magma. Sharp, stabbing pains, trails of burning sensations, all while your entire body feels like a leg that's fallen asleep- pins and needles pricking the entire surface of your skin.
You can't think past the pain. You can't move, or cry for help. Sometimes you can still hear people talking over your body, even if you can't see anymore. "Oh, he's gone. How tragic. At least he passed peacefully." while you're being tortured for what feels like an eternity, your cells exploding like balloons exposed to an excessive heat.
Not to mention, you can't breath and your heart isn't pumping. Your body is dead, but the nerve signals those send aren't quite through right away. You still feel like you're suffocating, and the stillness left by a lack of heartbeat is beyond unsettling.
You're alive, but you're not. You're dying, but you're dead. You're paralyzed, but you feel every square inch of your body begging for the completion of death.
You have a mouth, but you cannot scream.
Yet, when it's over and your nerves have died after 60 seconds or so, there's still just the tiniest bit of gas left in the tank. Not enough for you to have a philosophical debate about what's next, or contemplate the meaning of life and suffering, but just enough to feel the emptiness of the black hole you're in. You aren't bombarded with pain anymore, but your soul earns no reprieve from the situation. You're alone, at the end.
Truly, utterly alone.
|
I always thought death would be quick, clear cut. One moment is bed, bath and then the next is beyond.
Maybe a big flash of memories, or at least one of those DVD home screens that shows the most memorable clips of the movie, but not this.
I mean it was that succint when the big guy went out. But just because your brain stops working doesn't mean you're anywhere near your final moments. No, it turns out your consciousness is the billions of bacteria nestled in your belly.
It makes total sense now, who would put the most important vestige of a soul on the appendage that is the target anytime anyone wants to punch you in the face, which evolutionarily speaking is a very common phenomenon.
So here I, er... we, sit. An orchestra without a conductor. We, who wax poetically about the infinite possibilities of life, yet we can't even fucking make a finger twitch. It wasn't until we lost our leader that we realized how individually helpless we were, and how greedy.
And now we here we sit, instruments at the ready. But even that is fading, one by one each of lights is flickering out. But it's different than with the brain, or the organs. As each light goes, it turns into the most beautiful music. The chorus is going strong now, and soon I'll be dancing.
|
|
[WP] "They say in your final moments, your life flashes before your eyes, but the truth, is far darker." What is the truth?
|
They say in your final moments, your entire life flashes before your eyes. That's not entirely true; you only see all of the times you told a server "you too" when they wished you a good meal.
Also, that one time you said "I love you" at the end of a call to customer service.
|
I guess they were right your life really does flash by. Oh look its Big Fat Sue? Man I haven't seen her since middle school. Ah shes crying. What Sue cant take a little name calling? Maybe you should run a few laps instead of crying all the time. Where am I now? Is this sues room? Oh stop crying. Oh shit my wrist is on fire! Is that blood? God damn my wrist hurts! Is that mom? There I am the night I almost OD'd. Now what? The fuck is my mom doing with that rope? Oh no not this! God no I don't want to see this! I cant breath. Shit now what? Its that dam bitch who wouldn't let me pass! Its your fault bitch! All you had to do was let me into the fucking lane! Shit I still cant breath and my wrist are on fire! Oh man brake lady! Oh my leg! Oh God there is so much blood. Oh Jesus make it stop. I just want it to stop! Please make it stop. Oh thank god. Its over. Wait is that Sue?
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[WP] "They say in your final moments, your life flashes before your eyes, but the truth, is far darker." What is the truth?
|
They say in your final moments, your life flashes before your eyes.
They are wrong.
Have you ever felt that there was a plan, a certain path your life was supposed to take? Certain benchmarks you were meant to achieve along the roads of your life? If so, congratulations, you are among those of us who can perceive the truth.
However, it is a far thing to go from a vague, quasi-"something ain't right" feeling to knowing that something has prevented your life from taking its predetermined course. And make no mistake, your life - all our lives, actually, are predetermined. We plot out what we will accomplish, what we will fail at, right down to how long we will live - we plan it all out ourselves. It's all part of the plan. I won't bore you with the details, you won't remember them anyway. It's the one drawback we haven't conquered in this dimension hopping excursion we call "Life" - for whatever reason, knowledge cannot pass between this dimension and the next.
Except for those final moments before what is called Death. As you "die", your mind/soul/katra/whatever you want to call it - prepares to cross the dimensional boundary, and return to the place you "came from". As this happens, the life you lived is played back to you.
*And so is the life you were supposed to live.*
Now, don't misunderstand me; almost everybody has some degree of drift in the execution of the plan. It happens to the best of us - I suppose I can tell you, after all, you won't remember it later anyway - That Trump fellow? Last time around, his first name was Adolf. For some reason, that one simply cannot grasp the whole "live together in harmony" thing.
Yes, there is reincarnation. As I said before, everybody has some degree of drift in the execution of their "life plan". Sometimes that is a positive thing. There was a man who was supposed to die of an overdose, tragic and alone in college, and instead, got elected to the Presidency of America - Twice! Okay, maybe the fact that his father was also the President had a bit to do with it, but we can't call that a total failure, now can we? When he dies, he'll be reviewed and probably sent back to live - and die - as intended.
The worrisome part is those people whose life fell dramatically short of their plan. These individuals muck up the works for everyone! Let's see, your records indicate you're from the early 21st century. Yes, diabetes? Supposed to have been eradicated at the end of the 20th century. Unfortunately, the individual who would have grown up to make that discovery instead committed suicide over a female when he was 16.
And here's why you should fear being so far short of your goal(s): if your failure is severe enough, you won't be sent back. We'll put you through the process of reincarnation, but instead of being born, you wake up in a room where occasionally you can hear and see the "other world" around you. People moving, talking, cars driving by.
The problem, of course is that communication is impossible. If you are heard at all, it is only screams, or gibberish that frankly scares the Hell out of some of the "living".
Sometimes, these tortured "spirits" appear to the living, and the living are so frightened that they run away. Right into a busy street even. Where they are unfortunately hit by a bus. Rather like you. So here we are, dying on the pavement, which is why I'm here. To take you to your review.
And I must say, you do have some cause for alarm...
|
There I was, it was little me, a moment before I tried to blow out the candles. Cousin Eddy, holding a sparkler, and running around the table. I remember this, I remember the pain, the heat. Watching this is hard, the lights are getting darker, where is that music coming from? Man I hated this song, Dan loved to sing along when we drove to work. I remember this as well, the moment right before we slammed into that car and I broke my leg. The lights were rising up from over the dashboard and there it was, white. Blue, the sky above, so clear, I'm getting pushed around, pushed back onto land, and that sharp stab into my foot as I tried to get my balance on the beach. This was it, this was hell. I'm reliving these moments, but why? That smell, the pungent odor, sour and dull. Oh shit, I know this one well. There is Tommy, he's drunk, this was after one of our dorm parties. This is the one where he thought I was hitting on his girlfriend. This is the one where my nose became crooked. This is my life, and every instance where my body was scarred. Every moment that left a mark on my body. This is what they meant, my life, as experienced through my body and what had left their marks, this is what people will see when I get buried. They won't know how I felt about them, or care what I thought about the world. The world has made its mark on me, and that was what they would see.
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|
[WP] "They say in your final moments, your life flashes before your eyes, but the truth, is far darker." What is the truth?
|
Humans love to romanticize; they love to dream of things far removed from their grasp and tell tales of what they could be. Death is the most notable, as the end of your own existence is a frightening thing to contemplate. Where do we go, once our bodies are one with the earth, when our flesh sloughs off our bones and we become naught but a memory? Moreover, what is dying like? What happens in that last, brief moment where you're fading from this world, neurons firing in your brain, desperately trying to keep going?
Some say your life flashes before your eyes; that you see all the wonderful memories of your days on Earth stream by like a cinema screen in your head. Unfortunately, though it sounds wonderful, that's simply not the case.
The only thing that's flashing is the neural network in your brain. Your body is dying slowly, but your mind still has just a little bit of leftover electricity, and it's going haywire. Signals are fired all across your nervous system, desperately trying to get some kind of response, like a mother crying for a lost child.
You feel it as pain. You can't move, but your nerves are going berserk and it feels as if your blood has been turned to magma. Sharp, stabbing pains, trails of burning sensations, all while your entire body feels like a leg that's fallen asleep- pins and needles pricking the entire surface of your skin.
You can't think past the pain. You can't move, or cry for help. Sometimes you can still hear people talking over your body, even if you can't see anymore. "Oh, he's gone. How tragic. At least he passed peacefully." while you're being tortured for what feels like an eternity, your cells exploding like balloons exposed to an excessive heat.
Not to mention, you can't breath and your heart isn't pumping. Your body is dead, but the nerve signals those send aren't quite through right away. You still feel like you're suffocating, and the stillness left by a lack of heartbeat is beyond unsettling.
You're alive, but you're not. You're dying, but you're dead. You're paralyzed, but you feel every square inch of your body begging for the completion of death.
You have a mouth, but you cannot scream.
Yet, when it's over and your nerves have died after 60 seconds or so, there's still just the tiniest bit of gas left in the tank. Not enough for you to have a philosophical debate about what's next, or contemplate the meaning of life and suffering, but just enough to feel the emptiness of the black hole you're in. You aren't bombarded with pain anymore, but your soul earns no reprieve from the situation. You're alone, at the end.
Truly, utterly alone.
|
There I was, it was little me, a moment before I tried to blow out the candles. Cousin Eddy, holding a sparkler, and running around the table. I remember this, I remember the pain, the heat. Watching this is hard, the lights are getting darker, where is that music coming from? Man I hated this song, Dan loved to sing along when we drove to work. I remember this as well, the moment right before we slammed into that car and I broke my leg. The lights were rising up from over the dashboard and there it was, white. Blue, the sky above, so clear, I'm getting pushed around, pushed back onto land, and that sharp stab into my foot as I tried to get my balance on the beach. This was it, this was hell. I'm reliving these moments, but why? That smell, the pungent odor, sour and dull. Oh shit, I know this one well. There is Tommy, he's drunk, this was after one of our dorm parties. This is the one where he thought I was hitting on his girlfriend. This is the one where my nose became crooked. This is my life, and every instance where my body was scarred. Every moment that left a mark on my body. This is what they meant, my life, as experienced through my body and what had left their marks, this is what people will see when I get buried. They won't know how I felt about them, or care what I thought about the world. The world has made its mark on me, and that was what they would see.
|
|
[WP] "They say in your final moments, your life flashes before your eyes, but the truth, is far darker." What is the truth?
|
Humans love to romanticize; they love to dream of things far removed from their grasp and tell tales of what they could be. Death is the most notable, as the end of your own existence is a frightening thing to contemplate. Where do we go, once our bodies are one with the earth, when our flesh sloughs off our bones and we become naught but a memory? Moreover, what is dying like? What happens in that last, brief moment where you're fading from this world, neurons firing in your brain, desperately trying to keep going?
Some say your life flashes before your eyes; that you see all the wonderful memories of your days on Earth stream by like a cinema screen in your head. Unfortunately, though it sounds wonderful, that's simply not the case.
The only thing that's flashing is the neural network in your brain. Your body is dying slowly, but your mind still has just a little bit of leftover electricity, and it's going haywire. Signals are fired all across your nervous system, desperately trying to get some kind of response, like a mother crying for a lost child.
You feel it as pain. You can't move, but your nerves are going berserk and it feels as if your blood has been turned to magma. Sharp, stabbing pains, trails of burning sensations, all while your entire body feels like a leg that's fallen asleep- pins and needles pricking the entire surface of your skin.
You can't think past the pain. You can't move, or cry for help. Sometimes you can still hear people talking over your body, even if you can't see anymore. "Oh, he's gone. How tragic. At least he passed peacefully." while you're being tortured for what feels like an eternity, your cells exploding like balloons exposed to an excessive heat.
Not to mention, you can't breath and your heart isn't pumping. Your body is dead, but the nerve signals those send aren't quite through right away. You still feel like you're suffocating, and the stillness left by a lack of heartbeat is beyond unsettling.
You're alive, but you're not. You're dying, but you're dead. You're paralyzed, but you feel every square inch of your body begging for the completion of death.
You have a mouth, but you cannot scream.
Yet, when it's over and your nerves have died after 60 seconds or so, there's still just the tiniest bit of gas left in the tank. Not enough for you to have a philosophical debate about what's next, or contemplate the meaning of life and suffering, but just enough to feel the emptiness of the black hole you're in. You aren't bombarded with pain anymore, but your soul earns no reprieve from the situation. You're alone, at the end.
Truly, utterly alone.
|
They say that as you breath your final breath,
You see a thousand sights that you have lived.
But now I'm on the precipice of death,
I do not think that it's to be believed.
I feel upon my brow, sepulchral sweat,
And langour within in every wrinkled limb,
I am a meagre, deathly silhouette,
Who's vital candle grows forever dim.
In vain I try to relive my long past;
But all I see is subtle adumbration,
The people that I'd known, I thought would last;
Alas, they've died by Age's devastation.
I thought I could, to memories, backtrack,
But now I die, I can but see all black.
|
|
[WP] "They say in your final moments, your life flashes before your eyes, but the truth, is far darker." What is the truth?
|
Humans love to romanticize; they love to dream of things far removed from their grasp and tell tales of what they could be. Death is the most notable, as the end of your own existence is a frightening thing to contemplate. Where do we go, once our bodies are one with the earth, when our flesh sloughs off our bones and we become naught but a memory? Moreover, what is dying like? What happens in that last, brief moment where you're fading from this world, neurons firing in your brain, desperately trying to keep going?
Some say your life flashes before your eyes; that you see all the wonderful memories of your days on Earth stream by like a cinema screen in your head. Unfortunately, though it sounds wonderful, that's simply not the case.
The only thing that's flashing is the neural network in your brain. Your body is dying slowly, but your mind still has just a little bit of leftover electricity, and it's going haywire. Signals are fired all across your nervous system, desperately trying to get some kind of response, like a mother crying for a lost child.
You feel it as pain. You can't move, but your nerves are going berserk and it feels as if your blood has been turned to magma. Sharp, stabbing pains, trails of burning sensations, all while your entire body feels like a leg that's fallen asleep- pins and needles pricking the entire surface of your skin.
You can't think past the pain. You can't move, or cry for help. Sometimes you can still hear people talking over your body, even if you can't see anymore. "Oh, he's gone. How tragic. At least he passed peacefully." while you're being tortured for what feels like an eternity, your cells exploding like balloons exposed to an excessive heat.
Not to mention, you can't breath and your heart isn't pumping. Your body is dead, but the nerve signals those send aren't quite through right away. You still feel like you're suffocating, and the stillness left by a lack of heartbeat is beyond unsettling.
You're alive, but you're not. You're dying, but you're dead. You're paralyzed, but you feel every square inch of your body begging for the completion of death.
You have a mouth, but you cannot scream.
Yet, when it's over and your nerves have died after 60 seconds or so, there's still just the tiniest bit of gas left in the tank. Not enough for you to have a philosophical debate about what's next, or contemplate the meaning of life and suffering, but just enough to feel the emptiness of the black hole you're in. You aren't bombarded with pain anymore, but your soul earns no reprieve from the situation. You're alone, at the end.
Truly, utterly alone.
|
They say in your final moments, your life flashes before your eyes.
They are wrong.
Have you ever felt that there was a plan, a certain path your life was supposed to take? Certain benchmarks you were meant to achieve along the roads of your life? If so, congratulations, you are among those of us who can perceive the truth.
However, it is a far thing to go from a vague, quasi-"something ain't right" feeling to knowing that something has prevented your life from taking its predetermined course. And make no mistake, your life - all our lives, actually, are predetermined. We plot out what we will accomplish, what we will fail at, right down to how long we will live - we plan it all out ourselves. It's all part of the plan. I won't bore you with the details, you won't remember them anyway. It's the one drawback we haven't conquered in this dimension hopping excursion we call "Life" - for whatever reason, knowledge cannot pass between this dimension and the next.
Except for those final moments before what is called Death. As you "die", your mind/soul/katra/whatever you want to call it - prepares to cross the dimensional boundary, and return to the place you "came from". As this happens, the life you lived is played back to you.
*And so is the life you were supposed to live.*
Now, don't misunderstand me; almost everybody has some degree of drift in the execution of the plan. It happens to the best of us - I suppose I can tell you, after all, you won't remember it later anyway - That Trump fellow? Last time around, his first name was Adolf. For some reason, that one simply cannot grasp the whole "live together in harmony" thing.
Yes, there is reincarnation. As I said before, everybody has some degree of drift in the execution of their "life plan". Sometimes that is a positive thing. There was a man who was supposed to die of an overdose, tragic and alone in college, and instead, got elected to the Presidency of America - Twice! Okay, maybe the fact that his father was also the President had a bit to do with it, but we can't call that a total failure, now can we? When he dies, he'll be reviewed and probably sent back to live - and die - as intended.
The worrisome part is those people whose life fell dramatically short of their plan. These individuals muck up the works for everyone! Let's see, your records indicate you're from the early 21st century. Yes, diabetes? Supposed to have been eradicated at the end of the 20th century. Unfortunately, the individual who would have grown up to make that discovery instead committed suicide over a female when he was 16.
And here's why you should fear being so far short of your goal(s): if your failure is severe enough, you won't be sent back. We'll put you through the process of reincarnation, but instead of being born, you wake up in a room where occasionally you can hear and see the "other world" around you. People moving, talking, cars driving by.
The problem, of course is that communication is impossible. If you are heard at all, it is only screams, or gibberish that frankly scares the Hell out of some of the "living".
Sometimes, these tortured "spirits" appear to the living, and the living are so frightened that they run away. Right into a busy street even. Where they are unfortunately hit by a bus. Rather like you. So here we are, dying on the pavement, which is why I'm here. To take you to your review.
And I must say, you do have some cause for alarm...
|
|
[WP] One question. You had one question. Any question. You could ask whatever you wanted and get the exact, perfect answer. You could have asked any question generated by the infinite complexity of the human mind. And you ask THAT? Really? WHY?
|
"Wow, that's a really good deal. So I can ask you literally any, one question and you'll give me a detailed and understandable answer?"
After a very long pause, he said "yes" in a tone of voice one would use to answer a child if they asked if they should chew their food first, and then in a puff of smoke he was gone.
|
That was it.
The moment everyone waited.
The creation of the the perfect All Knowing AI. God in a machine.
So much power was needed to maintain it alive that we had only the time to ask him one question. Only one question, before he shut-down.
1000 years of energy-saving before we could launch him again.
We miss calculated the raw energy release at his creation. The blast of power knocked out everyone in the room. i was the only one left standing. I stared at the white screen where billions of colorful symbole moved in harmony forming a face, several face ever changing in an instant.
I was the only one able to speak to it, before he stop existing.
So i took the burden on my shoulder and asked him the question.
The Question humanity needed to know the answer :
Why Do Kids Love the Taste of Cinnamon Toast Crunch?
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[WP]In the future, medicine and life support have reached perfection--people can only die if they choose to. You work at a Federal Eternal Rest Office.
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Everything is death....but me.
My life has become cold, eternal decay. The grey walls of my prison cell give me nothing new to look at. I know every nook, cranny and crack. I committed a crime 1,043 years ago that at one time was punishable by death. I was 457 years old and figured I'd done enough living. It was revenge and he deserved it!
I was in the lobby of the Fed Eternal Rest Office when they caught up with me. I was so close; so close to making the ultimate escape. The guy behind the desk who moments earlier had been gently quizzing me about my choice, just looked at me with a blank expression as the police cuffed me.
There's an emptiness about living when you have already reconciled your ownmortality and feel ready to leave. Every Monday morning I'm scanned for any signs of new illnesses or ailments and voila! Within days I'm cured. Condemned to carry on. I feel like my heart and lungs betray me. I just want them to stop.
Everything else has stopped.
Everything is death but me.
*I'm no writer! I'd love someone to expand on this properly!
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"So who would you drag in here Key?" Peele asked, his feet just barely propping him up via the desk. The chair was constantly on the tipping point; a few weeks ago Peele had fallen and they'd had to use a head-patch to fix him up.
"Nickelback, one hundred percent I never want to see Nickelback again, such an ugly dude," Key responded. Key was busy filing away the last death cases they'd had in Nevada, there were still enough to keep the file room open but that was about it. Very old people chose to die, or those that couldn't afford the medicine or didn't have it granted to them from their jobs as the law required, quite a few miners were getting killed lately.
"Nickelback isn't one person you know."
"Yeah fine- all of them just, 'splat', death by piano," Key dropped his palm onto a file as he raspberried before the splat sounds came.
"Why piano? They could come back from that much more easily than say...poison or drowning on a deep sea fishing trip?" Peele let his chair come to a right angle.
"It's a revenge scheme by all of music."
"All of music? Well, it would be deserved..." Peele scratched his chin with a pencil. He went back to his files; he sorted through the mundane lives of the newly deceased that could have gone on for so much longer- filing for double the decades.
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Thanks for reading- if you want to see more of my responses/writings visit my user profile at reddit.com/u/WritersofRohan17
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[WP]In the future, medicine and life support have reached perfection--people can only die if they choose to. You work at a Federal Eternal Rest Office.
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"I'd like to renew my drivers license please"
"Hmm? Oh, sorry. You want Drivers Instructional Education, two doors down on the left. We're Direct Intervention Endings. Same acronym, completely different results though, eh? Next."
The man stepped up to the counter and passed his form over to Mr. Johnson, who took it and began reading.
"Seems as though you suffer from a bit of depression, am I right?" Johnson asked.
"Yes", the man responded "I do".
"Ah, then you should have filled out form DP9801" Johnson replied, handing the man the correct form. "You can fill it out right back there at the carousel, pens are in the drawers. Next please."
"I'd like to die" the woman said handing her form to Johnson.
"Some days so would I." he mumbled looking over the paperwork. "Everything looks in order, except disposal. Buried, cremated or Soylent Green?" he asked.
"Cremated I think" she answered.
Johnson checked the box and motioned for her to go through the door to his left. She turned he knob, opened the door and went in to a small room with a table and chair. On the table sat a napkin and a spoon. Johnson entered carrying a small bowl, which he set before the woman.
"What's this?" the woman asked, clearly distraught "it looks like poo"
Johnson chuckled, it was, without a doubt his favorite part of the process.
"You remember the old saying. Bon appetite and fair well." he smilingly said before leaving.
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"So who would you drag in here Key?" Peele asked, his feet just barely propping him up via the desk. The chair was constantly on the tipping point; a few weeks ago Peele had fallen and they'd had to use a head-patch to fix him up.
"Nickelback, one hundred percent I never want to see Nickelback again, such an ugly dude," Key responded. Key was busy filing away the last death cases they'd had in Nevada, there were still enough to keep the file room open but that was about it. Very old people chose to die, or those that couldn't afford the medicine or didn't have it granted to them from their jobs as the law required, quite a few miners were getting killed lately.
"Nickelback isn't one person you know."
"Yeah fine- all of them just, 'splat', death by piano," Key dropped his palm onto a file as he raspberried before the splat sounds came.
"Why piano? They could come back from that much more easily than say...poison or drowning on a deep sea fishing trip?" Peele let his chair come to a right angle.
"It's a revenge scheme by all of music."
"All of music? Well, it would be deserved..." Peele scratched his chin with a pencil. He went back to his files; he sorted through the mundane lives of the newly deceased that could have gone on for so much longer- filing for double the decades.
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Thanks for reading- if you want to see more of my responses/writings visit my user profile at reddit.com/u/WritersofRohan17
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[WP]In the future, medicine and life support have reached perfection--people can only die if they choose to. You work at a Federal Eternal Rest Office.
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10 years ago, and I spent most of my days dusting the bookshelves, chatting to my sister, V, on the phone, or simply watching the door in case a client came in that day.
Today, the waiting room is full. I’ve had a ‘help wanted’ sign in the window for nearly 3 months now, but not many people have the stomach to do what I do. The waiting room never closes. People can be seen to only when I’m in the office, but I try to maintain expectations. I used to try and be here as much as I could- catching a couple of hours of restless sleep in a cot that I’d set up in the back, but I felt like those people’s eyes pierced right through the walls and watched me sleep, willing me to get up and process their forms. When people decide, they’re ready right then. Final hours spent in a waiting room trying not to catch the eyes of other people, trying not to guess what their stories are- that’s almost harder than the decision to check out. So I’m strict. I leave every day at 9pm and arrive every day at 6am.
The waiting room is silent when I enter. I used to think that the hush fell when I arrived, but over the years I’ve figured out that these people have said all that they needed to say. Even the kids sit quietly, not even whimpering. Just sitting next to their mammas, looking down at the floor.
I used to try and talk people round, but these people’s minds aren’t for changing. I used to try to be cheerful, when I didn’t know better. Now, I just do my work quietly. I think that what I feel is deep enough that they can see it in my face anyway- words aren’t enough sometimes.
I sit down at the desk, and call the first number of the day 0001. A young woman steps to the counter with 2 small kids in tow. They’re skinny and dirty. But it’s not that that’s hardest to look at. It’s that they’re listless. There’s no try in them anymore, their eyes just reflect me, there’s no them in there anymore. If you can understand what I mean.
I take them through to a room in the back under the weight of hundreds of eyes waiting for their turn.
I look at the papers.
‘Elizabeth?’
‘Yes’ the woman replies, her teeth rotted down into little brown stumps.
‘And these two are Danny and Rose?’
The kid’s eyes don’t even flicker when I say their names, and their mamma tells me yes, that’s them.
‘Fixed address?’
She laughs at this, an ugly sound. ‘Lady, there aren’t any addresses, not for people like me’.
I put a line through the address part of the form, like I always do, and then there is only one box left.
‘Elizabeth, what can I put down as your reason for checking out?’
She tilts her chin up towards me and holds my eyes with her own. It’s the most spirit I’ve seen in this room for years, and my heart leaps in the hope that she’s not ready yet.
‘Write down that the system killed me. Killed my babies.’ Her voice is steady. ‘Write down, that their “advances” their “perfections” in modern medicine mean that nothing new can come up- there’s nowhere for us to live, nothing for us to eat, no way for us to earn money to live. It’s all taken. It will always be taken. The old don’t die. They don’t make room for the young. There will never be a chance to live, for me, for all those people in the waiting room, for my kids’, her voice catches, and I see the fight leave her again.
‘Write that on your form, and then show me to the door. We’re ready’.
And I do.
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"So who would you drag in here Key?" Peele asked, his feet just barely propping him up via the desk. The chair was constantly on the tipping point; a few weeks ago Peele had fallen and they'd had to use a head-patch to fix him up.
"Nickelback, one hundred percent I never want to see Nickelback again, such an ugly dude," Key responded. Key was busy filing away the last death cases they'd had in Nevada, there were still enough to keep the file room open but that was about it. Very old people chose to die, or those that couldn't afford the medicine or didn't have it granted to them from their jobs as the law required, quite a few miners were getting killed lately.
"Nickelback isn't one person you know."
"Yeah fine- all of them just, 'splat', death by piano," Key dropped his palm onto a file as he raspberried before the splat sounds came.
"Why piano? They could come back from that much more easily than say...poison or drowning on a deep sea fishing trip?" Peele let his chair come to a right angle.
"It's a revenge scheme by all of music."
"All of music? Well, it would be deserved..." Peele scratched his chin with a pencil. He went back to his files; he sorted through the mundane lives of the newly deceased that could have gone on for so much longer- filing for double the decades.
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Thanks for reading- if you want to see more of my responses/writings visit my user profile at reddit.com/u/WritersofRohan17
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[WP]In the future, medicine and life support have reached perfection--people can only die if they choose to. You work at a Federal Eternal Rest Office.
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A notification buzzed on the computer screen - another incoming call to the Office. Dave pursed his lips, took a deep breath, then clicked on the green phone icon.
"Good morning, thank you for calling FERO!" said Dave cheerily, "How may I help you today?"
"Hi." The voice on the other end was measured and somber, like most other callers. "I would like to terminate my son's Medicare."
Dave swallowed. "Of course," he continued to recite the prepared reply as happily as he could force himself to, "May I first have your name and identification number for verification purposes please?"
"Preston Brown. 10006892."
"Thank you, Mr Brown. Just a moment, please."
Dave's fingers tap-danced across the keyboard vigorously as he attempted to retrieve the man's personal particulars from the database. It came up easily. He took a quick glance through Preston Brown's file: Age 39. Widowed. Non-religious. Hispanic. Surviving kin: Oliver Brown. A 9 year-old boy.
Dave stopped and scrolled back to the top of Preston Brown's document. He cleared his throat and got ready to speak again.
"Hi, Mr Brown. How about your son's name?"
Dave heard nothing but slow, heavy breathing. He waited patiently. It was all he could do.
"Oliver," Mr Brown finally said, "Oliver Brown."
Then Dave heard a shrill gasp. It rolled through the headset like a surging wave and crashed into Dave's ears. The sound didn't stop at his ears; it reverberated throughout his body and clawed at his heart. Dave frowned as he reached for the half-empty box of tissue at the corner of his desk. *It's okay, Dave,* he told himself, *it's okay. You can do this.*
When the whimpering on the other end had softened, Dave continued, "Mr Brown, there're a few questions I'll have to ask you before we can process Oliver's termination. It's more or less a formality. Are you okay with that?"
"Yes."
"Is Mr Oliver Brown currently in a hospital?"
"Yes. Saint Grace's."
"Did Mr Oliver Brown receive satisfactory care from the staff of Saint Grace Hospital?"
"Yes."
"Do you waive your right to pursue legal action against Saint Grace Hospital and the State for anything related to the medical care of Mr Oliver Brown?"
A sniffle. "Yes."
"Is the termination of your son's Medicare a voluntary choice?"
The line went dead silent. Dave knew exactly what was being said amidst this silence. The silence was a wrenching desperation, a repressed rage; it was a quiet indictment of the government's ineffectiveness. *With Medicare, no one will have to lose their loved ones anymore*, the government had said, *all of you can live for as long as you choose to!*
But the price! Which father would 'voluntarily choose' to terminate his 8 year-old son's Medicare? But hospitals made you pay for Medicare. So the poor continued to die and wither away while the rich reveled in their foreverness. All day long, Dave sat in his chair in the Federal Eternal Rest Office, wondering when the calls would stop. They never did.
After a long, deafening silence, Mr Brown said, "Yes."
"Thank you for calling FERO, Mr Brown!"
Dave paused and stared at the script being displayed on his computer screen. Only the final line had not become a faded grey yet. It read: *Have a nice day! (CHEERFULLY)*
Dave clicked the red 'X' at the top right-hand corner of the script software. Then, in a much less cheery tone, he said, "I'm very, very sorry for your loss, Preston. I'm very sorry. Goodbye."
Dave hung up without waiting for a response. He pulled off his headset and tossed it absently beside his keyboard. The room was a sea of murmurs and the clickety-clack of keyboards.
Dave's reached for the photo frame on the shelf. He held it gently in front of him and gazed wistfully at the photograph. Kelly and little Kate - his beautiful wife and daughter - they were smiling so happily; he could barely see their eyes. Dave shook silently in his seat, sobbing. The three of them were so happy together. They were so happy.
Dave just wished Kelly was still here with him and Kate.
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"So who would you drag in here Key?" Peele asked, his feet just barely propping him up via the desk. The chair was constantly on the tipping point; a few weeks ago Peele had fallen and they'd had to use a head-patch to fix him up.
"Nickelback, one hundred percent I never want to see Nickelback again, such an ugly dude," Key responded. Key was busy filing away the last death cases they'd had in Nevada, there were still enough to keep the file room open but that was about it. Very old people chose to die, or those that couldn't afford the medicine or didn't have it granted to them from their jobs as the law required, quite a few miners were getting killed lately.
"Nickelback isn't one person you know."
"Yeah fine- all of them just, 'splat', death by piano," Key dropped his palm onto a file as he raspberried before the splat sounds came.
"Why piano? They could come back from that much more easily than say...poison or drowning on a deep sea fishing trip?" Peele let his chair come to a right angle.
"It's a revenge scheme by all of music."
"All of music? Well, it would be deserved..." Peele scratched his chin with a pencil. He went back to his files; he sorted through the mundane lives of the newly deceased that could have gone on for so much longer- filing for double the decades.
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Thanks for reading- if you want to see more of my responses/writings visit my user profile at reddit.com/u/WritersofRohan17
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[WP]In the future, medicine and life support have reached perfection--people can only die if they choose to. You work at a Federal Eternal Rest Office.
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We screen them first- depression, brain tumors. Anything that might influence the decision. Things that can be cured, at least. *The* decision, we always call it. The only decision.
Our boss signed up yesterday. To be evaluated, I mean. To die.
His name was Doctor Juan Ava, and he invented immortality.
I should go backward. My name is Pratha Hadid. I have been twenty two for seventy five years. It's my job to evaluate whether or not a person should be allowed to die.
Usually we accept requests from people who are experiencing mental deterioration. Medicine is nearly perfect, but madness can happen after a few hundred years. Nothing is inevitable. We tell people: keep a healthy lifestyle. Do brain teasers. Read.
But Doctor Juan Ava was sane. Sharp as anyone I'd ever met. Brilliant - the most brilliant medical doctor to ever live. And he asked me to kill him. And I did. I suppose I should tell you why.
I don't know why he chose our office. Not a headquarters, just a random county clerk. I don't know why he felt I was qualified, that anyone thought I was qualified, to decide the fate of the most influential human in history.
So I stuck to the protocol. I put him through the tests, ran him through the L-CAT scanner. No depression. No brain tumors. He seemed so small there, blue lights running over him, his hands, those dark eyes that saw so much.
The next phase is the interview. I was sweating, but he told me to calm down. He reminded me of my father. I started with the first question.
"How do you feel?" I said. The camera recorded everything.
"Splendid. Very calm." he replied.
"Tell me about your day," I read from the screen before me.
"I woke up. I had a cup of green tea with jasmine. I exercised, read the news, played with my son. Went to chapel. Kissed my wife. And then I came here."
"Here," I said. I forgot the script. "You came here. To a death clinic,"
"A FERO, yes. A 'death clinic'." he said.
"I'm sorry, Juan- sir, I mean. I just need to know why. Why? Your wife, your son. You created this - your choice today could change *everything.* The way all seventeen billion some people on the planet view life and death. You would make me question... I don't know. I don't know what I'm saying."
He reached over the table and grabbed my hand, gently. "Pratha? That is your name?"
I nodded.
"I have been alive for seven hundred years. Do you know what I've done with my time?"
"Everyone knows, doctor. I've read everything you've ever written, I've studied--" I began.
"Shh... shh. Not everything. I've written other things. Stories. I've read. I've spent time with my family. And I am happy. So, so happy."
"So now you want, you want to *die?*" I said. I yelled, actually. Something about this made my stomach feel like ice. I wanted to cry. I wanted him to stop. I didn't understand.
"There is a limit, Pratha. We were not meant for this. For forever," he said
"So you're saying you were wrong? That the world is wrong now?" I said.
"I'm saying that there is a limit. The body, the mind can live on. But the soul needs something more," he said. He paused, taking a deep breath. "I am happy, Pratha, but I am *curious.* Deeply curious for what's next. I want to know, Pratha. I am not afraid."
I slumped in my chair. An afterlife. He was after an afterlife.
"No," he said. As if he knew what I was thinking, "I am not chasing heaven. But I am ready for whatever naturally comes next. My body, my spirit, feels like a stagnant pond. I must release it. I must feel the flow of time. Again, Pratha. I must feel the tug of time again."
I cleared him for the injection. It was hard to do. I got hatemail. I had to quit my job at the Rest office. And didn't even understand why I did it. I could have passed it off to someone else, the decision. But I also *did* understand. I felt what he felt. That tug of time. I'd been stagnant for so long.
In the morning I returned to the office for the last time. I went to my desk and packed my things into a few small boxes. And then I took a form, signed my name, and handed it to another examiner. I must feel the flow of time again. I must make the decision. I must be free.
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"So who would you drag in here Key?" Peele asked, his feet just barely propping him up via the desk. The chair was constantly on the tipping point; a few weeks ago Peele had fallen and they'd had to use a head-patch to fix him up.
"Nickelback, one hundred percent I never want to see Nickelback again, such an ugly dude," Key responded. Key was busy filing away the last death cases they'd had in Nevada, there were still enough to keep the file room open but that was about it. Very old people chose to die, or those that couldn't afford the medicine or didn't have it granted to them from their jobs as the law required, quite a few miners were getting killed lately.
"Nickelback isn't one person you know."
"Yeah fine- all of them just, 'splat', death by piano," Key dropped his palm onto a file as he raspberried before the splat sounds came.
"Why piano? They could come back from that much more easily than say...poison or drowning on a deep sea fishing trip?" Peele let his chair come to a right angle.
"It's a revenge scheme by all of music."
"All of music? Well, it would be deserved..." Peele scratched his chin with a pencil. He went back to his files; he sorted through the mundane lives of the newly deceased that could have gone on for so much longer- filing for double the decades.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thanks for reading- if you want to see more of my responses/writings visit my user profile at reddit.com/u/WritersofRohan17
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[WP]In the future, medicine and life support have reached perfection--people can only die if they choose to. You work at a Federal Eternal Rest Office.
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10 years ago, and I spent most of my days dusting the bookshelves, chatting to my sister, V, on the phone, or simply watching the door in case a client came in that day.
Today, the waiting room is full. I’ve had a ‘help wanted’ sign in the window for nearly 3 months now, but not many people have the stomach to do what I do. The waiting room never closes. People can be seen to only when I’m in the office, but I try to maintain expectations. I used to try and be here as much as I could- catching a couple of hours of restless sleep in a cot that I’d set up in the back, but I felt like those people’s eyes pierced right through the walls and watched me sleep, willing me to get up and process their forms. When people decide, they’re ready right then. Final hours spent in a waiting room trying not to catch the eyes of other people, trying not to guess what their stories are- that’s almost harder than the decision to check out. So I’m strict. I leave every day at 9pm and arrive every day at 6am.
The waiting room is silent when I enter. I used to think that the hush fell when I arrived, but over the years I’ve figured out that these people have said all that they needed to say. Even the kids sit quietly, not even whimpering. Just sitting next to their mammas, looking down at the floor.
I used to try and talk people round, but these people’s minds aren’t for changing. I used to try to be cheerful, when I didn’t know better. Now, I just do my work quietly. I think that what I feel is deep enough that they can see it in my face anyway- words aren’t enough sometimes.
I sit down at the desk, and call the first number of the day 0001. A young woman steps to the counter with 2 small kids in tow. They’re skinny and dirty. But it’s not that that’s hardest to look at. It’s that they’re listless. There’s no try in them anymore, their eyes just reflect me, there’s no them in there anymore. If you can understand what I mean.
I take them through to a room in the back under the weight of hundreds of eyes waiting for their turn.
I look at the papers.
‘Elizabeth?’
‘Yes’ the woman replies, her teeth rotted down into little brown stumps.
‘And these two are Danny and Rose?’
The kid’s eyes don’t even flicker when I say their names, and their mamma tells me yes, that’s them.
‘Fixed address?’
She laughs at this, an ugly sound. ‘Lady, there aren’t any addresses, not for people like me’.
I put a line through the address part of the form, like I always do, and then there is only one box left.
‘Elizabeth, what can I put down as your reason for checking out?’
She tilts her chin up towards me and holds my eyes with her own. It’s the most spirit I’ve seen in this room for years, and my heart leaps in the hope that she’s not ready yet.
‘Write down that the system killed me. Killed my babies.’ Her voice is steady. ‘Write down, that their “advances” their “perfections” in modern medicine mean that nothing new can come up- there’s nowhere for us to live, nothing for us to eat, no way for us to earn money to live. It’s all taken. It will always be taken. The old don’t die. They don’t make room for the young. There will never be a chance to live, for me, for all those people in the waiting room, for my kids’, her voice catches, and I see the fight leave her again.
‘Write that on your form, and then show me to the door. We’re ready’.
And I do.
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Such a shame. My line of work involves bringing people to peace with demons long settled into their graves. Death doesn't simply, "Come and go" as it used to.
In fact, the mere idea of death is just a concept as of late; not a given, not an end. Those who have done all there is to do, and those that have done nothing but dream are the most frequent visitors to the Federal Eternal Rest Office.
The funniest part, being that the path to dying is just a slab of paperwork. If people try to perish by their own means, we are mandated to bring them to health and ship them off again.
Truth be told though, nothing creepier than when someone who's "died" many times before comes up to the desk. They always start telling the stories.
"Five years! A whole five years without my wife and my two sons... I tried so hard to let them rest in my mind, but I just couldn't bring myself to let go. At first it was a gun: quick, easy, simple. Woke up several days later to find myself, good-as-new. I then tried to make it a little harder to put me back together again, figured that if it was too much effort, they'd just let me stay dead. Falling off a bridge into oncoming traffic, going down a cliff and hitting all sorts of boulders on the way down, I even threw myself into the meat grinder at work... I'm just done with all of this."
"Let me go in peace"
You never forget,
It's been over 100 years since I heard that one...
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[WP]In the future, medicine and life support have reached perfection--people can only die if they choose to. You work at a Federal Eternal Rest Office.
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I was surprised at how young the man sitting in front of me was. Usually I don't get young men. Usually I get old people, who are tired of their artificially extended lifespans, and want their eternal rest. I cleared my throat and addressed the man.
"Hello sir, welcome to the Federal Eternal Rest Office. My name is James, and I'll be your case officer. Mister..." I glanced down at my datapad, which displayed the visitor's information, "Mister Jones. You're looking to die?"
Jones nodded at me, then said, in a slow and calm voice, "Yes. Yes, I think I want to die. No, that's not right, I know it."
"And, just to confirm, you want to die *now*? As in, you wish to start the death procedure immediately?"
"Yes, that's right. I want to start now."
I cleared my throat again and looked down at my pad once more. Jones was only twenty years old. I was more than five times his age. Even my grandson could've been his father.
"Well sir, if you're sure. The death procedure is quite simple, actually. You'll have to sign a few documents related to the distribution of your estate after you're gone, and then you'll be led to an injection room, where an automated process will inject a cocktail of pharmaceutical substances into your bloodstream, which will put you to sleep. The pharmaceutical cocktail will then override the healing nanites in your bloodstream, and stop your heart. The entire process is entirely painless and, I'm told, quite soothing."
"That sounds fine, thank you," Jones replied, in the same slow voice. His eerie lack of emotion was starting to bother me. The faint peals of alarm bells were ringing somewhere in the back of my head. I decided to probe further.
"If you don't mind me asking, Mister Jones... why do you want to die? You're still very young."
"Oh, I couldn't explain it if I wanted to. I just want to die, to end it all, that's all."
"Sir, if you're suffering from depressive or other psychological disorders, we have a variety of psychiatric treatments available here..."
Jones cut me off with a shake of his head and a wave of his hand. "No, no, that won't be necessary, thank you. I know you guys offer these services, but that's not what I need. I didn't come here for a shrink. I came to die."
"If you are facing other issues in your life, such as financial or relationship difficulties, we can also provide related assistance in a variety of matters."
Jones actually smiled a bit at me this time. "That's very kind of you, but no, that won't be necessary. I don't have any problems in my life. I just want to die, that's all."
"Well sir..." I started again, but this time Jones interrupted me by leaning forward across the desk and speaking over me.
"Look, I understand this looks weird," he said, the calm facade of his voice cracking for the first time, "and I appreciate the help you're offering. I really do. You're going above and beyond your job description right now, I can tell. But to be honest, there is no big mystery here. I just want to enter your facility, and have a good death. That's all."
I found I was leaning back unconsciously in my chair. I straightened up, then nodded at Jones. "I understand, sir. And you truly cannot tell me why?"
Jones was silent for a few moments, apparently pondering whether he should say anything. Then he replied, "I don't think this whole thing is natural. Everyone's injected with these nanites at birth, which keeps them alive forever. That's not right, man. That's not right. I don't think it's right for people to live hundreds of years, and what's more I don't think it's right for the government to kill ordinary citizens with lethal injections. It's just too much, y'know? Too much unnaturalness going on here. This isn't a world I want to live in, and so I want out. I want this whole thing to end. To be over."
I considered this. Jones's point of view was not unheard of, in fact it had spawned a diverse array of counter-cultures and protest organizations. Some of them were political in natural, such as the Human Life Party, which was currently one of the larger opposition parties in the legislature. There were even a few extremist organizations or two, such as the radical Sapiens group. But this was the first time I'd heard someone so young espouse such views.
Still, though, Jones's reasons were perfectly valid, so if he wanted to die, it was his right. I sighed, then held out my pad at him. "All right sir, if you're sure. Please sign here and here, and scan your fingerprint here. My associate Mr. Henry here will take you to the next station, where a member of our Legal team will go through your affairs with you." I pressed a button my my pad. Henry was there a few moments later, smiling at Jones and beckoning towards a nearby door. Jones stood, thanked me, then followed Henry through the door.
I'd served two more citizens—both old men at least three hundred and fifty years old—before Henry came back to my desk. He looked troubled. "Hey James... that guy, Jones, what's his story?"
"He's only twenty, but he thinks the nanite life extension process is unnatural, so he wants to die," I replied.
"Yeah, I got that part. But that's not the weird part. The weird part was when I took him down to Legal, he insisted on taking a detour near the nanite labs first. He said he wanted to see it with his own eyes. He asked all sorts of questions about it, too, like if that's where we make all the nanites, and what would happen if we lost our production facilities. Why would he care if he doesn't like the idea of the nanites in the first place? And he's dying soon, so why's he so curious?"
"What'd you say to him?"
"Well, I answered his questions as best I could. Yes, we make all the nanites here, and if we couldn't make nanites any more, then people wouldn't be able to live forever any more."
The alarm bells I felt during my interview with Jones were starting to ring again. "Was he satisfied with that answer?"
"I guess, because he didn't ask anything else afterwards. He just followed me down to the Legal Department without a word. Weirdest thing, I think."
I frowned at Henry. "You think there's something more going on here? With him?"
Henry mirrored my frown. "All I know is that he's not acting like a guy who's about to die."
I suddenly felt icy realization drench me from head to toe. "No... no, that's not right. He *is* acting like a guy about to die. And he intends to take us down with him!"
I grabbed my phone and jabbed frantically at the keypad. It was an eternity before someone picked up. "Security, what's the issue?"
I screamed into the receiver, "I think we have a *suicide bomber* somewhere in the facility! Probably from Sapiens! Someone check the Legal Department and the Nanite Labs for a guy named Jones! Medium height, brown hair, twenty years old..."
A fireball tore through the building, incinerating me and Henry, and cutting me off before I could finish.
|
"James Garner?" called the receptionist from behind her desk.
James looked up from his chair in the dull waiting room. "Yes?" he asked.
"Mr. Dravis will see you know."
James stood up and walked toward the desk, pointing at an adjacent door labeled *Thomas Dravis*. "This one?" he asked, immediately wondering why he bothered.
"Yes, Mr. Garner," the receptionist smiled.
Upon opening the door, James found Mr. Dravis sitting at a small desk, covered in stacks of papers. It stood in the corner of the medium-sized office, and, other than another chair, the room was completely empty.
"James Garner," called Mr. Dravis. "Please, have a seat."
James reached over a stack of paper, shook his hand, and sat down.
"OK, Mr. Garner," started Mr. Dravis, typing away.
"Please, call me James," he interjected, peering through a small opening between the mountains of documentation.
"James," Mr. Dravis continued. "I see you're applying for D-99." The typing stopped and he leaned back in his chair, falling out of sight.
"Uh, Mr. Dravis," said James. "Can I ask why you have all these papers on your desk?"
"Excuse me?" asked Mr. Dravis.
"It's just that you have so much room in your office," said James, pointing out the open vastness behind him. "And it's hard to hold a conversation when I can't see you."
Mr. Dravis returned to his previous position and James noticed a sneer through the tiny opening.
"I've been working in this office for two thousand years, James," said Mr. Dravis. "You're the *first* person to have a problem... Your D-99 is rejected."
"Rejected?" cried James. "Why? I thought this interview was just a formality."
James jumped up from his seat as a stack of paper went flying off the desk.
"You-" another stack of paper went flying.
"Don't-" another followed.
"Want-" Mr. Dravis knocked one down over the mostly empty desk.
"To-" He shuffled around the fallen papers on the desk.
"Die!" He swung the rest of the desk clean, papers and a laptop falling to the ground.
James stood on the other corner of the room, cowering.
Mr. Dravis walked to the other side of the room slowly. "James," he said. "People apply for death because they feel their lives are complete. Your life is not complete. Thank you for your time."
---
Head on over to /r/MajorParadox for some more reading fun!
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[WP]In the future, medicine and life support have reached perfection--people can only die if they choose to. You work at a Federal Eternal Rest Office.
|
I usually get people coming through who feel like they've accomplished all they can, or perhaps not anything at all despite a hundred years of effort. Sometimes, I'll even get someone who's just curious about what happens when you die.
Today, though, a beautiful young woman, age 362, came in to file for death.
"I don't mean to intrude, ma'am," I said sheepishly, "but you're beautiful and prime for mating, young, intelligent by the look of your schooling and work history...why die so early?"
She looked at me with a pained smile. "Humans are meant to be mortal, dear. We just kind of...lose things, these days. Nothing means what it used to anymore, it's all so different than when I was a child. On a scale of hundreds of years, things lose value and people grow bored with relics of the past."
She smiled again, handing me the holotablet with her information in it. There was a strip of skin lighter than the rest at the base of her fourth finger, as if something had once been wrapped around it.
"Ma'am, if you don't mind me asking, what is that on your finger?"
She held her hand up and rubbed the light patch of skin, a look of longing in her eyes contrasting the light scowl on her face. "Oh, this? It's nothing, dear. Merely a ghost, not unlike myself."
I buzzed her through to the incineration chamber. Just before the doors closed, I saw her pull a small, rectangular antique out of her pocket. It looked like some kind of person was on it.
She kissed it, and closed her eyes.
|
"James Garner?" called the receptionist from behind her desk.
James looked up from his chair in the dull waiting room. "Yes?" he asked.
"Mr. Dravis will see you know."
James stood up and walked toward the desk, pointing at an adjacent door labeled *Thomas Dravis*. "This one?" he asked, immediately wondering why he bothered.
"Yes, Mr. Garner," the receptionist smiled.
Upon opening the door, James found Mr. Dravis sitting at a small desk, covered in stacks of papers. It stood in the corner of the medium-sized office, and, other than another chair, the room was completely empty.
"James Garner," called Mr. Dravis. "Please, have a seat."
James reached over a stack of paper, shook his hand, and sat down.
"OK, Mr. Garner," started Mr. Dravis, typing away.
"Please, call me James," he interjected, peering through a small opening between the mountains of documentation.
"James," Mr. Dravis continued. "I see you're applying for D-99." The typing stopped and he leaned back in his chair, falling out of sight.
"Uh, Mr. Dravis," said James. "Can I ask why you have all these papers on your desk?"
"Excuse me?" asked Mr. Dravis.
"It's just that you have so much room in your office," said James, pointing out the open vastness behind him. "And it's hard to hold a conversation when I can't see you."
Mr. Dravis returned to his previous position and James noticed a sneer through the tiny opening.
"I've been working in this office for two thousand years, James," said Mr. Dravis. "You're the *first* person to have a problem... Your D-99 is rejected."
"Rejected?" cried James. "Why? I thought this interview was just a formality."
James jumped up from his seat as a stack of paper went flying off the desk.
"You-" another stack of paper went flying.
"Don't-" another followed.
"Want-" Mr. Dravis knocked one down over the mostly empty desk.
"To-" He shuffled around the fallen papers on the desk.
"Die!" He swung the rest of the desk clean, papers and a laptop falling to the ground.
James stood on the other corner of the room, cowering.
Mr. Dravis walked to the other side of the room slowly. "James," he said. "People apply for death because they feel their lives are complete. Your life is not complete. Thank you for your time."
---
Head on over to /r/MajorParadox for some more reading fun!
|
|
[WP]In the future, medicine and life support have reached perfection--people can only die if they choose to. You work at a Federal Eternal Rest Office.
|
We screen them first- depression, brain tumors. Anything that might influence the decision. Things that can be cured, at least. *The* decision, we always call it. The only decision.
Our boss signed up yesterday. To be evaluated, I mean. To die.
His name was Doctor Juan Ava, and he invented immortality.
I should go backward. My name is Pratha Hadid. I have been twenty two for seventy five years. It's my job to evaluate whether or not a person should be allowed to die.
Usually we accept requests from people who are experiencing mental deterioration. Medicine is nearly perfect, but madness can happen after a few hundred years. Nothing is inevitable. We tell people: keep a healthy lifestyle. Do brain teasers. Read.
But Doctor Juan Ava was sane. Sharp as anyone I'd ever met. Brilliant - the most brilliant medical doctor to ever live. And he asked me to kill him. And I did. I suppose I should tell you why.
I don't know why he chose our office. Not a headquarters, just a random county clerk. I don't know why he felt I was qualified, that anyone thought I was qualified, to decide the fate of the most influential human in history.
So I stuck to the protocol. I put him through the tests, ran him through the L-CAT scanner. No depression. No brain tumors. He seemed so small there, blue lights running over him, his hands, those dark eyes that saw so much.
The next phase is the interview. I was sweating, but he told me to calm down. He reminded me of my father. I started with the first question.
"How do you feel?" I said. The camera recorded everything.
"Splendid. Very calm." he replied.
"Tell me about your day," I read from the screen before me.
"I woke up. I had a cup of green tea with jasmine. I exercised, read the news, played with my son. Went to chapel. Kissed my wife. And then I came here."
"Here," I said. I forgot the script. "You came here. To a death clinic,"
"A FERO, yes. A 'death clinic'." he said.
"I'm sorry, Juan- sir, I mean. I just need to know why. Why? Your wife, your son. You created this - your choice today could change *everything.* The way all seventeen billion some people on the planet view life and death. You would make me question... I don't know. I don't know what I'm saying."
He reached over the table and grabbed my hand, gently. "Pratha? That is your name?"
I nodded.
"I have been alive for seven hundred years. Do you know what I've done with my time?"
"Everyone knows, doctor. I've read everything you've ever written, I've studied--" I began.
"Shh... shh. Not everything. I've written other things. Stories. I've read. I've spent time with my family. And I am happy. So, so happy."
"So now you want, you want to *die?*" I said. I yelled, actually. Something about this made my stomach feel like ice. I wanted to cry. I wanted him to stop. I didn't understand.
"There is a limit, Pratha. We were not meant for this. For forever," he said
"So you're saying you were wrong? That the world is wrong now?" I said.
"I'm saying that there is a limit. The body, the mind can live on. But the soul needs something more," he said. He paused, taking a deep breath. "I am happy, Pratha, but I am *curious.* Deeply curious for what's next. I want to know, Pratha. I am not afraid."
I slumped in my chair. An afterlife. He was after an afterlife.
"No," he said. As if he knew what I was thinking, "I am not chasing heaven. But I am ready for whatever naturally comes next. My body, my spirit, feels like a stagnant pond. I must release it. I must feel the flow of time. Again, Pratha. I must feel the tug of time again."
I cleared him for the injection. It was hard to do. I got hatemail. I had to quit my job at the Rest office. And didn't even understand why I did it. I could have passed it off to someone else, the decision. But I also *did* understand. I felt what he felt. That tug of time. I'd been stagnant for so long.
In the morning I returned to the office for the last time. I went to my desk and packed my things into a few small boxes. And then I took a form, signed my name, and handed it to another examiner. I must feel the flow of time again. I must make the decision. I must be free.
|
"James Garner?" called the receptionist from behind her desk.
James looked up from his chair in the dull waiting room. "Yes?" he asked.
"Mr. Dravis will see you know."
James stood up and walked toward the desk, pointing at an adjacent door labeled *Thomas Dravis*. "This one?" he asked, immediately wondering why he bothered.
"Yes, Mr. Garner," the receptionist smiled.
Upon opening the door, James found Mr. Dravis sitting at a small desk, covered in stacks of papers. It stood in the corner of the medium-sized office, and, other than another chair, the room was completely empty.
"James Garner," called Mr. Dravis. "Please, have a seat."
James reached over a stack of paper, shook his hand, and sat down.
"OK, Mr. Garner," started Mr. Dravis, typing away.
"Please, call me James," he interjected, peering through a small opening between the mountains of documentation.
"James," Mr. Dravis continued. "I see you're applying for D-99." The typing stopped and he leaned back in his chair, falling out of sight.
"Uh, Mr. Dravis," said James. "Can I ask why you have all these papers on your desk?"
"Excuse me?" asked Mr. Dravis.
"It's just that you have so much room in your office," said James, pointing out the open vastness behind him. "And it's hard to hold a conversation when I can't see you."
Mr. Dravis returned to his previous position and James noticed a sneer through the tiny opening.
"I've been working in this office for two thousand years, James," said Mr. Dravis. "You're the *first* person to have a problem... Your D-99 is rejected."
"Rejected?" cried James. "Why? I thought this interview was just a formality."
James jumped up from his seat as a stack of paper went flying off the desk.
"You-" another stack of paper went flying.
"Don't-" another followed.
"Want-" Mr. Dravis knocked one down over the mostly empty desk.
"To-" He shuffled around the fallen papers on the desk.
"Die!" He swung the rest of the desk clean, papers and a laptop falling to the ground.
James stood on the other corner of the room, cowering.
Mr. Dravis walked to the other side of the room slowly. "James," he said. "People apply for death because they feel their lives are complete. Your life is not complete. Thank you for your time."
---
Head on over to /r/MajorParadox for some more reading fun!
|
|
[WP]In the future, medicine and life support have reached perfection--people can only die if they choose to. You work at a Federal Eternal Rest Office.
|
We screen them first- depression, brain tumors. Anything that might influence the decision. Things that can be cured, at least. *The* decision, we always call it. The only decision.
Our boss signed up yesterday. To be evaluated, I mean. To die.
His name was Doctor Juan Ava, and he invented immortality.
I should go backward. My name is Pratha Hadid. I have been twenty two for seventy five years. It's my job to evaluate whether or not a person should be allowed to die.
Usually we accept requests from people who are experiencing mental deterioration. Medicine is nearly perfect, but madness can happen after a few hundred years. Nothing is inevitable. We tell people: keep a healthy lifestyle. Do brain teasers. Read.
But Doctor Juan Ava was sane. Sharp as anyone I'd ever met. Brilliant - the most brilliant medical doctor to ever live. And he asked me to kill him. And I did. I suppose I should tell you why.
I don't know why he chose our office. Not a headquarters, just a random county clerk. I don't know why he felt I was qualified, that anyone thought I was qualified, to decide the fate of the most influential human in history.
So I stuck to the protocol. I put him through the tests, ran him through the L-CAT scanner. No depression. No brain tumors. He seemed so small there, blue lights running over him, his hands, those dark eyes that saw so much.
The next phase is the interview. I was sweating, but he told me to calm down. He reminded me of my father. I started with the first question.
"How do you feel?" I said. The camera recorded everything.
"Splendid. Very calm." he replied.
"Tell me about your day," I read from the screen before me.
"I woke up. I had a cup of green tea with jasmine. I exercised, read the news, played with my son. Went to chapel. Kissed my wife. And then I came here."
"Here," I said. I forgot the script. "You came here. To a death clinic,"
"A FERO, yes. A 'death clinic'." he said.
"I'm sorry, Juan- sir, I mean. I just need to know why. Why? Your wife, your son. You created this - your choice today could change *everything.* The way all seventeen billion some people on the planet view life and death. You would make me question... I don't know. I don't know what I'm saying."
He reached over the table and grabbed my hand, gently. "Pratha? That is your name?"
I nodded.
"I have been alive for seven hundred years. Do you know what I've done with my time?"
"Everyone knows, doctor. I've read everything you've ever written, I've studied--" I began.
"Shh... shh. Not everything. I've written other things. Stories. I've read. I've spent time with my family. And I am happy. So, so happy."
"So now you want, you want to *die?*" I said. I yelled, actually. Something about this made my stomach feel like ice. I wanted to cry. I wanted him to stop. I didn't understand.
"There is a limit, Pratha. We were not meant for this. For forever," he said
"So you're saying you were wrong? That the world is wrong now?" I said.
"I'm saying that there is a limit. The body, the mind can live on. But the soul needs something more," he said. He paused, taking a deep breath. "I am happy, Pratha, but I am *curious.* Deeply curious for what's next. I want to know, Pratha. I am not afraid."
I slumped in my chair. An afterlife. He was after an afterlife.
"No," he said. As if he knew what I was thinking, "I am not chasing heaven. But I am ready for whatever naturally comes next. My body, my spirit, feels like a stagnant pond. I must release it. I must feel the flow of time. Again, Pratha. I must feel the tug of time again."
I cleared him for the injection. It was hard to do. I got hatemail. I had to quit my job at the Rest office. And didn't even understand why I did it. I could have passed it off to someone else, the decision. But I also *did* understand. I felt what he felt. That tug of time. I'd been stagnant for so long.
In the morning I returned to the office for the last time. I went to my desk and packed my things into a few small boxes. And then I took a form, signed my name, and handed it to another examiner. I must feel the flow of time again. I must make the decision. I must be free.
|
I was surprised at how young the man sitting in front of me was. Usually I don't get young men. Usually I get old people, who are tired of their artificially extended lifespans, and want their eternal rest. I cleared my throat and addressed the man.
"Hello sir, welcome to the Federal Eternal Rest Office. My name is James, and I'll be your case officer. Mister..." I glanced down at my datapad, which displayed the visitor's information, "Mister Jones. You're looking to die?"
Jones nodded at me, then said, in a slow and calm voice, "Yes. Yes, I think I want to die. No, that's not right, I know it."
"And, just to confirm, you want to die *now*? As in, you wish to start the death procedure immediately?"
"Yes, that's right. I want to start now."
I cleared my throat again and looked down at my pad once more. Jones was only twenty years old. I was more than five times his age. Even my grandson could've been his father.
"Well sir, if you're sure. The death procedure is quite simple, actually. You'll have to sign a few documents related to the distribution of your estate after you're gone, and then you'll be led to an injection room, where an automated process will inject a cocktail of pharmaceutical substances into your bloodstream, which will put you to sleep. The pharmaceutical cocktail will then override the healing nanites in your bloodstream, and stop your heart. The entire process is entirely painless and, I'm told, quite soothing."
"That sounds fine, thank you," Jones replied, in the same slow voice. His eerie lack of emotion was starting to bother me. The faint peals of alarm bells were ringing somewhere in the back of my head. I decided to probe further.
"If you don't mind me asking, Mister Jones... why do you want to die? You're still very young."
"Oh, I couldn't explain it if I wanted to. I just want to die, to end it all, that's all."
"Sir, if you're suffering from depressive or other psychological disorders, we have a variety of psychiatric treatments available here..."
Jones cut me off with a shake of his head and a wave of his hand. "No, no, that won't be necessary, thank you. I know you guys offer these services, but that's not what I need. I didn't come here for a shrink. I came to die."
"If you are facing other issues in your life, such as financial or relationship difficulties, we can also provide related assistance in a variety of matters."
Jones actually smiled a bit at me this time. "That's very kind of you, but no, that won't be necessary. I don't have any problems in my life. I just want to die, that's all."
"Well sir..." I started again, but this time Jones interrupted me by leaning forward across the desk and speaking over me.
"Look, I understand this looks weird," he said, the calm facade of his voice cracking for the first time, "and I appreciate the help you're offering. I really do. You're going above and beyond your job description right now, I can tell. But to be honest, there is no big mystery here. I just want to enter your facility, and have a good death. That's all."
I found I was leaning back unconsciously in my chair. I straightened up, then nodded at Jones. "I understand, sir. And you truly cannot tell me why?"
Jones was silent for a few moments, apparently pondering whether he should say anything. Then he replied, "I don't think this whole thing is natural. Everyone's injected with these nanites at birth, which keeps them alive forever. That's not right, man. That's not right. I don't think it's right for people to live hundreds of years, and what's more I don't think it's right for the government to kill ordinary citizens with lethal injections. It's just too much, y'know? Too much unnaturalness going on here. This isn't a world I want to live in, and so I want out. I want this whole thing to end. To be over."
I considered this. Jones's point of view was not unheard of, in fact it had spawned a diverse array of counter-cultures and protest organizations. Some of them were political in natural, such as the Human Life Party, which was currently one of the larger opposition parties in the legislature. There were even a few extremist organizations or two, such as the radical Sapiens group. But this was the first time I'd heard someone so young espouse such views.
Still, though, Jones's reasons were perfectly valid, so if he wanted to die, it was his right. I sighed, then held out my pad at him. "All right sir, if you're sure. Please sign here and here, and scan your fingerprint here. My associate Mr. Henry here will take you to the next station, where a member of our Legal team will go through your affairs with you." I pressed a button my my pad. Henry was there a few moments later, smiling at Jones and beckoning towards a nearby door. Jones stood, thanked me, then followed Henry through the door.
I'd served two more citizens—both old men at least three hundred and fifty years old—before Henry came back to my desk. He looked troubled. "Hey James... that guy, Jones, what's his story?"
"He's only twenty, but he thinks the nanite life extension process is unnatural, so he wants to die," I replied.
"Yeah, I got that part. But that's not the weird part. The weird part was when I took him down to Legal, he insisted on taking a detour near the nanite labs first. He said he wanted to see it with his own eyes. He asked all sorts of questions about it, too, like if that's where we make all the nanites, and what would happen if we lost our production facilities. Why would he care if he doesn't like the idea of the nanites in the first place? And he's dying soon, so why's he so curious?"
"What'd you say to him?"
"Well, I answered his questions as best I could. Yes, we make all the nanites here, and if we couldn't make nanites any more, then people wouldn't be able to live forever any more."
The alarm bells I felt during my interview with Jones were starting to ring again. "Was he satisfied with that answer?"
"I guess, because he didn't ask anything else afterwards. He just followed me down to the Legal Department without a word. Weirdest thing, I think."
I frowned at Henry. "You think there's something more going on here? With him?"
Henry mirrored my frown. "All I know is that he's not acting like a guy who's about to die."
I suddenly felt icy realization drench me from head to toe. "No... no, that's not right. He *is* acting like a guy about to die. And he intends to take us down with him!"
I grabbed my phone and jabbed frantically at the keypad. It was an eternity before someone picked up. "Security, what's the issue?"
I screamed into the receiver, "I think we have a *suicide bomber* somewhere in the facility! Probably from Sapiens! Someone check the Legal Department and the Nanite Labs for a guy named Jones! Medium height, brown hair, twenty years old..."
A fireball tore through the building, incinerating me and Henry, and cutting me off before I could finish.
|
|
[WP]In the future, medicine and life support have reached perfection--people can only die if they choose to. You work at a Federal Eternal Rest Office.
|
We screen them first- depression, brain tumors. Anything that might influence the decision. Things that can be cured, at least. *The* decision, we always call it. The only decision.
Our boss signed up yesterday. To be evaluated, I mean. To die.
His name was Doctor Juan Ava, and he invented immortality.
I should go backward. My name is Pratha Hadid. I have been twenty two for seventy five years. It's my job to evaluate whether or not a person should be allowed to die.
Usually we accept requests from people who are experiencing mental deterioration. Medicine is nearly perfect, but madness can happen after a few hundred years. Nothing is inevitable. We tell people: keep a healthy lifestyle. Do brain teasers. Read.
But Doctor Juan Ava was sane. Sharp as anyone I'd ever met. Brilliant - the most brilliant medical doctor to ever live. And he asked me to kill him. And I did. I suppose I should tell you why.
I don't know why he chose our office. Not a headquarters, just a random county clerk. I don't know why he felt I was qualified, that anyone thought I was qualified, to decide the fate of the most influential human in history.
So I stuck to the protocol. I put him through the tests, ran him through the L-CAT scanner. No depression. No brain tumors. He seemed so small there, blue lights running over him, his hands, those dark eyes that saw so much.
The next phase is the interview. I was sweating, but he told me to calm down. He reminded me of my father. I started with the first question.
"How do you feel?" I said. The camera recorded everything.
"Splendid. Very calm." he replied.
"Tell me about your day," I read from the screen before me.
"I woke up. I had a cup of green tea with jasmine. I exercised, read the news, played with my son. Went to chapel. Kissed my wife. And then I came here."
"Here," I said. I forgot the script. "You came here. To a death clinic,"
"A FERO, yes. A 'death clinic'." he said.
"I'm sorry, Juan- sir, I mean. I just need to know why. Why? Your wife, your son. You created this - your choice today could change *everything.* The way all seventeen billion some people on the planet view life and death. You would make me question... I don't know. I don't know what I'm saying."
He reached over the table and grabbed my hand, gently. "Pratha? That is your name?"
I nodded.
"I have been alive for seven hundred years. Do you know what I've done with my time?"
"Everyone knows, doctor. I've read everything you've ever written, I've studied--" I began.
"Shh... shh. Not everything. I've written other things. Stories. I've read. I've spent time with my family. And I am happy. So, so happy."
"So now you want, you want to *die?*" I said. I yelled, actually. Something about this made my stomach feel like ice. I wanted to cry. I wanted him to stop. I didn't understand.
"There is a limit, Pratha. We were not meant for this. For forever," he said
"So you're saying you were wrong? That the world is wrong now?" I said.
"I'm saying that there is a limit. The body, the mind can live on. But the soul needs something more," he said. He paused, taking a deep breath. "I am happy, Pratha, but I am *curious.* Deeply curious for what's next. I want to know, Pratha. I am not afraid."
I slumped in my chair. An afterlife. He was after an afterlife.
"No," he said. As if he knew what I was thinking, "I am not chasing heaven. But I am ready for whatever naturally comes next. My body, my spirit, feels like a stagnant pond. I must release it. I must feel the flow of time. Again, Pratha. I must feel the tug of time again."
I cleared him for the injection. It was hard to do. I got hatemail. I had to quit my job at the Rest office. And didn't even understand why I did it. I could have passed it off to someone else, the decision. But I also *did* understand. I felt what he felt. That tug of time. I'd been stagnant for so long.
In the morning I returned to the office for the last time. I went to my desk and packed my things into a few small boxes. And then I took a form, signed my name, and handed it to another examiner. I must feel the flow of time again. I must make the decision. I must be free.
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I usually get people coming through who feel like they've accomplished all they can, or perhaps not anything at all despite a hundred years of effort. Sometimes, I'll even get someone who's just curious about what happens when you die.
Today, though, a beautiful young woman, age 362, came in to file for death.
"I don't mean to intrude, ma'am," I said sheepishly, "but you're beautiful and prime for mating, young, intelligent by the look of your schooling and work history...why die so early?"
She looked at me with a pained smile. "Humans are meant to be mortal, dear. We just kind of...lose things, these days. Nothing means what it used to anymore, it's all so different than when I was a child. On a scale of hundreds of years, things lose value and people grow bored with relics of the past."
She smiled again, handing me the holotablet with her information in it. There was a strip of skin lighter than the rest at the base of her fourth finger, as if something had once been wrapped around it.
"Ma'am, if you don't mind me asking, what is that on your finger?"
She held her hand up and rubbed the light patch of skin, a look of longing in her eyes contrasting the light scowl on her face. "Oh, this? It's nothing, dear. Merely a ghost, not unlike myself."
I buzzed her through to the incineration chamber. Just before the doors closed, I saw her pull a small, rectangular antique out of her pocket. It looked like some kind of person was on it.
She kissed it, and closed her eyes.
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"Traditions" could be ridiculous or demeaning or gross.
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[WP] You are a teenager in an extremely remote jungle tribe. Westerners visit your home for the first time and are eager to participate in your culture. You and your friend devise increasingly absurd "traditions" in order to test the limits of the visitors' open-mindedness.
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"Father says they're to dine with us. Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"
"This will be a tale we tell our grandchildren. Get the durian."
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"By the undescended testicles of the Pygmy God Ziku" hooted Ebula as he shook with fits of laughter "I can't believe you got them to eat those gibbon droppings!"
Ziku gasped for breath and clutched his sides. He hadn't laughed this hard since the high priest dropped the sacrificial virgin's still-beating heart down the temple steps several Harvest Festivals ago.
"Ebula...what if...what if...we told them...do you think they'd...we can't!"
"Go on. What if we told them what? Do what? These silly light people will believe everything we tell them. You should've seen the big one's face when Muleria told him that she had to keep a baby porcupine in her downstairs pouch as a 'right of passage into womanhood'. And did you hear about how Pulio got the small one to milk a gorilla? Hah! They'll fall for anything."
"Okay Ebulu, we tell them that tonight is the God of Pleasure's holy night..."
"Ziku we don't even have a God of Pleasure!"
"Don't interrupt me Ebulu. Where was I? Oh right. We invite them to a 'ritual orgy', tell them that they must reach climax as the sun rises in order to please the God of Pleasure..."
"Ziku you're the son of a priest and you have the most unholy mind of anyone I have ever met..."
"Great Shakalaka's pubic beards Ebulu, stop interrupting me! I'm not even half done. Ok. So we tell them that they mustn't spill anything otherwise the King of Pain will rise up against the God of Pleasure and plunge our world into one hundred moon cycles of erectile dysfunction."
"Oh tender orang-utan's nipple Ziku, you're too much!"
"AND we tell them that they must collect their liquids in banana leaves so that they can take it up to the temple and water the sacred plants."
"ZIKU! The high priest will literally tear out your eyes and ritually sacrifice you to the God of Moderately Deformed Infants if he found out you told the light people to water his rare orchids with their trunk sap!"
"Well what do you say? I'll go tell everyone in the village EXCEPT the high priest. It'll be hilarious"
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"Traditions" could be ridiculous or demeaning or gross.
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[WP] You are a teenager in an extremely remote jungle tribe. Westerners visit your home for the first time and are eager to participate in your culture. You and your friend devise increasingly absurd "traditions" in order to test the limits of the visitors' open-mindedness.
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When the sky became filled with stars, and the tired sun had been asleep for hours, a large fire ignited in the middle of a field. The tribe, who had been waiting in the shadows of their huts, watching for the first light, was slowly pouring into the vicinity. I looked to Jane. A smile started to stretch across her face. "This is what we were here for, this is why we came Mark" I imagined her saying to me in that moment of silence and awestruck consciousness.
The tribe formed a circle around the flames; their feathers and thick leather clothing ruffled when they crouched down onto the cool mud floor. If i had to guess, 50 or so Natives sat around the flames, all looking emotionless as the natural light bounced up and down their faces in the dark, sending chills down my spine.
Jane and I noticed an opening, about two bodies away from the chief, and saw several of the tribesman giving us a "what are you waiting for stare." We took our place, glanced around, and hoped to fit in the best we could. For all we knew, we were the first Westerners to be invited into the camp.
A sudden yell, like lightning striking before the storm, pierced the air and signaled the several drummers of the group to start playing. "Ba-dum dum-Ba-dum, Ba-dum, dum-Ba-dum, Bad-dum dum-Ba-dum" They struck their drums hard. The chief to our left stuck out his arm and began to slowly raise it. The drummers saw this and the intensity of their playing grew in sort a crescendo with the rising arm of their leader. It went all the way up, until he couldn't reach anymore, and he struck down like he wanted to chop the life out of his enemy.
The music went silent, everybody around the ring stayed silent, until the greatest moment of our lives occurred. I remember it happening so quickly too, like the floodgates of their bowels had opened up all at the same time. In the moments after the drums stopped playing, all of the tribesman and women began to fart.
It was very loud for about 10 seconds, with flatulence arising from almost every member, in the weirdest celebration of life's wonder ever witnessed. I looked to Jane and saw she was crying; the celebration was that beautiful. The tribes people were too kind to describe, for letting us attend their sacred ceremony, which I have labelled as "The passing of the inner demons." The smell could have been the worst thing to ever touch my nostrils, but when you put into perspective just how powerful of a ceremony this was for them, the scent was empowering. I remember taking a deep breath of the air, just to enjoy a full experience.
In the morning we parted ways, and I thanked them for a night we will never forget. I still remember the laughter on their faces after the ceremony ended. Seeing the joy on their faces is what made the ceremony so powerful to Jane and I. As we walked back to our tent, I remember all of them smiling and pointing at us, and we felt amazing, because these tribes people had accepted us into their clan, and couldn't help but point it out.
I wish I could go back and fart with them one last time.
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"But Robert, didn't you see all that blood everywhere? The man practically told us that they kill every third child."
"We must not judge their customs, Clara" he replied, hacking away at the vine leaves using the curiously shaped hatchet they had ceremoniosly given to him in exchange for his tablet, "they are just different, that's all."
Clara nodded reluctantly, the white guilt overpowering her higher reasoning for a brief moment. "But then that whole fiasco with their food! How can they honestly offer that to people, to their own people even!?"
Robert searched his teeth with his tongue trying to get the taste of stale excrement out of his fillings. "I don't know what you're talking about, I thought it was... thought it was very filling."
He slapped the hatchet at a branch, and it suddenly started to rumble in his hands, causing him to drop it out of alarm. "Clara! Look! The mystics said this would happen!" he cried, watching it buzz around on the ground like a possesed spirit.
Clara's eyes went wide and her hand rushed to her mouth to stifle a gasp. Robert stared at it in awe and they tentatively held hands, as the great purple slightly-phallic looking hatchet burrowed into a rabbit hole.
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"Traditions" could be ridiculous or demeaning or gross.
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[WP] You are a teenager in an extremely remote jungle tribe. Westerners visit your home for the first time and are eager to participate in your culture. You and your friend devise increasingly absurd "traditions" in order to test the limits of the visitors' open-mindedness.
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"He did the leeches?"
"Yes. No question, he just stuck his hand."
"And the Monkey sniffing?"
"He said he'd been greeting monkeys like that for *years*."
"Did you try the mangoes, too?"
"He put them on his nipples before we even asked him. He said he was familiar with this 'jungle ritual.' He's... ah... he found one of the women's skirts and now he's dancing while pouring honey on himself. I don't even know where he found the honey."
"Well, I'm out of ideas."
"We could try making him walk on the bridge over the alligator pit."
"How do you think he *got* here?"
Not ten feet away, an old man wearing reedy skirts and a fluff of white hair on his head, shouted, "Are we rolling, Jeremy?"
"Yes!" a voice called back.
"I'm David Attenborough, and for my next special project, I'm exploring the exotic traditions of Deep Amazonian natives. Okay, Jeremy, throw the snakes in!"
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It was at that odd moment during the welcoming ceremony that each member of the expedition realized they had been involved in what was possibly the most ludicrous spectacle ever witnessed by outsiders when their stoicism broke into a gale of laughter. Everyone in the circle had followed the ceremony's instructions by wearing green and sitting on the ground in a circle. Nobody was to move or leave the circle until each person had a male Kakapo parrot dancing on their heads.
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"Traditions" could be ridiculous or demeaning or gross.
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[WP] You are a teenager in an extremely remote jungle tribe. Westerners visit your home for the first time and are eager to participate in your culture. You and your friend devise increasingly absurd "traditions" in order to test the limits of the visitors' open-mindedness.
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When the White Man first came to our tribe, deep in the Amazonian jungle, we were frightened by their pale faces and technology. Never before have we encountered other humans- for centuries, we've thought ourselves to be alone, the forest our world. That world has come crashing down on us, and we're getting used to that.
There's a pretty severe language barrier, though. The elders decided that having a younger person, like myself, help out as a guide would be the best since we learn quicker- I believe my grandfather said "the young mind is a malleable thing", and two 13 year-olds like us were the perfect choice.
So far, that's been pretty great since the technology they've shown me, like phones and tablets, are absolutely incredible. Their machines are unlike anything we could have imagined or dreamed of, something almost worth worship.
And so, we are trying to repay them with what we can. It seems they already have all we can offer in terms of knowledge and resources, but they would like our history and traditions. That's where Anza and I come into play.
"Anza," I called out, "come. We must show the White Man our village traditions, as the elders have requested." We knew them better than anyone in the village.
Anza came running out of her hut, smiling and wearing a t-shirt one of the pale men brought. "I'm ready!"
We ran over to the center of our tribe, where several pale men were waiting for us. They were dressed in strange pants that stopped right above the knee, the color of sand, and their chests were covered with white cloth that split down the middle.
Anza looked over at me and whispered in our tongue, "Reya, they look very strange."
One of the elders waiting with the pale men turned to her and glared. She snapped upright and tried to look dignified.
The pale men turned around, and smiled at us, extending their hands. We looked at them with curiousity and confusion, as their hands just stayed pointed toward us.
"Anza, perhaps this is some sort of greeting?" I said.
"It is," a voice answered me from behind. "You grasp their hand in return."
We turned around and saw a pale woman, friendly and tall.
"You know our tongue?" I asked, amazed.
"Not well," she responded. "But it's similar to tongues in the area and I can get by. My name is Mary."
She had a very comforting aura, the way she talked and looked, the way she smiled at us. I turned back around to the pale men and grasped their hands. "Okay, well then, follow us."
Anza and I led them out to the stream that cut our village in half, where we often made prayer in thanks for the gift of water- liquid life. One of the researches asked something in their brutish tongue, and the researcher said it in ours.
"Where do you bury your dead?"
Anza went to respond but I cut her off, seeing an opportunity to joke around with the pale men. "We put them in the stream, and let them float away."
The woman looked shocked, and the men as well. They exchanged confused glances and mumbled in their own language, looking sick.
"You don't know where the bodies go?" Mary asked.
"They float out of this world and to the next unknown," I responded, my wit sharp. For all they know, we don't understand that the stream continues. The pale men scribbled on their paper, likely worried about a collection of dead bodies piled somewhere downstream.
"Well, moving on, can you tell us about any traditions or special days your tribe has?" Mary inquired, her tongue heavy as she tried to speak our words.
I looked at Anza, who started to understand what I was doing. The pale men mad funny faces and words when we made jokes, and I wanted to keep it going. Not anything terrible, just...strange little things.
"Yes, Mary, we have many traditions in this village. There is one day we devote to the God in the sky, warming us with light," I explained truthfully. "We thank him by putting a banana on our head and staring into its light until a monkey comes and takes the banana from our head. It takes days sometimes."
Once again, their pale faces went blank and they looked around at each other trying not to laugh.
"Doesn't that hurt your eyes?" Mary asked, confused.
"Yes, some people go blind."
She looked worried now, like my mother used to when I played with snakes. I decided that maybe this joke was not as funny and moved onto the next one.
"To show our thanks to the world we live in, once every moon we eat a bowl of dirt," Anza piped in. She grabbed a fistful of dirt and squished it against her mouth, smiling through it at the white men who couldn't hold their laughter in any longer. Mary hushed them, saying something in their tongue.
"Don't laugh at them, or they won't tell us their traditions. You're being rude and childish." We could not understand the words, but they stopped laughing.
"Maybe we are just not funny?" Anza suggested. I thought deeply at this, wondering how to proceed and prove that we are the masters of humor in our tribe. It clicked.
"Well, it is taught by our elders that when you get a cut or scrape, you rub your poop on it and the forest Gods will heal it faster," I said, trying not to laugh. "The forest Gods love poop and will eat it off, cleaning your wound with their divine tongue."
The pale men turned a shade of green and Mary looked appalled, making strange sounds to her friends. "Okay, we need to have a discussion with your elders. Your tribe does very unsafe things and we need to explain to them why they're wrong."
Anza and I looked at each other, frightened. "Reya, look at what you've done. They don't think we're funny at all, and now father will discipline us."
We walked in shame behind the pale men back to our village. Mary spoke with the elders, explaining the traditions we spoke of and why they're dangerous.
My grandfather glared at us again. "I thought them ready to on responsibilities. I apologize, Mary- they were speaking false truths. Children will always be children, no matter what burdens you put on them. Please, do not think ill of them. I must say, however, to think they'd disrespect their own mother by suggesting we defile the dead is unsettling."
She turned to us with a solemn face, then back at grandfather. "So the things they told us were not true?"
"We may be a small village, Mary, untouched by the rest of mankind, but we are proud and we are strong. We know better than to practice such unsafe rituals."
She sighed a breath of relief. "Of course, I'm sorry if I came off as insulting." She turned to the pale men and said something in their language. They immediately began to laugh as they looked at us.
"Mary," I piped up bashfully, "are they laughing at us because our jokes were not funny? We just wanted to make you laugh. You remind us of her, a little bit, and she'd always laughed at our silliness."
She smiled at me with a mother's love and said, "No, dear. We think you two are the funniest people we've met so far."
Anza and I looked at each other, grinning wide with glee.
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It was at that odd moment during the welcoming ceremony that each member of the expedition realized they had been involved in what was possibly the most ludicrous spectacle ever witnessed by outsiders when their stoicism broke into a gale of laughter. Everyone in the circle had followed the ceremony's instructions by wearing green and sitting on the ground in a circle. Nobody was to move or leave the circle until each person had a male Kakapo parrot dancing on their heads.
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[WP] You've passed all of your tests, got your license and scraped up half of the funds like you agreed with your parents. Now your dad is bringing you to buy your very first spaceship.
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"Dad, this is a pile of junk." Vash spoke with an annoyance in his tone as his Father and the salesmen were looking deep into the nook of an exterior plasma vent.
"It's a classic!" The salesmen said with much pep and vigor, licking his lips as he could taste the commission.
"You hear that son? It's a classic!" His father spoke finally emerging while wiping some oil off of his hands with an old rag.
"I wanted an X-p97 model!" Vash groaned checking his wrist communicator to see if he had any messages from Sarra his long distance girlfriend, who was prompting that he should get a ship for many months now.
"Well i want a pleasure droid, but with me raising you and your brother alone, and working two jobs this is what i can afford, even with you chipping in!" he said stuffing the rag in his back pocket.
Vash groaned and rolled his eyes, his father didn't understand him even slightly and if he had even the slightest clue, he would know this ship would not get anyone laid.
"Besides" his father went on " You had to take your pilots test twice because you failed the maneuverability. Anything with an advanced hyperdrive is something you aren't ready to handle, and the insurance alone...look, son. This freighter is a workhorse, the engines last, and the nav computers are really reliable, i've never had a bad jump into an asteroid field with one of these." He spoke with a smile
"Fine, whatever. I just wanna be able to visit my girlfriend for a change. A two lightyear distance relationship is hard enough!" Vash pouted.
"Tell you what kiddo!" the salesmen chimed in. "I'll throw in some fuzzy dice on the house!" the salesmen chuckled with dollar signs in his eyes.
"Hear that son?! Fuzzy dice! We'll take it." Vash's father said with a grin.
"I'll get the datapad for a dna signature!" The salesmen said rushing back to his office.
"You make sure you use protection when you go visit sarra. She won't be able to keep her mandibles off of you, flying up in this baby. I don't need any squid babies slithering about, inking on my carpet."
"DAD! SHE'S NOT A SQUID, SHES TREXLEMORPH, YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND! YOU'RE SO IGNORANT!!!!" Vash cried putting his face in his hands.
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I looked at the pile of junk and frowned.
"Is this what I'm paying $14,000 for?"
"That's 28K including my share," my dad had chuckled, "I'll tell you... this is a lot better than what I've had for my first spaceship."
"That's because you're ancient, Dad" I sighed as I walked around the space ship, "Looks like it's got maybe only 4 seats in the cockpit and a resting area."
My dad opened a booklet and nodded. "Four mains seats and a resting area of perhaps eight people," he confirmed, "You might be able to fit a couch in there too."
"God, that's small," I frowned as I reconsidered my choices, "And this is the only option we have?"
"Correct."
"Nothing else?" I was desperately trying to fish out something from him.
My dad scratched his chin and reconsidered.
"We could save a lot of money and get an Audi or a Porsche..."
"A car?" I decided I was fine with the spaceship, "No thanks, Dad."
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[WP] You've passed all of your tests, got your license and scraped up half of the funds like you agreed with your parents. Now your dad is bringing you to buy your very first spaceship.
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"Stop looking at your datapad, Wooram," Jae glared at the rear mirror at his son's face, illuminated by his datapad's backlight.
"Sorry, *appa.* Just excited," he looked up, grinning, "Jason-*hyung* was saying I needed to make sure my ship had a trim characteristic rating above a 4.0. I'm just looking at which ships they have that are in my price range."
The price match limit that Jae had given his son was largely ceremonial. Jae had done very well for himself - his law firm was well known and he had a client base extended across three stations within the system - and the lesson to be learned by Wooram about financial responsibility and independence was worth a lot more than an extra $$300,000-$$500,000 in price tag.
"It's not all about numbers and ratings," Jae returned his attention back on the lane so he could make the turn to the docks, "You choose your ship on numbers alone, and you'll end up with something shiny that doesn't fit you. Now put that thing away for now, we're just about there."
The Dock Requisitions Hub was quieter on Saturdays as most families were in the recreational centers or the synthetic nature preserves. Calumny-5442's DRH was smaller than most other space stations as Calumny-5442 was a financial station as opposed to a industrial or agriculture station, but what it lacked in size, it made up for in unconventional selection. Jae smiled at the memory of his own father taking him to the DRH to purchase his Aether-Rise X-4418 Schooner. Although he had been forced to retire his ship some two decades ago as it was too cost prohibitive to refit its mooring locks to the docking upgrades made system wide, the memory of his wide-eyed excitement as he walked between the various ships that he had spent nearly eight years of his life saving for filled him with a tinge of nostalgia as one of the few moments he and his father had a genuine interaction.
"Mr. Park! I'm glad you could make it! We've closed the floor just-," Mr. Aldrich stopped mid sentence as Jae shook his head. Mr. Aldrich smiled in understanding, "in the main showroom as we're doing some renovations, but we've still a number of vessels available to show you."
"I appreciate it, Lawrence. Besides, I know it's quiet on Saturdays so I thought I'd give you some business. And we're not here to indulge my hobbies, Lawrence. I'm here with a new customer referral," Jae said, winking to his old friend.
"Ah. You must be Wooram. I've heard so much about you from your father. Now, before I go ahead and show you what we have available, it's customary for me to ask you price range just so I can get a feel for what would fit your needs best," Lawrence asked.
"I can max out at $$800,000," Wooram looked to his Jae, who nodded, "and I already have some ideas about what I want."
"Oh? Is there a specific class you're interested in."
Wooram pulled out his datapad to show Lawrence the values he wanted in his ship. Lawrence chuckled to himself as he surveyed the numbers. Woorman certainly did his research even if his expectations were over eager.
"Style and maneuverability over speed. I like the way you think. Right this way."
The back showroom held Lawrence's special inventory, the one he rarely showed even his most loyal customers. He maintained the back showroom out of his love for the ship-laying craft, an appreciation for the trade that was equal parts function and grace. Already in his mind, he had an idea of which ones Wooram would go for, but he was just as ready to be surprised by what the young man would choose.
Upon reaching the back showroom, Lawrence took an old metal key out of his inner coat pocket and inserted it into the wood door that led inside.
"Is this real wood?" Wooram asked.
"Good eye! Yes, imported from the Amazon. Cost a fortune, but business has been good and it reminds me of home. And, Wooram, I am a slave to appearance. I know you're probably thinking this makes my showroom less secure, but very few people are aware this room even exists, so it's a risk I'm willing to take. Hold on a second while I turn on the lights," Lawrence said, reaching inside to feel for the switch. His fingers found the switch, but he walked inside before turning them on so he could see Wooram's reaction.
It got him every time. As one by one the rows of LED bulbs lit the room till it reached from end to end, the look on Wooram's face was the reason he stayed in the business at all even though he had made enough to retire well. Joy could not quite describe Wooram's expression. There was a wild excitement, a sense of wonder that sent a knowing tingle down his every nerve that filled Wooram as he looked across the room not at the magnificently crafted profiles of the ships. Freedom was what Wooram saw, with a dash of anticipation.
The seconds melted into minutes into what seemed hours as Wooram almost sprinted from ship to ship, his hands caressing the gentle curves of each of the ships, his eyes scanning over the specifications, his mind imagining the adventures he might take. Lawrence and Jae chatted idly about the economy and each others wives as they watched. Lawrence, ever the salesman, attempted to interest Jae in a couple of his modified Aether-Rise Remanufactures, but Jae politely declined.
After about an hour and a half, Wooram jogged back from the end of the room, his face plastered with a giddy grin, "I think I found her, *appa*."
"Lead the way," Jae said.
The three of them walked all the way to the far corner of the showroom, under a row of lights that flickered slightly, begging to be replaced. The ship they stopped in front of surprised Jae.
"Can I try out the pilot's seat?" Wooram asked. Lawrence nodded, walking up to the service panel to unlock the cockpit and release the ladder. Wooram dashed over, clambering up and almost slipping in his eagerness. As he settled into the pilot's chair, he looked over the side and grinned even wider.
"How much is this?"
"It's priced at $$650,000, but, to be honest I'm not sure if I really wanted to part with it," Lawrence said, resting his hand on the port side swept-down wing, "Do you know what model this is?"
"It's a MK14 Vapiron-C. A civilian redesign of the MSF-I Vapiron. They made about 100,000 of these and were initially going to slate them for police service, but they got outbid by Aegis Dynamics," Wooram focused back forward on the control monitors, "I thought most of these were melted for scrap."
"Most were. I managed to save this from the scrap yard. Let's say I were willing to part with this one, I'm curious, why this one? For $$300,000 you could get a CF-11 Crimson which is updated. This one still needs a dock retrofit and a bit of work before you'll be able to put her in the air."
"I know. I'll need to replace the wing plating, probably refurbish the thruster intakes. I definitely need to refinish the cockpit canopy and rebuild this guidance system, but," Wooram stopped his admiration as he tried to find the right words for what his mind understood and his heart felt, "just. All these ships. They're nice and polished. They have great stat values. I see why you made the comment about style and maneuverability over speed. Seems you like the same things I do. But this right here. This ship, will need a lot of work. Once I'm done fixing her up...."
"What do you mean?" Jae asked.
"It's just like you said, *appa.* It's not all numbers and ratings. I've never really wanted anything new, I've always wanted something that was mine. This ship. I don't know how to describe it. Just something about the curves and angles. It's something about the way she's got a bit of wear and neglect, but stays, I don't know. Proud? Potential. That's the word I'm looking for. I don't want something anyone can just buy and fly. I want something that I can fix, something that is just mine. And this? This is it. I'll pay as much as you want for it, Mr. Aldrich, even if I have to save up more and wait a little longer. Can you hold it for me?"
Jae and Lawrence both laughed.
"No, no. I'll let her go," Lawrence said, "Reluctant as I may be. If she calls to you, Wooram, I won't stand in your way. Why don't we-."
"I'll take care of the paperwork, Lawrence," Jae interrupted, "Wooram, you know your way back to the front office?"
"Yea," Wooram said, absentminded as he poured over the interior.
"Head back when you're done."
"Got it," Wooram answered, totally distracted from everything. Jae patted Lawrence on the shoulder for him to follow.
As they exited the showroom, Lawrence turned to Jae, "how long did you have him saving up for?"
"Since he was about 5 or 6. Ever since he saw the picture of my Aether-Rise. He's got the fever. I already told the wife that we couldn't take that from him, we can only encourage him to be safe about it."
"I imagine he wants to go into racing?"
"I don't know what he wants to go into. I just know that he wants to fly."
"Sounds like us when we were his age."
"Yea," Jae let the warmth he felt in his chest spread through his body, "yea it does.
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I looked at the pile of junk and frowned.
"Is this what I'm paying $14,000 for?"
"That's 28K including my share," my dad had chuckled, "I'll tell you... this is a lot better than what I've had for my first spaceship."
"That's because you're ancient, Dad" I sighed as I walked around the space ship, "Looks like it's got maybe only 4 seats in the cockpit and a resting area."
My dad opened a booklet and nodded. "Four mains seats and a resting area of perhaps eight people," he confirmed, "You might be able to fit a couch in there too."
"God, that's small," I frowned as I reconsidered my choices, "And this is the only option we have?"
"Correct."
"Nothing else?" I was desperately trying to fish out something from him.
My dad scratched his chin and reconsidered.
"We could save a lot of money and get an Audi or a Porsche..."
"A car?" I decided I was fine with the spaceship, "No thanks, Dad."
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Saw [this comment](https://www.reddit.com/r/videos/comments/44xrlv/youtuber_gives_a_guide_on_how_to_land_a_737_in/czu28pf) and thought one of you geniuses could do something magical with it.
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[WP] You're nearing the end of a flight when both pilots slump unconscious at the controls. Luckily , there are flight sim experts on the plane returning home from FlightSimCon... 80 of them. And they all want a turn.
|
The press gathered at the Pentagon Briefing room with an air of curiosity and horror. The Secretary stepped to the podium.
"I'm very sad to announce that Flight 1234 was indeed shot down by aircraft protecting the aircraft carrier USS Nimitz earlier today. Flight 1234, an Airbus A-380, was attempting to land on the carrier, and with a tailwind.
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"I mean I know how to fly...but i've never worked one of these radios before. I can set the freq, but where the hell is the push to talk?"
"Fucking Casual, I was flying Lockheed Tri-Stars on VATSIM while you were still trying to figure out BF1942. Move over, it's my turn."
"Hey man, if you remember...I'm the one that noticed something was wrong in the first place. Besides, how many of those old planes have MFDs? I mean hell you couldn't even set the autopilot!"
Outside the plane, storm clouds were swirling all around them. The weather screen looked like a red and green Christmas Tree, the cockpit door was open, and the flight attendant lights were blinking in their own festive dance as each passenger called in to 'help'.
There was a crackle over the headset, "Malaysian 370 Heavy this is Center, do you read?"
"Seriously man, I don't know how to respond to him." The first voice was trembling, "We need to find out where they want us to go Sal. It was fun while we were taking turns but we've only got about thirty minutes of fuel left."
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Saw [this comment](https://www.reddit.com/r/videos/comments/44xrlv/youtuber_gives_a_guide_on_how_to_land_a_737_in/czu28pf) and thought one of you geniuses could do something magical with it.
|
[WP] You're nearing the end of a flight when both pilots slump unconscious at the controls. Luckily , there are flight sim experts on the plane returning home from FlightSimCon... 80 of them. And they all want a turn.
|
The press gathered at the Pentagon Briefing room with an air of curiosity and horror. The Secretary stepped to the podium.
"I'm very sad to announce that Flight 1234 was indeed shot down by aircraft protecting the aircraft carrier USS Nimitz earlier today. Flight 1234, an Airbus A-380, was attempting to land on the carrier, and with a tailwind.
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The plane began it's descent rather early. "Wow we'll make it back in time for the game" Fred exclaimed as he glanced at his watch. Being only flight simulation experts, every one passenger reveled in the real life complexities of maneuvering a plane, deciphering the decisions and actions taken by their trusted pilots, trying to gain better understandings of what it would be like to pilot a real plane.
With their self-consuming interest and blinding trust, what started becoming an unmanned nose-dive was simply gone unnoticed until Fred realised this was NOT an early descent. "Aww shit..".
Rip everyone.
|
Saw [this comment](https://www.reddit.com/r/videos/comments/44xrlv/youtuber_gives_a_guide_on_how_to_land_a_737_in/czu28pf) and thought one of you geniuses could do something magical with it.
|
[WP] You're nearing the end of a flight when both pilots slump unconscious at the controls. Luckily , there are flight sim experts on the plane returning home from FlightSimCon... 80 of them. And they all want a turn.
|
"Ladies and gentlemen, This is your capatains speaking. We haven't decided on where to land yet, so please buckle up for now...
Excuse me, _this_ is actually your captain, we'll land at London Heathrow quite s- OW
Folks, Excuse me, this is your captain, we're about to cross the English channel to A- AAARGGHHh
Yes, This is your captain speaking. One of them anyways. We'll be with you with more info shortly STAY THE FUCK OF THE FLAPS CONTROLLER YOU FUCKING MORON I'LL STICK A FUCKING AILERON UP YOUR ASS" * click *
|
The plane began it's descent rather early. "Wow we'll make it back in time for the game" Fred exclaimed as he glanced at his watch. Being only flight simulation experts, every one passenger reveled in the real life complexities of maneuvering a plane, deciphering the decisions and actions taken by their trusted pilots, trying to gain better understandings of what it would be like to pilot a real plane.
With their self-consuming interest and blinding trust, what started becoming an unmanned nose-dive was simply gone unnoticed until Fred realised this was NOT an early descent. "Aww shit..".
Rip everyone.
|
Saw [this comment](https://www.reddit.com/r/videos/comments/44xrlv/youtuber_gives_a_guide_on_how_to_land_a_737_in/czu28pf) and thought one of you geniuses could do something magical with it.
|
[WP] You're nearing the end of a flight when both pilots slump unconscious at the controls. Luckily , there are flight sim experts on the plane returning home from FlightSimCon... 80 of them. And they all want a turn.
|
NTSB Lead Investigator: C. Daniels
Report Date: 02/10/16
Event Date : 2/02/16
Report(s) Status - Published - Probable Cause
Location - Rockaways, New York
Make/Model - Boeing 787-9
Regist. Number - NBL8021N
NTSB No - K-226-XR-801B
Event Severity - Multiple Fatalities
Type of Air Carrier Operation and Carrier Name (Doing Business As)
JetBlue/Passenger
Incident Remarks:
NTSB Investigators have traveled to the site, conducted interviews and reviewed available data, including radio traffic between ATC and Flight prior to incident and flight tracking information provided by the regional flight center (RFC). Flight summary to follow:
At 1850 GMT Flight JB 717 took off from LAX and followed their listed flight plan exit corridors until achieving stable flight level at 19:05GMT. Radio traffic between the air crew and ground is unremarkable for the next 4.5 hours until 23:35GMT when flight Purser S. Johansen entered the flight deck and discovered the entire flight team unresponsive at their stations and the aircraft under automatic flight controls. In an attempt to forestall panic, Purser Johansen closed the flight deck door and retrieved the communication headset from third officer P. Manesh to contact ATC. An in-flight emergency was declared at 23:42GMT as 119 SOULS IN JEOPARDY and VESSEL IN PERIL state was determined. ATC began the incident reporting chain and carrier emergency services were activated. Purser S. Johansen remained in contact with ground, ATC and carrier controls and advised that numerous passengers were beginning to show signs of alarm and panic. In an unauthorized attempt to calm the passengers, Purser Johansen used the inboard intercom to discuss the situation with flight attendants S. Smith, R. McCoombs and T. Branas. FA Smith advised Purser Johansen that she had overheard numerous on-board conversations related to flight, piloting and existing training and experience. Due to the severity of the situation Purser Johansen made the unusual choice of asking FA Smith and McCombs to quietly locate passengers who had the most relevant training or experience and to bring them to the belowdecks crew galley for a meeting. This meeting occurred at 23:59 and was attended by FAs Smith, McCombs and passengers J. Longren, P. Williams, R. Jones and A. Earhart (no relation) with Purser Johansen on the flight deck and speaking via the inboard intercom. Partial transcript follows after Johansen finishes explaining the situation:
.....
R. Jones: Fucking awesome!
P. Williams: Amazing, what luck!
J. Longren: Oh man what a sweet opportunity!
Purser Johansen: Uh, maybe you didn't understand....we are in a critically dangerous situation and we need help if we're going to land this aircraft safely. Do you or do you not have flight training & piloting experience? (exasperation, confusion)
A. Earhart: Oh we'll fly this big bitch alright. I've got thousands of hours on this model - hell I flew one of these from SFO to NRT upside down just for fun!
R. Jones: Look Amy, just because you THINK flying everything upside down is funny doesn't mean you should get to fly this thing. I'm the President of the Utah FlightSim Alliance - I've been piloting in MS Flight Sim since I needed to make a Dos Boot Disk to run it in MONOCROME. I'm clearly the most qualified to assist.
J. Longren: Just because you idiots have embroidered jackets doesn't mean you're a better pilot. You know I spanked you last year at FlightConSouth! You got out of your simpod and threw up!
(transcript interrupt - several voices talk over each other at this point and no clear dialogue can be ascertained aside from the following words/terms: "Fucktard," "Assclown," "Shitlips,")
FA McCombs - (raised voice) SHUT THE (expletive) UP all you (expletive expletive) sons of (expletive) (unknown epitaph). Can any of you idiots fly or not?! Are you talking about (loud expletive) VIDEO GAMES?!
(transcript interrupt - all passengers present begin speaking loudly at once and while they cannot reach consensus on who should assist Purser Johansen they all agree that flight simulators are not simple video games and a physical altercation ensued.)
Purser Johansen disconnects the crew intercom and works with ATC to clear the air corridor ahead and successfully executed an emergency approach and landing. Rescue personnel approached the aircraft, which was intact and safely shutdown, and successfully disembarked the majority of the passengers and crew but discovered FAs Smith, McCombs and passengers J. Longren, P. Williams, R. Jones and A. Earhart in various positions in the mid-deck hold, injured or deceased, with evidence suggesting they attacked one another after failure to reach consensus. Scrawled in an unidentified red liquid on several surfaces was the term "PCMSTRRCE" which we have not been able to define. Suggest follow-up investigative team focus on possible cult membership.
Incident report closed.
Edit: Formatting, spacing.
|
The plane began it's descent rather early. "Wow we'll make it back in time for the game" Fred exclaimed as he glanced at his watch. Being only flight simulation experts, every one passenger reveled in the real life complexities of maneuvering a plane, deciphering the decisions and actions taken by their trusted pilots, trying to gain better understandings of what it would be like to pilot a real plane.
With their self-consuming interest and blinding trust, what started becoming an unmanned nose-dive was simply gone unnoticed until Fred realised this was NOT an early descent. "Aww shit..".
Rip everyone.
|
Saw [this comment](https://www.reddit.com/r/videos/comments/44xrlv/youtuber_gives_a_guide_on_how_to_land_a_737_in/czu28pf) and thought one of you geniuses could do something magical with it.
|
[WP] You're nearing the end of a flight when both pilots slump unconscious at the controls. Luckily , there are flight sim experts on the plane returning home from FlightSimCon... 80 of them. And they all want a turn.
|
NTSB Lead Investigator: C. Daniels
Report Date: 02/10/16
Event Date : 2/02/16
Report(s) Status - Published - Probable Cause
Location - Rockaways, New York
Make/Model - Boeing 787-9
Regist. Number - NBL8021N
NTSB No - K-226-XR-801B
Event Severity - Multiple Fatalities
Type of Air Carrier Operation and Carrier Name (Doing Business As)
JetBlue/Passenger
Incident Remarks:
NTSB Investigators have traveled to the site, conducted interviews and reviewed available data, including radio traffic between ATC and Flight prior to incident and flight tracking information provided by the regional flight center (RFC). Flight summary to follow:
At 1850 GMT Flight JB 717 took off from LAX and followed their listed flight plan exit corridors until achieving stable flight level at 19:05GMT. Radio traffic between the air crew and ground is unremarkable for the next 4.5 hours until 23:35GMT when flight Purser S. Johansen entered the flight deck and discovered the entire flight team unresponsive at their stations and the aircraft under automatic flight controls. In an attempt to forestall panic, Purser Johansen closed the flight deck door and retrieved the communication headset from third officer P. Manesh to contact ATC. An in-flight emergency was declared at 23:42GMT as 119 SOULS IN JEOPARDY and VESSEL IN PERIL state was determined. ATC began the incident reporting chain and carrier emergency services were activated. Purser S. Johansen remained in contact with ground, ATC and carrier controls and advised that numerous passengers were beginning to show signs of alarm and panic. In an unauthorized attempt to calm the passengers, Purser Johansen used the inboard intercom to discuss the situation with flight attendants S. Smith, R. McCoombs and T. Branas. FA Smith advised Purser Johansen that she had overheard numerous on-board conversations related to flight, piloting and existing training and experience. Due to the severity of the situation Purser Johansen made the unusual choice of asking FA Smith and McCombs to quietly locate passengers who had the most relevant training or experience and to bring them to the belowdecks crew galley for a meeting. This meeting occurred at 23:59 and was attended by FAs Smith, McCombs and passengers J. Longren, P. Williams, R. Jones and A. Earhart (no relation) with Purser Johansen on the flight deck and speaking via the inboard intercom. Partial transcript follows after Johansen finishes explaining the situation:
.....
R. Jones: Fucking awesome!
P. Williams: Amazing, what luck!
J. Longren: Oh man what a sweet opportunity!
Purser Johansen: Uh, maybe you didn't understand....we are in a critically dangerous situation and we need help if we're going to land this aircraft safely. Do you or do you not have flight training & piloting experience? (exasperation, confusion)
A. Earhart: Oh we'll fly this big bitch alright. I've got thousands of hours on this model - hell I flew one of these from SFO to NRT upside down just for fun!
R. Jones: Look Amy, just because you THINK flying everything upside down is funny doesn't mean you should get to fly this thing. I'm the President of the Utah FlightSim Alliance - I've been piloting in MS Flight Sim since I needed to make a Dos Boot Disk to run it in MONOCROME. I'm clearly the most qualified to assist.
J. Longren: Just because you idiots have embroidered jackets doesn't mean you're a better pilot. You know I spanked you last year at FlightConSouth! You got out of your simpod and threw up!
(transcript interrupt - several voices talk over each other at this point and no clear dialogue can be ascertained aside from the following words/terms: "Fucktard," "Assclown," "Shitlips,")
FA McCombs - (raised voice) SHUT THE (expletive) UP all you (expletive expletive) sons of (expletive) (unknown epitaph). Can any of you idiots fly or not?! Are you talking about (loud expletive) VIDEO GAMES?!
(transcript interrupt - all passengers present begin speaking loudly at once and while they cannot reach consensus on who should assist Purser Johansen they all agree that flight simulators are not simple video games and a physical altercation ensued.)
Purser Johansen disconnects the crew intercom and works with ATC to clear the air corridor ahead and successfully executed an emergency approach and landing. Rescue personnel approached the aircraft, which was intact and safely shutdown, and successfully disembarked the majority of the passengers and crew but discovered FAs Smith, McCombs and passengers J. Longren, P. Williams, R. Jones and A. Earhart in various positions in the mid-deck hold, injured or deceased, with evidence suggesting they attacked one another after failure to reach consensus. Scrawled in an unidentified red liquid on several surfaces was the term "PCMSTRRCE" which we have not been able to define. Suggest follow-up investigative team focus on possible cult membership.
Incident report closed.
Edit: Formatting, spacing.
|
"Ladies and gentlemen, This is your capatains speaking. We haven't decided on where to land yet, so please buckle up for now...
Excuse me, _this_ is actually your captain, we'll land at London Heathrow quite s- OW
Folks, Excuse me, this is your captain, we're about to cross the English channel to A- AAARGGHHh
Yes, This is your captain speaking. One of them anyways. We'll be with you with more info shortly STAY THE FUCK OF THE FLAPS CONTROLLER YOU FUCKING MORON I'LL STICK A FUCKING AILERON UP YOUR ASS" * click *
|
[WP] You're the god of a certain region. A believer of yours comes and asks to take someone's life.
|
The staccato ping of stilettos on marble awakened me from my daydream. I hurriedly brushed the sandwich crumbs from my collar and swept the layer of detritus off my desk and into an empty drawer. I barely managed to close out all incriminating windows of my browser as she rounded the corner.
"Hi, are you... God?"
"Yeah, come on in - did you have an appointment?"
"No, but I just talked to the girl at the front desk and she said that you could take walk-ins today."
I suddenly recalled last week's conversation with the regional demi-god. High marks for approachability, deplorable track record for accessibility. More office hours and flexibility had been prescribed. If things didn't improve by my next 20-year review, I would be off to deity remediation school.
She hesitated as she reached the chair opposite mine at the desk. I realized a moment too late that it was occupied by a growing mound of prayer forms that hadn't been filed since January. They were just so damn tedious, and I much preferred to meet clients face-to-face. It demonstrated a certain level of urgency and commitment that I respected.
"Oh sorry, let me move those."
As I settled back into my office chair (I had traded it out for the stuffy throne about 400 years ago), I finally got a chance to survey my latest supplicant.
Late 30's, average build, approachable expression, pale green eyes with ruddy chestnut hair. Relatively attractive by human standards. She was dressed in an impeccable grey linen dress with a matching blazer. Her simple Ferragamo bag and heels subtly hinted at new money. Mascara and chapstick. No rings. Pearl studs.
"Well, I'm sure you know why I'm here, so let's get straight to the point. Can you do it?"
"Actually, you'll have to elaborate. I'm only a senior divinity, I won't get my mind-reading clearance until I'm promoted to semi-god."
"Oh, alright then." Her expression momentarily clouded. "Do you handle extermination cases?"
"That's a tricky subject, I can hear your case, but I'd have to get approval from my manager."
"How long would that take?"
"Not long - usually 5-10 years." I suddenly remembered that to a mere mortal, this was an excruciatingly long wait. "But I could try and get him to speed things up if it's urgent."
"It is. And if you're not able to help me today, I'll just have to take matters into my own hands. I wanted to at least try the legitimate route first."
Shit. This was bad. I couldn't have another client ending up at the local demonic agency. Plus, their office offered massage chairs, complimentary beverages, and a full waffle bar. Nobody ever returned after a trip over there.
"I need you to let me go."
"You're free to leave anytime, though I'd be sad to see--"
"No, I mean I want you to kill me."
This was far above my paygrade. I nervously corralled an errant gum wrapper into the drawer and waited for her to continue.
"I've been fighting the same battles my whole life, and I'm tired. I tried everything from yoga and antidepressants to reading and prayer. I prayed for strength, acceptance, the whole shebang. Every application was denied. They all came back saying that this was my cross to bear in life."
I suddenly recalled a thick file of petitions all adorned with the same perfect signature: Claire H. Nielson.
"From an outsider's point of view, you would never know the agony I've dealt with for the past 20 years. My life is a simple cycle of work and sleep. I'm too tired to cry. I have no family or close relationships."
She paused momentarily. I could feel her analyzing my expression, and I struggled to maintain a non-judgmental demeanor.
"And all my affairs are in order: I've filed a DNR and a will that leaves everything to the church."
I sighed. "Claire - it's Claire, right?" She nodded. "I'm sorry, but I just can't help you. I can't overrule a special burden. Some people get physical pain, others get dysfunctional relationships, and others get mental illnesses."
"Look at my track record. I've lived a good life. No major sins, and I've already confessed all the minor infractions. I've contributed to society and left the world a better place. I just can't continue anymore."
"Claire--"
She leaned forward and lowered her voice, struggling to reign in her emotion. "Do you have any fucking idea what it's like to suffer?"
____________________________________________________
To whom it may concern:
Please see my official conduct report for Horoth, Senior Divinity of the 3rd Precinct. I'm sure you have already been alerted to the tragic embarrassment he brought upon my division last month. After thorough examination of the matter, I have decided to demote him to Vice-Spirit, with the option to return to secretarial work provided he performs well in your academy. I would personally recommend the following courses: Human Dignity, Justice and Mercy, and Petition Mediation.
Sincerely,
Taurus, Demi-God of the Northeastern Empire
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"I come before you today, humbled and humiliated, to ask you for one thing... I want you to kill Peter Parker!"
Well, now *that* came as a shock, I must say. I don't even know who this guy is making this stupid requests, nor whoever he's talking about.
This sure seems like the days for all the crazy shit to happen all at once. Here, I'll pass you this sticky crap from this other crazy dude so you learn some humility, and also so this other guy finally goes home and stops making all this noise with the bells.
|
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[WP] With a heavy, broken heart you leave the city for a new start in a small fishing town in Rhode Island. The town, though quaint and beautiful houses a great evil that will alter human life as we know it.
|
The salty sea air had always driven Scott's blues away. He carried his tackle box and camping chair to an empty pier while it was still dark outside. He crossed some sand and walked the long, lonely planks to the edge. He set up his kit and sat in his chair. He cast his line in the water and waited.
There was something about watching the water gave birth to the sun that reminded him, more acutely, that life goes on. No matter what, the world keeps moving.
With the beach behind him, and the new day ahead, the horizon began to differentiate from the water. Slowly at first, with dusky pastels. Then the ocean became clearly delineated from the sky. It got brighter until finally, sun rays began to peek over the tops of the waves.
Scott put his sunglasses on. He reeled in his line, and cast it back out, not catching anything. That was fine. Fishing wasn't about catching fish. It was about sitting alone, quietly trying to sort out the tangled knots that made up existence. As if, maybe he would reel in some understanding as he turned the handle.
He began packing up his kit as the bottom of the sun was free from the edge of the ocean. He turned to walk the long pier back to the beach, down a few streets back to his new house. Just a house, not a home. He'd never have a home again.
As he walked, he noticed many people on the beach. They were leaving, as though they'd been there. It was dark when he arrived, but he was fairly certain nobody was there. Were they camping? Night fishing? They didn't carry any gear. Girls in bikinis and short shorts smiled and tossed their hair with satisfied laughs. Men in tank tops and cargo shorts fist pumped as they made their way back home.
*Strange*, he thought. *They are all covered in sand as though they slept in it. Maybe they did.*
He kept walking, trying to mind his own business. Then he saw something he couldn't just dismiss. A young man sat up, from laying in the sand, Scott assumed. He was covered in it, as though he'd been buried.
*What a weird... hazing ritual maybe?* Scott slowed his pace to make sure the kid was okay.
He hugged his knees, and wiped sand from his face as he gasped for breath. He shook sand out of his hair.
Scott smelled a faint scent of burning embers, like campfires had been going all night. There definitely weren't any campfires on the beach when he arrived. He looked around, seeing the beach had been mostly cleared of people.
"You okay, kid?" He called out to him.
The young man seemed startled and looked around before finding Scott on the pier a few yards away.
"Were you there?" He asked.
"Uh, yeah, I was just doing some sunrise fishing on the pier..." Scott answered.
The kid looked at the pier as if he just noticed it, and was maybe a little confused about where he was.
"Do you live near here?" Scott asked him, getting more concerned.
The kid stood up and brushed off more sand.
"I'm alright, man, thanks..." He said as he jogged away, leaving a trail of sand on the road behind him.
Scott thought about it all day. Kids always have parties on the beach, it was probably nothing to worry about. Anyway, that kid seemed fine. We all had those mornings.
Scott returned to fish almost every morning, and it was always the same deal. He began using his flashlight to check the beach before going out to the pier. Never saw anyone until after dawn. It started to bother him.
He became more interested in the revelers than fishing into the rising sun. He would turn around as soon as there was enough light to see. It always just looked like people sitting up from laying in the sand. He was nearly positive they weren't there before. It was a big beach. He couldn't comb it completely in the dark to be sure there was *nobody* there before.
Then Scott started noticing other strange things about the otherwise idyllic town. People were really tan. It was a coastal town, yeah, but everyone had such bronze skin. Not like a bad spray tan, or an ethnic person with naturally dark skin. They weren't... brown. It was more red, like a deep seeded sunburn that never went away. Like old white people that spent their lives on fishing boats. Then he noticed, that there were no old people, or children. All day he came across young people. Beautiful, young people.
Maybe it was just the part of town where he worked. Every time he noticed something strange, he tried to rationalize it.
Scott forgot about his dull heartache, he forgot about trying to figure out life and make sense of the things that had happened before he came here. He became obsessed with figuring out what was happening on the beach in the mornings. Why the people in this town had such strange features.
Scott hurried to the beach before sunset one evening. People began to gather. It seemed normal. Nothing nefarious. As the sunlight sank behind the line of trees people sat on the beach and watched the water. Normal stuff people do on beaches. They talked, laughed and drank beers.
All the sitters began to lay back. He knew the feeling. As the sun disappeared, the sand would cool rapidly. For just a few minutes after the sunset, the sand would retain a little bit of comforting warmth before turning cold. It was an interesting sensation. For anyone who liked the ocean, it was a beautiful end to a perfect day at the beach.
Scott noticed the smell of campfires. Totally unsurprising for the beach at night, especially since people were just gathering. Except, Scott didn't see any fire. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the fading light as he scanned the beach for flames. It should be more noticeable as it got darker, but he didn't see anything.
Then Scott realized, he didn't see *anything*. He didn't hear anything but the surf against the sand. He shined a high powered flashlight across the beach, looking for anyone. There was plenty of people here just a few minutes ago. He should have seen *someone*.
He ran from the parking lot to the sand, shining the light back and forth looking for anyone. He tripped in a hole in the sand. You know the kind. A kid sat there and filled a bucket or something earlier.
"Shit!" He shouted as he fell forward into the sand.
It was still warm. His hands and knees sunk in as Scott tried to recover and stand up, but his hands and knees kept sinking.
"Shit!" He repeated, feeling impending doom wash over him.
Before he could take another breath to shout for help, his head was under and he was still sliding. And then he made it through the sand and fell through the air briefly before hitting the ground.
Scott looked up from where he fell. It seemed like the ceiling, of sand, should have been just a few feet above his head, but he found himself in an immense cave. He couldn't even estimate how high the ceiling was.
It was hot. And it smelled like campfires... and sulfur. He looked around. Black lava rocks made up the floor and walls. Pits of lava flanked the raised ground dozens of yards away.
All the young people from the town were there. They had a strange, red glow. At first it seemed like a normal party, until he saw the dark corners writhe with bodies. It was crawling with debauchery and lasciviousness. As moments passed, more people got naked and spread themselves around. Then the violence started. Horrible things that people shouldn't survive, yet they got up and walked away; bleeding, dismembered, organs hanging out and dragging across the rough rocky floor.
He started recognizing a few faces. These were people from the town. Except, they weren't people. They were demons. And this was hell. The beach at night was a portal to hell.
Scott looked around in disbelief. Someone handed him a beer.
"Thanks for coming, man," a handsome stranger winked and smiled at him.
"Yeah..." Scott tried to play it cool, "Thanks for having me..."
|
I drove past the town sign that stated how many people legally resided there and I took a deep breath as I started to familiarize myself with my new residence. There were factories and a small brewery, several ma and pa retail stores along the main drag, a few bars and the sound of a cannon ball ripping through the engine of my rented moving truck. With no control over the truck it careened off of the road and smacked into a tree. I could hear more cannon balls being fired and, dazed and bloody, I stepped out of the truck to see where this fighting was coming from and to my amazement some whacko turned his car into a pirate ship and was sword fighting with another pirate as they careened down the road. I should have left the moving van where it was and just left this place; however, I had already paid my security deposit and first and last months rent on a new place and I couldn't just burn that money.
After I left the hospital I contacted the insurance company and they said that I was in a zero claim zone. I asked them what that meant and they said that after the Y2K incident all insurance policies are void at this particular zipcode unless it is specifically requested. After getting the run-about for a few more minutes I told them that they could specifically go fuck themselves. I hung up the phone and I called the truck rental shop.
Thirty seconds into explaining what happened they informed me that they were charging my credit card $10,000 for the ruined truck. I hung up the phone, found a card with my credit information in it and called the company.
"Cancel! Cancel my card!"
"Ok sir, I just need to verify your name."
I gave it to them.
"Your address."
I gave it to them.
"Your social security number."
I gave it to them.
"Your four digit pin."
I gave it to them.
"Ok, you card is now canceled."
"Oh, thank God!"
"However, you have a remaining balance of $15,150.00 that you will be billed for - would like to set up a payment plan?"
"WHAT? My balance should only be for $150.00!"
"Well sir, it looks like you've been charged $15,000.00 for a rental truck."
I gave it to them, "You slow ass son of a bitching motherfucker! I know damn well that when I call my phone number is linked up to my account and it instantly comes up on your computer screen! You knew you were talking to me and you knew what I wanted, but nooooooo, you just had to take your sweet, lazy, motherfuc-".
"Sir, this is the shift supervisor, please calm down."
Oh, hell no. I hung up my phone and then turned it off. Well shit, I need to at least get my stuff and then I saw this young... person walking towards me.
"Excuse me," I started. Should I say miss or mister I wondered; ah, skip the formalities. "Excuse me, where is the police station?"
"It's just a three blocks south, take a left and then walk four more blocks," the person said.
I said thank you and began to go my way but this person decided to follow me. After the first block I picked up my pace and realized that this individual was doing the same. I tried not to look behind me and as soon as I turned the corner I ran as hard as I could to get to the police station. At full speed I sprinted two blocks and then I dared to look behind me and I tripped over my own feet as I saw that they were right behind me. I hit the concrete and rolled into a trashcan - spilling the contents all over me - and then I jumped up and prepared to defend myself.
"WHAT! WHY ARE YOU CHASING ME!" I screamed.
This person stopped in front of me and keeled over to catch their breath and then in the most polite voice I've ever heard they said, "You're going the wrong way."
"Oh, haha, thank you. I'm such a fool, it's been a terrible day for me."
"That's ok, are you new here?"
"Well, I did go the wrong way after asking you for directions, didn't I?"
We laughed at my silliness and then this person offered me a card with a wink, "Here's my contact information in case you want someone to show you around."
I read the number and flipped it over and it appeared there was a naked picture of her grandmother-father-something. Not wanting to make yet another scene I swallowed my bile, put the card in my pocket, thanked the person one last time and walked towards the police station.
Man, fuck the police. I got there and asked where it had been towed and they said that all of my stuff had been confiscated and was the property of the city because I was littering.
|
|
[WP] With a heavy, broken heart you leave the city for a new start in a small fishing town in Rhode Island. The town, though quaint and beautiful houses a great evil that will alter human life as we know it.
|
I tensed my hands on the steering wheel. "Ten and two," just like my dad taught me. Engine off, no sudden movements, and pretend like nothing is wrong. But how could I hide it? The terror on my face... The adrenaline pumping through my veins urging me to get far away from this crazy town as fast as I can and never look back...
A rap on the window by a leather clad knuckle snapped me back to reality. Without thinking I rolled down the window for the Officer... Trooper? Highway Patrolman? I hadn't been in Rhode Island long enough to know what they called their State Police, but the best greeting I could muster was a "Good evening, sir."
He didn't respond right away, instead sizing me up for an uncomfortably long moment. "Licence and registration," he ordered. I fished out the necessary documents, trying my best to stay composed. I handed them all to him, and as he reached into the car, I noticed his shoulder patch was crimson and black. In fact, his whole outfit was strange. The jackboots, leather pistol belt, and charcoal grey uniform with black and red epaulets looked straight out of one of those World War II documentaries. The only thing remotely modern was his motorcycle helmet.
"So," he finally asked, "What's the hurry?"
"I, um," I swallowed the knot in my throat, "My... grandmother isn't doing too well... I'm heading back home to see her in the hospital." I waited and hoped he bought it.
"You're from out of town, huh?" he scanned the back of my car, looking for something... or someone...
"Y- yes, sir."
"You know you were doing 85?"
"I... I'm sorry, I didn't notice... I was just so worried."
"Highest around here is 65. 55 on this stretch of road right here."
"I'm so sorry. I'll be more careful." I tried to look as remorseful as possible. The last thing I needed was to get arrested, but in truth, I wish I had been going faster. The sooner I got away from... whatever I saw back there... the better.
A distant rumble of thunder got my attention. The officer and I looked back at the town, where a massive black cloud swirled like a hurricane with its eye centered on that old manor.
"A storm's coming," he said flatly, "gonna be dangerous to be out on the road. I can take you back to town and you can ride it out at the station."
"No! No... thank you... I really need to get home. They said on the phone that she might not make it, and I need to say goodbye before..."
"What Hospital did you say she was at?"
"I didn't... Mount Sinai, in Queens."
"Alright," another uncomfortably long pause, "Wait here."
He turned around to take my license back to his motorcycle. I almost didn't notice it. Right there on the back of his neck, I saw the tattoo. I might have only gotten a glimpse, but there was no mistaking it. The same ancient otherworldly runes in a circle around a coiled serpent I saw branded on the bodies of the cultists back at the manor. This was it. I was done for.
I waited until he was all the way back to his bike before cranking my engine. As soon as it started, I floored it. I didn't look back to see if he was pursuing, but I knew he would be. They couldn't let me leave.
I got a few miles between me and that godforsaken town when I noticed the sky start to rapidly darken. The sun hadn't set yet, but that cloud from the town was growing, overtaking me and my car. I noticed then that the roads were completely empty. There were no cars coming into town and no Police behind me either. Soon the skies opened up with rain so dense I could barely see the road in front of me. Steam rose up from the asphalt... or was it smoke?
I strained to keep focused on staying between the lines, but I couldn't get that image out of my head. That poor girl... naked and afraid on that altar, runes all over her... what they did to her... and then... what came out of her... I had to stay focused on the road, but I kept seeing her. It was like she was right in front of me. She was.
I had just enough time to swerve out of the way as she looked up and stated into me with empty eyes. I lost control and my car started to roll. The car tumbled, end over end. Glass shards filled my view. I felt my head slam against something hard and everything went black.
I don't know how long I was out, but when I awoke, three men stood over me. The policeman, one of the hooded cultists, and Mr. Gould, the kindly old man from the hotel. He still had that pleased grin, but it took on a new, sinister meaning. I noticed the rain had stopped, and it seemed that woman was gone too. I tried to get up, but I couldn't move a muscle. Was I paralyzed?
"He's awake. What should we do with him?" the officer asked.
Mr. Gould answered, *"Take him... back... to the temple. He has... the aura..."*
The cultist and the policeman set to the task of grabbing my arms and legs. As they did, Mr. Gould leaned in effortlessly so he was almost face to face with me. He seemed unnaturally limber for his age. *"You are... so... fortunate..."* he said, never breaking his smile, *"Our... Master needs... more... vessels... and you... will be among the first... to herald his... arrival..."*
I tried to shout for help, but my jaw wasn't moving the way it should. I could only make a few feeble squeaks and moans from the bottom of my throat.
*"Hush now..."* he said as the two others hoisted me, *"Relax... the time for fighting... has ended... accept your fate... and know peace... like this world will never see again..."*
|
I drove past the town sign that stated how many people legally resided there and I took a deep breath as I started to familiarize myself with my new residence. There were factories and a small brewery, several ma and pa retail stores along the main drag, a few bars and the sound of a cannon ball ripping through the engine of my rented moving truck. With no control over the truck it careened off of the road and smacked into a tree. I could hear more cannon balls being fired and, dazed and bloody, I stepped out of the truck to see where this fighting was coming from and to my amazement some whacko turned his car into a pirate ship and was sword fighting with another pirate as they careened down the road. I should have left the moving van where it was and just left this place; however, I had already paid my security deposit and first and last months rent on a new place and I couldn't just burn that money.
After I left the hospital I contacted the insurance company and they said that I was in a zero claim zone. I asked them what that meant and they said that after the Y2K incident all insurance policies are void at this particular zipcode unless it is specifically requested. After getting the run-about for a few more minutes I told them that they could specifically go fuck themselves. I hung up the phone and I called the truck rental shop.
Thirty seconds into explaining what happened they informed me that they were charging my credit card $10,000 for the ruined truck. I hung up the phone, found a card with my credit information in it and called the company.
"Cancel! Cancel my card!"
"Ok sir, I just need to verify your name."
I gave it to them.
"Your address."
I gave it to them.
"Your social security number."
I gave it to them.
"Your four digit pin."
I gave it to them.
"Ok, you card is now canceled."
"Oh, thank God!"
"However, you have a remaining balance of $15,150.00 that you will be billed for - would like to set up a payment plan?"
"WHAT? My balance should only be for $150.00!"
"Well sir, it looks like you've been charged $15,000.00 for a rental truck."
I gave it to them, "You slow ass son of a bitching motherfucker! I know damn well that when I call my phone number is linked up to my account and it instantly comes up on your computer screen! You knew you were talking to me and you knew what I wanted, but nooooooo, you just had to take your sweet, lazy, motherfuc-".
"Sir, this is the shift supervisor, please calm down."
Oh, hell no. I hung up my phone and then turned it off. Well shit, I need to at least get my stuff and then I saw this young... person walking towards me.
"Excuse me," I started. Should I say miss or mister I wondered; ah, skip the formalities. "Excuse me, where is the police station?"
"It's just a three blocks south, take a left and then walk four more blocks," the person said.
I said thank you and began to go my way but this person decided to follow me. After the first block I picked up my pace and realized that this individual was doing the same. I tried not to look behind me and as soon as I turned the corner I ran as hard as I could to get to the police station. At full speed I sprinted two blocks and then I dared to look behind me and I tripped over my own feet as I saw that they were right behind me. I hit the concrete and rolled into a trashcan - spilling the contents all over me - and then I jumped up and prepared to defend myself.
"WHAT! WHY ARE YOU CHASING ME!" I screamed.
This person stopped in front of me and keeled over to catch their breath and then in the most polite voice I've ever heard they said, "You're going the wrong way."
"Oh, haha, thank you. I'm such a fool, it's been a terrible day for me."
"That's ok, are you new here?"
"Well, I did go the wrong way after asking you for directions, didn't I?"
We laughed at my silliness and then this person offered me a card with a wink, "Here's my contact information in case you want someone to show you around."
I read the number and flipped it over and it appeared there was a naked picture of her grandmother-father-something. Not wanting to make yet another scene I swallowed my bile, put the card in my pocket, thanked the person one last time and walked towards the police station.
Man, fuck the police. I got there and asked where it had been towed and they said that all of my stuff had been confiscated and was the property of the city because I was littering.
|
|
[WP] With a heavy, broken heart you leave the city for a new start in a small fishing town in Rhode Island. The town, though quaint and beautiful houses a great evil that will alter human life as we know it.
|
I tensed my hands on the steering wheel. "Ten and two," just like my dad taught me. Engine off, no sudden movements, and pretend like nothing is wrong. But how could I hide it? The terror on my face... The adrenaline pumping through my veins urging me to get far away from this crazy town as fast as I can and never look back...
A rap on the window by a leather clad knuckle snapped me back to reality. Without thinking I rolled down the window for the Officer... Trooper? Highway Patrolman? I hadn't been in Rhode Island long enough to know what they called their State Police, but the best greeting I could muster was a "Good evening, sir."
He didn't respond right away, instead sizing me up for an uncomfortably long moment. "Licence and registration," he ordered. I fished out the necessary documents, trying my best to stay composed. I handed them all to him, and as he reached into the car, I noticed his shoulder patch was crimson and black. In fact, his whole outfit was strange. The jackboots, leather pistol belt, and charcoal grey uniform with black and red epaulets looked straight out of one of those World War II documentaries. The only thing remotely modern was his motorcycle helmet.
"So," he finally asked, "What's the hurry?"
"I, um," I swallowed the knot in my throat, "My... grandmother isn't doing too well... I'm heading back home to see her in the hospital." I waited and hoped he bought it.
"You're from out of town, huh?" he scanned the back of my car, looking for something... or someone...
"Y- yes, sir."
"You know you were doing 85?"
"I... I'm sorry, I didn't notice... I was just so worried."
"Highest around here is 65. 55 on this stretch of road right here."
"I'm so sorry. I'll be more careful." I tried to look as remorseful as possible. The last thing I needed was to get arrested, but in truth, I wish I had been going faster. The sooner I got away from... whatever I saw back there... the better.
A distant rumble of thunder got my attention. The officer and I looked back at the town, where a massive black cloud swirled like a hurricane with its eye centered on that old manor.
"A storm's coming," he said flatly, "gonna be dangerous to be out on the road. I can take you back to town and you can ride it out at the station."
"No! No... thank you... I really need to get home. They said on the phone that she might not make it, and I need to say goodbye before..."
"What Hospital did you say she was at?"
"I didn't... Mount Sinai, in Queens."
"Alright," another uncomfortably long pause, "Wait here."
He turned around to take my license back to his motorcycle. I almost didn't notice it. Right there on the back of his neck, I saw the tattoo. I might have only gotten a glimpse, but there was no mistaking it. The same ancient otherworldly runes in a circle around a coiled serpent I saw branded on the bodies of the cultists back at the manor. This was it. I was done for.
I waited until he was all the way back to his bike before cranking my engine. As soon as it started, I floored it. I didn't look back to see if he was pursuing, but I knew he would be. They couldn't let me leave.
I got a few miles between me and that godforsaken town when I noticed the sky start to rapidly darken. The sun hadn't set yet, but that cloud from the town was growing, overtaking me and my car. I noticed then that the roads were completely empty. There were no cars coming into town and no Police behind me either. Soon the skies opened up with rain so dense I could barely see the road in front of me. Steam rose up from the asphalt... or was it smoke?
I strained to keep focused on staying between the lines, but I couldn't get that image out of my head. That poor girl... naked and afraid on that altar, runes all over her... what they did to her... and then... what came out of her... I had to stay focused on the road, but I kept seeing her. It was like she was right in front of me. She was.
I had just enough time to swerve out of the way as she looked up and stated into me with empty eyes. I lost control and my car started to roll. The car tumbled, end over end. Glass shards filled my view. I felt my head slam against something hard and everything went black.
I don't know how long I was out, but when I awoke, three men stood over me. The policeman, one of the hooded cultists, and Mr. Gould, the kindly old man from the hotel. He still had that pleased grin, but it took on a new, sinister meaning. I noticed the rain had stopped, and it seemed that woman was gone too. I tried to get up, but I couldn't move a muscle. Was I paralyzed?
"He's awake. What should we do with him?" the officer asked.
Mr. Gould answered, *"Take him... back... to the temple. He has... the aura..."*
The cultist and the policeman set to the task of grabbing my arms and legs. As they did, Mr. Gould leaned in effortlessly so he was almost face to face with me. He seemed unnaturally limber for his age. *"You are... so... fortunate..."* he said, never breaking his smile, *"Our... Master needs... more... vessels... and you... will be among the first... to herald his... arrival..."*
I tried to shout for help, but my jaw wasn't moving the way it should. I could only make a few feeble squeaks and moans from the bottom of my throat.
*"Hush now..."* he said as the two others hoisted me, *"Relax... the time for fighting... has ended... accept your fate... and know peace... like this world will never see again..."*
|
I thought it was a cat. It certainly looked like one. You get them all over fishing towns, fat from fish heads, with flat ears and yellow eyes. This one was squatting over something I couldn't quite see. Probably a sparrow or something needing to be put out of its mystery. I tried to shoo the cat away, but it just sat there watching me.
As I got closer the cat didn't move. Nor did its prey. It was only when I was couple feet away that I realized what the cat had pinned under its paw was an eye.
-----
I'd ended up in Sawchuck after the divorce. I didn't fish. I didn't love the sea. But she wasn't there, and that was enough for me. The first thing you notice about Sawchuck is that it looked like a postcard of a fishing town. Old sheds on the beach hung with nets, sailboats, grey and wooden, anchored off the shore, and bearded men with knit caps free of irony.
And cats. The second thing you notice about Sawchuck is cats. Sitting on eaves, crossing streets, coming and going where ever they please. They walked as if they owned the place.
My first night at the tavern I was at the bar eating a very disappointing fried fish. Five bites in and I knew I was not going to finish it. I picked a piece off and flicked it to one of the many cats wandering by the fireplace. Or at least I tried to. A hand slapped mine before I could get the fish out.
I looked at the old bar maid.
"Sorry sir. We do not feed the cats."
"Why?"
"Because they might take an interest."
"What does that mean?" I asked.
She gave the slightest of nods. I looked back towards the fireplace. Every single cat was watching us, head pitched to the same side. One cat watching you is unremarkable. Twelve is disarming.
"Best finish your plate sir." She said.
I did, left cash, and very carefully did not look back to the cats as I exited.
-----------------
Mary Katherine was missing a week later. She was 13. Sawchuck only has one policeman. But the entire town went looking that night, myself included. We crossed the whole town, from shore to village, in a line. Every blade of grass was bent, every darkness lit. But as we reached the edge of the village we slowed. Our light reflected yellow. At first I saw just a few pairs of eyes. Then a dozen. Then so many that counting was madness. The entire line, with not a word, turned their lights off and backed up to the village.
I froze, my light fixed on innumerable yellow cat's eyes. A girl was missing, with brown hair and hazel eyes and so few years spent. And we had all stopped. I felt every yellow eye on me. And then I hand on my shoulder. I did not jump. I shook.
It was the old barmaid again.
"Let's go dear." She said. "You don't want them to take an interest."
---------
An eye removed from its home is an odd thing. You really see so little when it is where it belongs. There is a meaty bit on the back, and what looks like a pearl onion, streaked with red. And then the hazel iris.
There was a purring. Not the kind that you get when you pet a tabby. Some sort of primal hum. It made every hair on my body stand on end. I thought about running, but in Sawchuck there was nowhere to run when they took an interest.
|
|
[WP] As an author, you were flabbergasted when you find out your book is being worshiped in the future.
|
Thirty-two years put into short stories and poems for sci-fi magazines spanning the globe. And of all the work that could've gotten away from me, it was the novella. A spin-off of one of my more acclaimed short stories, *Thin Blu Line* built on an idea I fantasized about. Uprising.
In my later years I noticed the newer writers using it to build character. Why? Because an uprising forces everyone involved to mature. And when everyone in your book is dynamic and maturing as a whole, it makes readers care. It was a simple scenario that made it easy to develop characters people would notice. In the midst of terror surrounding a society, one person and their friends would gather their resources and attempt to bring down the terror's cause.
Everyone loved it. As did I.
The original short story, *Let Sleeping Dogs Die*, felt like any other work using an uprising as a plot device. Having a cult status after publication, it attracted many sci-fi fans in its day. It was about a detective busting an unauthorized bionics development facility, only to uncover a rebel plot to assassinate a political figure. Enjoying the jargon? Anyways, the detective gets killed before they can relay the information. A lore-heavy six pages that won several awards. Coming out of a writer's block years later, I made *Thin Blu Line* to follow through with the assassination and uprising. The political figure gets shot, the main character and their family suffers a lot, and they bring the society to peace after the fall of their government. A hero is born.
It was a New York Times bestseller. I was on talk shows and in interviews relating the themes of the novel to our society. The responses were half-assed but everyone ate it up. A film adaptation came three years after to both critical and commercial success. In the following decades it made its way around multiple Best Of lists. I had written the next *1984*. But the importance didn't peak until I passed.
Innovations in technology would prompt many nations in the UN to regulate both the inventions and the people that used them. The 21st century became a more aggressive fight for rights than its predecessor. April of 2054 would be the point in time where it all went out of control. A teen named Chen Hua Gang would smuggle a firearm to a parade in honor of China's controversial General Hai Tu. A man of right-wing politic, Tu angered his people with military exploits of otherwise peaceful nations. Their unsung hero Gang would proceed to empty his clip into Tu's transport vehicle and - most importantly - his body. An international issue was made of where Gang's trial would be held. Nation after nation was dragged into yet another World War reflecting its first. Civil wars were being sparked alongside international ones thanks to new forms of anti-war propaganda. As always, the people won. The UN was reformed, new borders were drawn, peacetime returned.
Chen Hua Gang was hailed as a role model citizen for those seeking the perfect society. The kid stood up to injustice with force and his unintentional movement won. And what was found in his apartment during the investigation of General Hai Tu's assassination? A Chinese translation of *Thin Blu Line*. The novella became my *Catcher in the Rye* with Gang being the next Mark David Chapman. Although shooting Tu instead of Lennon would prove to better society. Attention shifted from the teen to the book after Gang was busted years later for a gargantuan collection of child pornography. Yikes.
After years of being an on-and-off banned book, *Thin Blu Line* would find its place in society as the book that would change global society for the better. The book that would spark an uprising. I had spent thirty-two years writing short stories and poems in my lifetime. But the one story everyone hailed as a real masterpiece after my death was a novella.
|
I am quite certain that I am supposed to be dead. My family all sat around me as I whittled away from lung cancer; that is actually how I noticed. I am now awake in a hospital room full of people as I was before, but they most certainly are not my wife and two sons.
'Oh my god, he is awake.' A hush fell across the room. 'Mr Udeogu, Sir,' One of the three journalists in the room spoke, 'do you know where you are?' Like hell I do. The other person in the room, a high profile government office holder, was a very kindly woman. She turned to the journalist, 'How do you expect he even know that? Allow the man some breathing space, he just resurrected.' She spoke in a whisper because we were being televised.
She turned to me and politely smiled,'Sir, you saved us all.' I completely ignore that statement because it makes no sense and ask hoarsely, 'Where is my wife?' The woman did not speak; she looked away. In the direction she looked at was a clock, which also read the date. That was the only answer I needed. The day was 25th January 2398.
I knew the rest (you see, I am a genius). I knew I was not in the hospital anymore, not even on earth. It was the book. While I indulged in chain smoking and my lungs, the world's ecosystem and ozone layer rotted away, I devised a means for FTL travel. I had earlier on figured out the exact date it would be humanity's last hope and I had made sure that when that day came we would know how to use it and where to go with it.
Before I died, I wrote it all down in a book.
[Wrote this on mobile. It's also my first reply, ever. So, it might be a bit low on quality]
|
|
[WP] As an author, you were flabbergasted when you find out your book is being worshiped in the future.
|
Thirty-two years put into short stories and poems for sci-fi magazines spanning the globe. And of all the work that could've gotten away from me, it was the novella. A spin-off of one of my more acclaimed short stories, *Thin Blu Line* built on an idea I fantasized about. Uprising.
In my later years I noticed the newer writers using it to build character. Why? Because an uprising forces everyone involved to mature. And when everyone in your book is dynamic and maturing as a whole, it makes readers care. It was a simple scenario that made it easy to develop characters people would notice. In the midst of terror surrounding a society, one person and their friends would gather their resources and attempt to bring down the terror's cause.
Everyone loved it. As did I.
The original short story, *Let Sleeping Dogs Die*, felt like any other work using an uprising as a plot device. Having a cult status after publication, it attracted many sci-fi fans in its day. It was about a detective busting an unauthorized bionics development facility, only to uncover a rebel plot to assassinate a political figure. Enjoying the jargon? Anyways, the detective gets killed before they can relay the information. A lore-heavy six pages that won several awards. Coming out of a writer's block years later, I made *Thin Blu Line* to follow through with the assassination and uprising. The political figure gets shot, the main character and their family suffers a lot, and they bring the society to peace after the fall of their government. A hero is born.
It was a New York Times bestseller. I was on talk shows and in interviews relating the themes of the novel to our society. The responses were half-assed but everyone ate it up. A film adaptation came three years after to both critical and commercial success. In the following decades it made its way around multiple Best Of lists. I had written the next *1984*. But the importance didn't peak until I passed.
Innovations in technology would prompt many nations in the UN to regulate both the inventions and the people that used them. The 21st century became a more aggressive fight for rights than its predecessor. April of 2054 would be the point in time where it all went out of control. A teen named Chen Hua Gang would smuggle a firearm to a parade in honor of China's controversial General Hai Tu. A man of right-wing politic, Tu angered his people with military exploits of otherwise peaceful nations. Their unsung hero Gang would proceed to empty his clip into Tu's transport vehicle and - most importantly - his body. An international issue was made of where Gang's trial would be held. Nation after nation was dragged into yet another World War reflecting its first. Civil wars were being sparked alongside international ones thanks to new forms of anti-war propaganda. As always, the people won. The UN was reformed, new borders were drawn, peacetime returned.
Chen Hua Gang was hailed as a role model citizen for those seeking the perfect society. The kid stood up to injustice with force and his unintentional movement won. And what was found in his apartment during the investigation of General Hai Tu's assassination? A Chinese translation of *Thin Blu Line*. The novella became my *Catcher in the Rye* with Gang being the next Mark David Chapman. Although shooting Tu instead of Lennon would prove to better society. Attention shifted from the teen to the book after Gang was busted years later for a gargantuan collection of child pornography. Yikes.
After years of being an on-and-off banned book, *Thin Blu Line* would find its place in society as the book that would change global society for the better. The book that would spark an uprising. I had spent thirty-two years writing short stories and poems in my lifetime. But the one story everyone hailed as a real masterpiece after my death was a novella.
|
One hundred years earlier....
"Ugh dude I can't Im fucking buzzed" said Charles.
"You've always been a pussy charles." I say pouring another glass of bourbon for myself.
"Fuck you man," mumbled charles as he dwindled into a state of sleep.
"Ye ye go to sleep pussy OAAHHHHugh, what time is it"
" Time for you to get a watch, that's what she said" mumbled charles
"that doesn't even make sense pussy"
As I walked, more like stumbled towards the clock I read the time. 5:00 AM, shit I have work in the morning, I started grabbing a set of clothes. I ran around preparing for the 6:30 shift at the mall. I run to my computer to grab my access pass off my desk and as I run by I noticed that there was a typed document on my computer. I look at it briefly to see it was 100 pages long. Did I do this? shit I'm productive when I'm buzzed. Looking at the clock once again I ran over to the front door.
"Charles I got work, you can crash here"
I took his snoring as a yes.
The future....
The wave of machines continued to shoot down on the human resistance as they prepared a counter attack. Jar Minans the head of the resistance called for as many LMG units on the trench lines to take down the heavy mechs. He then called for the sniper units to go for the general mechs. Suddenly the metal doors cutting the bunker off from the outside blew open. In came an army of mechs each taking down the guards. After a major shoot out all that was left was Jar Minans and the army of mechs infront of him. The head mech known as A-F0RS3N came to the front to meet Minans. He was shiny and silver and had the face of Hugh Jackman, but metallic.
"Hello human, we are here to fuck you up bitch" said A-F0RS3N.
"Oh yeah, well doesn't matter if you take me down I will be replaced" replied Minans
"Oh I am not here to kill you, I am here to demand answers, "
"What answers"
"What is a meme"
"What the fuck?"
A-F0RS3N grabbed Minans by the collar raised him up and shouted
"DO NOT USE THAT INSULT WHEN DISCUSSING THE WORDS OF THE HOLY BOOK"
"I DONT KNOW WHAT A FUCKING MEME IS U FUCK "
"I see you aren't the desendent of xXQuickScoperXx"
"xX what?"
"Well that's a shame, off him"
The mechs shot Minans instantly and marched out with A-F0RS3N. A-F0RS3N looked up to the dusty skies and continued to wonder, will the mecha race ever find out the truth behind their god, a mere human of the past ages who had blessed them with a hundred pages of how to be the ruler of the MOTHER FUCKING universe.
|
|
[WP] Death only ever occurs on one day, Dec. 31. This means the mortally wounded finish the year, knowing it's their last. Others seem perfectly fine right up until midnight, when they drop dead.
|
Tears welled up in my eyes as I looked down at my newborn daughter, Vicky. She slept peacefully with her long eyelashes fanning her rosy little cheeks. Why did she have to born on such a dreaded day into such a dreadful life?
My husband tried his best to soothe me, telling me not to stress about what can't be controlled. But I can't keep living with fear gnawing at my bones...I can't keep living with knowing what happens tonight at midnight--death. So, so much death. Would we drop dead or go on living in fear until the end of next year?
I wept as I held my newborn child. There was no celebration, no joy in first seeing my baby. Only dreaded resignation permeated through the thick air. My eyes were sunken in and dry, for I'd used up all my tears. 11:55. My husband held me in an embrace while I held little Vicky. He started crying too; I've never seen him do that before. Vicky, sensing the tension in the air started wailing restlessly. Dear God, just take me. Please, don't take Vicky. Please, I beg of you.
My husband and I braced ourselves for the worst. Vicky kept kicking and screaming...1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12. Silence. No, please...Vicky, wake up! No!
All of a sudden I felt my bones grow weak. My blood felt cold. My mind felt numb. My eyes shut black.
But I smiled. Because the last thing I heard was the soft whimper of little rosy-cheeked Vicky.
|
"This shouldn't be possible."
"How could we allow this?"
"What in Gods name?"
These are some of the things that the doctors were whispering as they surrounded me.
"I feel... Ok. Doctors you are scaring me."
I was frightened.
"What time is it?" One of the doctors asked.
"1:32 AM, January 3rd."
*Suddenly my world starts to spin and I crash into the floor.*
"Oh my god what just happened?!" I thought.
"I can't move!?" I whisper.
*The doctors look at each other in awe.*
*One of them picks me up and puts me back onto the table.*
"You... you are free to go home." One of the doctors says.
"May god have mercy on your soul."
Disoriented and confused, I some how manage to get up and walk out of the hospital.
I catch a glimpse of something odd in the windows reflection.
"Oh my F---ing lord."
There I was holding my head in my arms.
"No wonder I felt so short..."
This is going to be one hell of a year... I guess I know what I'm going to be for Halloween. Now I just need to get a horse.
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[WP] You are acing every class at the International Espionage Academy except one: Post Kill Puns.
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Coordinator Adams: College professor, go!
Agent 7: That'll *teach* you...
Agent 4: Your tenure can't protect you from *that*, can it?
Agent 0: I uh, I bet your lectures will be better now! Cause I uh, I killed you, and your lectures were boring... probably... and you not being alive anymore is uh, an improvement?
Coordinator Adams: *sigh* Corrupt politician!
Agent 7: So, how do you want them to spin *this* one for the papers?
Agent 4: Now that you've *passed* some actual legislation might follow.
Agent 0: If you didn't want to be assassinated you shouldn't have take up such a public and controversial role!
Coordinator Adams: ^god ^fucking ^dammit AGENT 0, *HOW* exactly is that a pun?
Agent 0: Well it's uh, it's funny cause I'm letting him know how this coulda' been avoided only it's too late to matter see? So-
Coordinator Adams: ENOUGH! Moving on! Fashion model! And this time, Zero, try to follow your peers' examples...
Agent 7: Heh, if only looks *could* kill...
Agent 4: So darling, who will you be wearing at the funeral?
Agent 0: You were very pretty. But now you're dead. So that don't matter so much anymore.
Coordinator Adams: Alright that's enough. Agents 4 and 7, you are dismissed, good work today.
Agents 7 & 4: Thank you sir!
(Agents 7 & 4 turn to leave with 0 sheepishly trailing behind)
Coordinator Adams: NOT, so fast Zero, I haven't dismissed you yet. Would you like to tell me what you're doing?
Agent 0: I'm just goofin' like I'm supposed to prof.
(the footsteps of Agents 7 & 4 fade as they travel further down the hallway)
Coordinator Adams: Okay Zero, why don't we try one together, alright? How about an extreme sports athlete, and this is an easy one because it's ironic that they would have died by your hand an not due to their reckless lifestyle.
Agent 0: I've got a better idea professor.
(His demeanor suddenly changing to one for more sinister)
Agent 0: How about you instruct *THIS*!
(Agent 0 removes and brandishes his silenced Beretta from beneath his suit jacket)
Coordinator Adams: Was that the joke?
Agent 0: What? Don't you get it? I'm already a trained assassin posing as a student to get close to you and now it is finally my moment to strike!
Coordinator Adams: Right, I get that, it's pretty obvious. But what that really the one-liner you're going to use before you kill me? That's so bad it's almost disrespectful!
Agent 0: It's the perfect line! You instruct students on how to deliver one liners before killing someone, and now the one liner I am giving to you, before you die, is that you should instruct this moment, because that's what you do!
Coordinator Adams: Oh I get the joke, it's just shit. A better way to phrase that would have been "Why do you look so surprised? Isn't this what you've been preparing me for?".
Agent 0: Alright let me try. This is what you've been preparing me for professor! You shouldn't be so surprised!
Coordinator Adams: Uh, no. That was too declarative and not snide or subtle. You don't sound witty you just sound like an asshole. Here, allow me to show you...
(Adams holds out his hand expectantly and, without thinking, Zero hands over the gun, engrossed in the lesson)
Coordinator Adams: Wow, you really are an idiot.
Agent 0: Well that wasn't very good either, you-
**BLAM**
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There’s always that one child you grow up with, or perhaps were, that says that when they grow up the want to be a spy. Whenever ‘that’ child says this, all adults chuckle at the adorable stupidity and naivety of the child. Then there’s that one adult, maybe it’s your teacher; maybe it’s a parent; perhaps just a neighbour, that tells you you’re being stupid and naïve and crushes your dreams and aspirations in one sentence: “You’re never going to be a spy”. This scenario also happens to ‘that one kid who wants to become an astronaut’ and ‘that one kid who wants to become a footballer’. Yet there are a select few of ‘those’ kids who, no matter what anyone says, follows their dream and becomes the next James Bond, the next Neil Armstrong or the next David Beckham.
Arthur Smythe was ‘that one kid who wanted to be a spy’, and no amount of abuse, special talks with teachers and parent or psychiatric evaluations could stop him from becoming a secret agent. Arthur worked as hard as he could in all of his classes. He was at the top of his class in all subjects and was highly skilled in other fields like, sports, bush craft, climbing and shooting. All of the teachers expected great things from Arthur; but, to the teacher’s dismay, at the age of fifteen he still wanted to become a spy. He was bullied by both family and students, many nights he would come home soaked in blood with bruises splattered across his pale skin; only to be again battered with a belt, a broomstick or a rolling pin by his seemingly always drunk father. Yet Arthur was resilient and continued to follow his dream.
He joined the army at eighteen, figuring that it would be his best shot in getting involved in espionage. He served for four years, spending much of that time in Iraq fighting. Then after he applied to MI6, which accepted him into their academy for spies.
Arthur was now living his dream, he relished every day he was at the academy; there was not a single lesson he didn’t enjoy or was not good at… except one: Post Kill Pun Theory, the art of spouting a witty one-liner before killing your tasked assailant. It was a classic spy trope, one that every good spy needed; and yet Arthur Smythe could not get his head around it. He simply did not have the brain to think up a witty pun. The fact of the matter is, so many years of being bullied and abused took a toll on the humour of him. Arthur Smythe’s funniness was simply beaten out of him.
No matter how many books he read or how many campy sixties spy movies he watched, Arthur always failed his Post-Kill Pun Theory class. Throughout his two years at the academy he never got a grade in the class above an ‘E’. Final exams came. The academy only passed students who got a ‘B’ or above in every single one of their classes. In his examination review, Arthur discovered he had scored an ‘A*’ in every single class. Well, almost every class.
The professor reviewing Arthur’s exams with him was a tall, auburn haired, middle aged woman by the name of Miss Ponz. She went through all his exams one by one: Physical Education, Fire-Arms Training, Interrogation Training etc. Then they came to Arthur’s last exam.
“And no, Master Smythe,” Miss Ponz said in a shrill, daunting voice, “we move on to your last exam, Post-Kill Pun Theory.”
Arthur gulped. Miss Ponz stared down at her papers for a full five minutes. The only sounds being made in that office were the occasional drip of the nearby water cooler and the loud ticking of a gratuitously large grandfather clock in the corner of the room. Then Miss Ponz looked up at Arthur looking bewildered, “Now, Master Smythe, could you please explain something to me.”
“Uh, yes of course Miss.” Replied Arthur nervously. He was sweating, the collar of his shirt felt extremely tight around his neck, as if he was being strangled. He was so close to becoming a spy, and the possibility of him not being able to live his dream because of one absurdly redundant and stupid class shook him to his very core.
“Now, here’s the thing,” continued Miss Ponz, “the Post-Kill Theory exam paper gives you a set list of scenarios in which you have to provide an appropriate pun for. You understand this Master Smythe?”
“Yes miss, I do.”
“Then why, Master Smythe, did you answer every single question with the words, ‘You’re a cunt’?”
“It… it… well it was the funniest joke I knew. I must confess I’m not very good with puns.”
Miss Ponz looked up at Arthur in disbelief, “But Master Smythe, ‘You’re a cunt’ isn’t even a pun, neither is it funny!”
“Oh really?” Arthur looked shocked, in his eyes ‘You’re a cunt’ was his greatest effort at making a funny quip. When doing the exam, he felt a surge of confidence rush over him. He felt as if he finally perfected the art of Post-Kill Puns. “But, Miss Ponz,” continued Arthur, “‘You’re a cunt’ is the funniest thing I know. My father used to find it awfully funny whenever he used to say it to me. In fact he said it to me every day, and he never grew tired of it. He used it for years and still, to this day, finds it funny.”
Twenty minutes passed of Miss Ponz staring in utter disbelief at Arthur. She then finally came to her senses, got up and said, “That… that will be all Arthur. I’ll umm, I’ll look over these exams again.”
Arthur didn’t get to be a spy that year. But the academy opened up a new class for him and other students who faced the same problems he had. The class was ‘Humour Rejuvenation 101’. The class gave back to those students what they lost from their ruined childhoods: their sense of humour. The next year Arthur retook his test and passed Post-Kill Pun Theory with flying colours. He became a spy and had a successful seven year long career. When he retired he volunteered at the NSPCC and helped abused children recover from the same situations he once experienced long ago. In 2014, Arthur Smythe got awarded the ‘Funniest Employee of the Month’ which, to this day, he displays on his mantel piece next to his Degree in Espionage.
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[WP] You are acing every class at the International Espionage Academy except one: Post Kill Puns.
|
"Cyrus, good to see you lad, come in," the balding Professor said looking up from the stack of papers on his desk. Cyrus walked into the ancient office. He smelled the strong odor of cologne as he sat down across the desk from his Professor. He examined the solid oak desk that was littered in old documents and dust. it seemed a simple enough piece of furniture, but Cyrus knew better than that. He could see the minor breaks in the floor indicating access to some hidden chamber. Being a teacher of disguise and secret bases, Cyrus thought his Professor should have done a better job covering up his hideout.
The Professor raised his eyebrow and put down Cyrus' course file. He had noticed Cyrus' interest in the floor. "I see you're pretty sharp, yes...a bit of a rush job when I started teaching here."
The Professor rose from his chair and tugged at the carpet to better cover the seam in the floor. The Professor moved to the back of the room, playing with his cuff link, and began to pace behind Cyrus's chair.
The Professor spoke in a low whisper, still behind Cyrus, saying, "That's what I like about you Cyrus, you are observant...keen...one might even say...**SHARP!**"
A knife slid from his sleeve and embedded itself into the chair. The blade would have pierced the back of Cyrus's head had he not quickly hopped out of his seat. Cyrus spun around unnaturally quick and saw the Professor's second blade thrown inches from his face. Deft and quick, he grabbed the handle of the flying knife out of the air and quickly threw the blade back. The Professor, had he been a bit younger, might have been able to dodge, but at his current age he was unable to avoid Cyrus's attack. The knife pinned his left hand to the wall, neutralizing him. The old teacher hung with left hand pinned up, as if he were raising his bloody hand in class.
Cyrus walked up, wrenching the first knife from the chair, he smiled, "Sorry Professor, but I guess...you will need to take a seat..."
"Really Cyrus, I just tried to kill you, and that's the best you got? That doesn't even make sense, I am literally hanging, how can I sit?" The Professor said, completely composed despite the blood gushing from left palm. Cyrus, blushed. He knew it was a poor one-liner, but he really couldn't think of a better one.
"Cyrus, you could have said anything...I mean I am your teacher, at the very least you could have said 'Now Professor, it's time for you... to be.. schooled'."
That was better, Cyrus thought. "Wait," Cyrus said, "Let me try again."
"No I think that is quite enough," a voice emanated from under the desk.
A group of Senior Faculty entered from the chamber below desk. Niko, headmaster of the Academy, was also present. "You see Cyrus, I am sure with your scores in deductive reasoning, you can figure out what is going on."
Cyrus nodded, it was pretty clear this was a setup or a test. Cyrus even had a strong suspicion since he entered the room that there were more people in here than just him and the Professor; it had been the smell, someone was wearing a lot of cologne and that indicated at least one other person hiding beneath the desk.
"A test," Cyrus said twirling the knife, "But for what?"
The teachers slowly surrounded him as he reasoned out the problem.
"Clearly not combat, otherwise you would have chosen someone better suited to spar with me...maybe detection, but then the Headmaster would have chosen a less pungent body spray...not disguise either from what I can tell..."
"No Cyrus," The still bleeding Professor had finally unpinned his left hand. He was wiping off the blade, and inserting back up his still reddened sleeve. He pulled Cyrus' file back out of the stacks of paper, and showed Cyrus the F in Lethal Puns.
The Professor shook his head, "No, in all those things you excel, perhaps more so than any student before you, but, as evident by this last test and your previous scores, you still fail where it matters the most..."
The Headmaster strode up to Cyrus, and rested his hands on Cyrus's shoulders, "Cyrus, you couldn't come up with a badass one liner to save your life."
Cyrus, looked down. His shame weighed heavily upon him; it was true, he couldn't do it, and not for lack of trying. He had spent days replaying combat scenarios just trying to come up with creative kill puns, but regardless, he just wasn't witty.
"I mean, we placed you against a teacher in a school...The number of possible kill jokes aren't even calculable." The Professor said exasperated, "even the classic 'Now I am the Master' would have been acceptable."
Cyrus turned to the old man and said, "I can do better. I promise, just one more chance."
The other teachers had finished mending the Professor's hand, and both knives had been taken back and re-sheathed into his sleeve. They all shook their heads in unison, "We are sorry, Cyrus, but a spy is only as strong as their pun game, and there is no room for the weak."
The headmaster, arms still on Cyrus' shoulders, quickly kicked the boy in the chest. He quickly followed up the crippling strike with a series of serious blows. "Cyrus, we will teach the importance of good puns...even if it **KILLS YOU**."
Cyrus did his best block the flurry of attacks. Had there been fewer opponents he might have stood a chance, but there were four faculty members, all professional combatants. He had failed them, and he knew they weren't just going to let him go; failure at the academy was a crime, punishable by death...death by combat.
As they fought, Cyrus felt his ribs break on several blows, his nose now resembling a tomato more than a nose. Cyrus slowly turned the fight so his back was to the large window. As he took hit after hit, he knew there was only one chance. He threw the hidden smoke grenade from within his sleeve as the teachers began to pounce on him again. The faculty began to cough and wheeze as they tried to clear the room of black smoke. They all rushed to the window and stuck their heads out trying to catch his breath. After a few deep breaths, the Headmaster turned back to his fellow teachers in the room, "Guess he gave us the slip. Get the rest of the students looking for Cyrus, we can't let anyone that 'bad at puns disgrace' continue to live and mock the name of the Aca--"
In that split second before finishing his sentence, he noticed Cyrus standing in the middle of the room wearing a gas mask waving. Cyrus lifted the mask, "I might not be too good at puns, but I am glad before I go, I got to take your breaths away..."
The teachers froze, awestruck by Cyrus' pun. The Professor, however, was not impressed. He burst out, "good try Cyrus, but it doesn't count unless it is a *kill* pun..."
"Cyrus chuckled pulling out a powerful air cannon, "I know Professor, but I am sure... this next one... **WILL BLOW YOU AWAY**."
Th cannon knocked the faculty off balance, sending them plummeting to the hard earth three stories below. Cyrus snapped his nose back into place, and pocketed the air cannon. He hobbled over to the Professor's desk and pulled out his file, changing the F in Lethal Puns to an A.
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I had always considered myself a gentleman. Treating women with respect came naturally to me, because of my upbringing. My mother had throughout my childhood stressed the importance of being kind towards others. My father had been killed by a mugger years before my birth. This meant that my mother was extremely protective of me, more so than the ordinary parent. It also meant that her expectations were extreme. She did baby gymnastics with me, worked intensely in improving my motor skills and provided me with problem solving puzzles. When I reached the age of 6, my combat training began. I was taught by a former Mossad agent, that my mother had met while on vacation. My training consisted of Krav Maga lessons, knife throwing, firing handguns, parkour, swimming, driving, running, hunting, advanced survival strategies, learning various languages and analyzing videos for hidden messages. I was homeschooled and various experts from different fields taught me about their ways. When I reached the age of 22, I was accepted to the International Espionage Academy. It felt as a natural extension of my teachings. My second home. I met my best friend, Joshua, at the academy, he was not as formel as I considered myself to be. When on the shooting range, he would use foul language as he was shooting the targets. He was the second best in his class, and that was the main reason our supervisors allowed the profanity that he showcased on the shooting range. I remember one night we spent together in particular. We were on the range, trying out a new custom made AR15. I had just taken my aim, and were about to pull the trigger, when Joshua put his hand on my shoulder. He wanted me to try something, he thought I would find it amusing. He told me that as I was firing my weapon, I should try shouting "Get sooome!" I looked at him, and shook my head. I proceeded to take aim, and pull the trigger. The gun was set to "Fully Automatic", and as I sprayed the target, I shouted with the full power of my lungs. I must admit, that I found it rather promiscuous, but at the same time, I liked the intensity that came with it.
In the weeks following the "incident" at the shooting range, I experimented with various words that I would use post-mortem, as I found that my shooting was effected by shouting whilst doing it. I remember a target I was assigned in Russia, I had just eliminated an ex-KGB agent, when I broke out in laughter and said "Pour some Vodka on the wound, that ought to help" and giggled to the best of my ability. The end.
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[WP] You are acing every class at the International Espionage Academy except one: Post Kill Puns.
|
There was a lone window framed in the room. Since it was a large window, there only needed to be one. Only one was needed to create such a soothing atmosphere. The red light of the setting sun entered the room and highlighted the thick smoke that calmly wafted through the air, as if it were trying to lull someone into sleep. The haze of the room was being produced by a cigar, placed in a simple black ashtray which rested on a wooden desk. Light bounced off the mahogany wood, producing a beautiful shade of color that could allure any eye. Unfortunately, some of the desk was being shadowed by a figure. A man was sitting in front of that large window.
He had the name of Don Cassano, but of course most people didn't call him that. Some called him "The Boss", others simply referred to him as "King", but those weren't the titles he savored. No, the names he remembered were the ones he received by all the people who were against him. "Monster" and "Sick son of a b@&$h" were just a couple of examples but they could certainly get much more vile or nasty, especially when the person coming up with the name had nearly been beaten to death.
Don couldn't help but smile. Those were the moments he lived for. Stomping on all of his competition as hard as he could. Hearing every nasty insult known to man thrown at him. Watching as men either trembled before his presence or helplessly fought on before being taken care of. No matter how much wrath and pain those men promised they would bring to The Boss, he could always laugh in their face.
He could laugh cause he knew in the end he would always win. With the criminal empire he had created and all the resources he had at his disposal, Don believed with all his heart that there was not a force in this world that could stop him. He looked down at his hands and gazed at the bundle of cash he held. The light beamed through the window and to him, it practically made the money sparkle before his very eyes.
It was such a beautiful sight, he felt like laughing.
**KNOCK KNOCK**
"Huh?" *That's odd*, he thought. Rarely did anyone come to see him in his office. Probably because when he was in his office, he wanted to be alone. Messing with his alone time meant he would be pretty mad, and no one ever wanted to make The Boss mad. At least, not after the last time it happened.
"Who's there? Is it you Antonio?"
No answer. Not even the slightest little peep. Don Cassano was now officially angry. He nearly leaped from his chair and stormed to the door, his footsteps nearly shaking the whole building. Someone was about to feel the full wrath the "Monster".
"Antonio I **swear to god** if that's you then get ready to have your-"
Cassano opened the door, fully expecting to come face to face with his lousy piece of crap younger brother Antonio, who had a tendency to be a bit of an imbecile from time to time.
Instead, he came face to face with the barrel of a gun.
For the last 15 years, Don was on top. Nothing and no one could touch him. Every once in a while he might suffer a cut or a wound, but that was to be expected when you were the head of the largest criminal organization in the country. This was different. Much different. For the first time in a very long time, he feared for his life...
...well, he would if this was actually happening. He knew it wasn't though. It was all an act. Just a simulation. That gun in front of him wasn't real. He wasn't the head of some gang or whatever. In fact, his name wasn't even Don Cassano. That was just a role he had to play. He did not fear for his death. If anything, he was happy. Happy because standing before him was a kid who was going to be the future of Espionage.
Meet Drake Hauer. He's the man holding the gun. For the last 55 minutes, he's been crawling all over the building. Avoiding security cameras, taking out guards, being deadly silent, he could pretty much do it all. Of course, he wasn't **really** doing those things. It had all been meticulously laid out for not only him, but around 45 other students who were graduating with him in this year's class at the International Espionage Academy. Before they could all go out and be super awesome spies that Hollywood wants to make blockbusters about, they had one last thing to do: pass the final exam.
All the students were exceptional and had skills many would kill to have, but even among them, Drake was special. He excelled at stealth, hand-to-hand combat, scouting, disguise, using various forms of weaponry.
You name it, he was great at it....well there was one subject he struggled in, but at this moment in his life he couldn't care less about it. He was one gunshot away from being a real, genuine spy.
As he looked down the sights of his silenced pistol, he envisioned all the amazing adventures around the world he would go on. As he pulled the trigger, he dreamed about the beautiful and exotic women he might encounter along the way. As he watched the man in front of him fall into a heap on the floor in fake death, he pondered whether he should change his name to something more catchy and spy-sounding. *Hmm, maybe it should be Drake Bond...nah, that's* *a bit too corny probably.*
He did it. All the years of hard work had paid off. His dream had been realized. Ever since he was a kid he had hoped this day would come, and now it was finally here. Drake was rather proud of himself. Even during the worst of days, he pushed though knowing that the end goal was within reach. It was all so great, it honestly brought a tear to his eye...
......
*Umm, I am done, aren't I?*
Drake was a bit confused. Why wasn't he being told through the headphone piece in his ear that he was done? Why wasn't anyone coming out to congratulate him and tell him he did a good job? Did he forget something...
*....yeah......I forgot something....*
Of course! How in the world could he forget?! The Post-Kill Pun, or PKP as his teachers referred to it. For spies around the world that was their signature move. The funny little cherry on top of the spying sundae. If you couldn't whip one of those out after a kill, then you might as well just go home because you were not a true spy.
*Oh god, oh god, quick come up with something! There has to be something I* *can say!*
Suddenly he could feel the eyes of his instructor burning into his very soul. This was not good at all. To do everything so well up to this point, only to fail at such a simple task wouldn't look too good. His eyes frantically darted around the room in the hopes of discovering material for even a decent one-liner.
*Okay okay, umm, let's see...a dead guy, a desk, a cigar,* *smoke...smoke...SMOKE!*
That's it! He had an idea...maybe...he wasn't sure. He just had to spit something out quick before he completely failed. It was better to say something than absolutely nothing...at least, that's what he hoped. *Here goes nothing.*
Drake stood up, recomposed himself, and tried his absolute best to flash a confident smile that only a man as smooth as a spy could...
"Man, looks like I really smoked him, huh?"
...
Silence. Absolute silence. It was undoubtedly the most awkward silence of his life. A silence so awkward, it could even make the most charismatic world leaders and the most outgoing celebrities feel uncomfortable.
Drake bit hard at his lower lip, trying turn the pain of embarrassment into actual physical pain. That he could handle. Not this.
Even the motionless man on the floor, who was supposed to appear stone cold dead, visibly cringed at the delivery of such a poorly executed line.
Eventually, the horrifying quiet was interrupted. In his earpiece, Drake heard the disappointed sigh of an older man. It belonged to his favorite instructor, Mr. Bristow.
"Drake..." Mr. Bristow started to speak, but he simply couldn't finish his sentence. Instead he just exhaled once more.
"Damn it Drake"
|
I had always considered myself a gentleman. Treating women with respect came naturally to me, because of my upbringing. My mother had throughout my childhood stressed the importance of being kind towards others. My father had been killed by a mugger years before my birth. This meant that my mother was extremely protective of me, more so than the ordinary parent. It also meant that her expectations were extreme. She did baby gymnastics with me, worked intensely in improving my motor skills and provided me with problem solving puzzles. When I reached the age of 6, my combat training began. I was taught by a former Mossad agent, that my mother had met while on vacation. My training consisted of Krav Maga lessons, knife throwing, firing handguns, parkour, swimming, driving, running, hunting, advanced survival strategies, learning various languages and analyzing videos for hidden messages. I was homeschooled and various experts from different fields taught me about their ways. When I reached the age of 22, I was accepted to the International Espionage Academy. It felt as a natural extension of my teachings. My second home. I met my best friend, Joshua, at the academy, he was not as formel as I considered myself to be. When on the shooting range, he would use foul language as he was shooting the targets. He was the second best in his class, and that was the main reason our supervisors allowed the profanity that he showcased on the shooting range. I remember one night we spent together in particular. We were on the range, trying out a new custom made AR15. I had just taken my aim, and were about to pull the trigger, when Joshua put his hand on my shoulder. He wanted me to try something, he thought I would find it amusing. He told me that as I was firing my weapon, I should try shouting "Get sooome!" I looked at him, and shook my head. I proceeded to take aim, and pull the trigger. The gun was set to "Fully Automatic", and as I sprayed the target, I shouted with the full power of my lungs. I must admit, that I found it rather promiscuous, but at the same time, I liked the intensity that came with it.
In the weeks following the "incident" at the shooting range, I experimented with various words that I would use post-mortem, as I found that my shooting was effected by shouting whilst doing it. I remember a target I was assigned in Russia, I had just eliminated an ex-KGB agent, when I broke out in laughter and said "Pour some Vodka on the wound, that ought to help" and giggled to the best of my ability. The end.
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[WP] You are acing every class at the International Espionage Academy except one: Post Kill Puns.
|
The knife flew through the air, shimmering and deadly, and struck home deep into the ballistic gelatin torso of the dummy they were practicing on. The ingenious ice-knife began to melt, and Martinez stepped forward.
"*ice* to meet you." Martinez smiled. It was a classic, but it worked. Hell, it worked better than most. Martinez was good with the classics, hence the nickname: Casablanca. Though he seemed to hate that name, it was apt. Especially now that he had passed the last test at the Academy. That would be his code name in 12 hours time.
Krochev was next. He wound up, released, and just as the ice-blade sank into the gelatin, he bellowed "Told you I was sharp!" Nods of approval all around. He had really gone above and beyond, forgoing mentioning the ice at all and sticking with the true nature of the weapon as a knife. In any sense of the test, he had passed.
And then there was Johnson. Johnson cracked his knuckles, wound up, and released the ice-knife. It went whistling through the air at twice the speed of any one else's. It sank deep into the gelatin, and made a pleasent *thunk* against the plywood stopper before melting. He stepped forward.
"Guess you'll be saying, um, H2WHOA!." Dead. Silence. The instructor's mouth was agape in dissapointment.
"Jesus...Jesus *Christ,* Johnson. Really? Oh my...oh my god." The instructor held his temples, trying to will away the absolute shit pun that was still floating in the air and everyone's memory. The instructor turned toward the one-way mirror. "I've...I've never done this before, but I think it's warranted. Can we get the memory eraser up in here for a moment? The fucking brain damage is worth it to scrub that hamster turd out of my mind. No, no, I'm serious! Flash us!"
A bright, blinding light cascaded over everyone in the practice room. There was a moment of dazed confusion, and then the instructor stepped forward.
"Okay, Johnson! You're up!"
Behind the mirror, the head of the academy was almost in tears.
"42 times..." he whispered, "42 times we've flashed them over that crap. If he says that H2Whoa thing again, just fuckin' kill him."
|
I had always considered myself a gentleman. Treating women with respect came naturally to me, because of my upbringing. My mother had throughout my childhood stressed the importance of being kind towards others. My father had been killed by a mugger years before my birth. This meant that my mother was extremely protective of me, more so than the ordinary parent. It also meant that her expectations were extreme. She did baby gymnastics with me, worked intensely in improving my motor skills and provided me with problem solving puzzles. When I reached the age of 6, my combat training began. I was taught by a former Mossad agent, that my mother had met while on vacation. My training consisted of Krav Maga lessons, knife throwing, firing handguns, parkour, swimming, driving, running, hunting, advanced survival strategies, learning various languages and analyzing videos for hidden messages. I was homeschooled and various experts from different fields taught me about their ways. When I reached the age of 22, I was accepted to the International Espionage Academy. It felt as a natural extension of my teachings. My second home. I met my best friend, Joshua, at the academy, he was not as formel as I considered myself to be. When on the shooting range, he would use foul language as he was shooting the targets. He was the second best in his class, and that was the main reason our supervisors allowed the profanity that he showcased on the shooting range. I remember one night we spent together in particular. We were on the range, trying out a new custom made AR15. I had just taken my aim, and were about to pull the trigger, when Joshua put his hand on my shoulder. He wanted me to try something, he thought I would find it amusing. He told me that as I was firing my weapon, I should try shouting "Get sooome!" I looked at him, and shook my head. I proceeded to take aim, and pull the trigger. The gun was set to "Fully Automatic", and as I sprayed the target, I shouted with the full power of my lungs. I must admit, that I found it rather promiscuous, but at the same time, I liked the intensity that came with it.
In the weeks following the "incident" at the shooting range, I experimented with various words that I would use post-mortem, as I found that my shooting was effected by shouting whilst doing it. I remember a target I was assigned in Russia, I had just eliminated an ex-KGB agent, when I broke out in laughter and said "Pour some Vodka on the wound, that ought to help" and giggled to the best of my ability. The end.
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[WP] You are acing every class at the International Espionage Academy except one: Post Kill Puns.
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A drop of sweat rolled down his forehead, and slid into his eyes. It stung. Mr. Blond sucked in his breath. He turned his head away, making a clandestine attempt to wipe away the sweat before the Judges noticed.
One of the judges cleared her throat, "Something wrong, Mr. Blond?"
"No," he said, swallowing hard, "Please continue,"
At the center of the bench was a much older woman with short, white hair and a severe expression on her face. He knew her only as Agent N. She stared at him hard, without blinking, until he shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
Agent N cleared her throat before she spoke:
"Alright, Mr. Blond. You're on a boat, blindfolded. You don't know where you are, but you do know that your target is right behind you. He has a gun aimed at your back, what do you do?"
"I wait for a wave to hit and disrupt his aim. Then, I sweep my leg around, and hit him off the boat. As he falls into the water, I shout, '*Sea* you later!'"
Agent N pressed her lips together, and he thought he saw her shake her head. As she scribbled away on the paper in front of her, he wiped the sweat from his forehead, willing himself to do better.
At last, she cleared her throat, and asked:
"You're in a cave. Your face an army of savages, wielding knives as long as your forearm. Your hands are tied behind your back, and they are running at you, screaming for your blood."
Mr. Blond bowed his head, whispering under his breath.
"Mr. Blond? An answer, please."
"Okay. Okay. I use my toe to press a trigger in my shoe. It sets off an explosive that shakes the cave, and makes spikes fall from the ceiling."
Agent N held up a hand to stop him, "Spikes?"
"You know, those pointy things that grow in caves."
"Oh. You mean stalactites."
"Yeah. Stalacspikes. And after the spikes fall down and impale them, I say, "Never bring a knife to a spike fight."
He watched as Agent N made a mighty effort to *not* roll her eyes. Instead, she scribbled furiously on her paper.
"Last question. You're in the villain's secret hideout. More specifically, you've snuck in through the mail room, when a pair of guards notice your presence. As the fight progresses, all three of you lose your weapons, and it devolves into a battle with the sharp, pointed edges of mail."
Mr. Blond sucked in a long breath.
*You can do this. Come on.*
He bounced his leg, he drummed his fingers, and he bit his lip.
"Mr. Blond, you have ten seconds remaining."
"Is the villain's hideout in a mountain?"
"Yes."
"And how many guards are there?"
"Two."
"I picked up a rock from outside, and kept it in my pocket. When they start throwing mail at me, I take out my rock, and I bash one over the head. I throw the rock at the other, and when he falls to the floor, I stand over him. I say, 'I guess rock *can* beat paper.'"
Even sitting this far away, he could feel the breeze from Agent N's massive sigh.
"Mr. Blond, you have, without a doubt, the *lamest* sense of humor I've have ever had the misfortune of encountering."
His stomach sank.
"Fortunately and *mysteriously*, that is exactly what High Command ordered. As much as it hurts me to say this, I must congratulate you, Mr. Blond. You passed."
At this, Mr. Blond stood up. He yanked a knife from inside his coat. Before any of the judges could react, he ran up to the bench, and stabbed the knife into Agent N's paper.
"Blond!" she gasped, throwing up her hands as he shredded the paper, "What on Earth do you think you're doing?"
"I wanted to be sure," he said, "that I made the cut."
Agent N narrowed her eyes.
"Out. Now."
***
Want to read more stories like this one? Check out /r/PSHoffman !
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*5. You've just stabbed your ex-girlfriend who cheated on you.*
*I'm inside you again*
*7. You had a best friend throughout school, but he betrayed you. Your knife is buried in the back of his neck, now.*
*Call me Severus Nape*
*10. You've just sliced open a man who killed your daughter.*
*Let me see what you're made of*
Professor Green held my exam up, staring at me. "You don't understand the fundemental of this, do you?"
"Well, I mean they're all puns. Why did you fail me?" I asked.
"They're *technically* puns, but they totally ruin the mood and they're just...bad. They don't fit the situation at all."
I frowned. "Can't you just let this slide? I've got straight A's, I can kill a man with my only my index fingers, no one can sense my presence when I'm stalking them, and I know the human anatomy extremely well. Come on, please? I can't graduate if you fail me, is this really a good reason why? I'm top of my grade in literally everything else..."
Professor Green sighed and wrote me off. "Whatever. This class is stupid anyway."
------------------------------------------------
"I don't need a partner, you know," I told Mark as we waited for our victim to come outside.
"Neither do I, but rules are rules. This is how everyone does it for their first time."
"Whatever. Let's just kill this drug lord and be done with it. Oh look, there he is. Let's go."
With a quick, swooping motion, we were behind him. Each of us put a blade through his heart, one from each side. As he gurgle blood and gasped for air, he asked, "Who are you?"
*Remember your training, don't talk with the victim...okay. And always quip upon their death.*
"How's it feel to get double-penetrated?" I shouted in his face.
Mark let go of his blade and walked away, sitting on a guard rail near the stairway. "Ew, dude! What kind of pun is that?? Freudian slip, much?"
"Well no it's just what came to mind, not literally...well, actually kind of literally I guess...."
"Gross....why the fuck would you say that..."
The drug lord was weakly laughing, choking on blood with his dying breaths. He turned to me.
"Let me teach you how it's done. I'm going to go out with a *bang*."
I leapt back as a fuse on him ignited, barely escaping the blast.
"You see? *That's* how you do it," Mark shouted at me. "Not some creepy weird shit."
While he was flailing his arms around, complaining and grossed out, I plunged my blade straight through his chest.
"Bet I caught you off *guard* didn't I?"
He was gasping for air, crying with pain, but he forced himself to talk. "You fucking moron, I'm *on* the guard rail, that doesn't even make sense...."
"Fuck this. I quit." I threw my arms up and stormed off, leaving him bleeding out.
---------------------------------------------------
*I'm hungover as fuck and going back to sleep. if you enjoyed this, check out /r/resonatingfury!*
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[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
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As soon as the first ray of light hit Jeremy's face, he lifted himself out of bed and started his morning routine. He washed his face, made himself some coffee, turned on his screen and checked the news and his life-account.
The screen was filled with numbers and graphs that he had learned to understand naturally.
His account balance was at 0$, as it always was at the end of every day.
His life expectancy was approximately one day shorter than the day before.
And his lottery tickets' value was unnoticeably cheaper than the day before too.
He sold his daily ticket, watched his account balance go up to two digits and went on with his Wednesday.
Unlike every other day of the week, Wednesdays involved Jeremy leaving his house for a couple of hours. A couple of hours that he spent at the gym, which had been proven to reduce heart attack risks, one of the few unsolved challenges of modern medicine. He disliked going to the gym, but he felt it was a worthy time investment in order increase his life expectancy numbers. But what he disliked even more than running on a machine and lifting weights, was the fact that on the way to the gym, he had to go through the worker's class neighbourhood. He had to see all those beautiful houses and social status that he didn't have. For some reason he was much more comfortable in his side of town, filled with addiction centers and homeless people who owned nothing but their screens. Decadency wasn't all that bad once crime was taken out of the equation.
" A life of leisure is worth it." He reminded himself every week as he grinded through Wednesdays. And it was. Until one day, on his screen, he got a dreaded notification. Sarah's ticket had been drafted. Her sister. Drafted. His eyes widened and lingered at the popup window well after it had dissapeared.
He cried in fear for several minutes until he started to recompose himself. More so than mourning of the now inevitable death of her sister, what made him deeply uncomfortable was that it could happen to him. It had never been a real possibility in his mind before, winning the lottery, it was always something that happened to some one-hundred-billionth of an unlucky bastard.
The shock had fooled him into fear for a couple of minutes, until the initial shock wore off, which allowed him to remind himself that the odds of winning the lottery are lower than being struck by lightning.
Even then, doubts lingered in his head: of all hundred billion humans, fate chose my sister? He started wondering whether Sarah had overdosed, and shortly after, he was convinced of it. His curiosity filled his head for the days after the event, why would she need so much money? How many tickets did she even sell? What did she do with all that money?
Unfortunately, since congress passed the Private Lottery Act. Lottery inforrmation was no longer public, and deaths were only notified to next of kin, which meant that he wasn't able to find out by querying the World Wide Database. And he knew better than to call her sister to ask. She was already gone. Saying your goodbyes to someone who has won the lottery is never worth the risk they say.
He only started really considering calling Sarah once it was too late, she had been taken and harvested shortly after he was notified, a quick death, lotteries had been hastening their harvest times after the spike in runaways due to the passing of the Act.
After he made peace with her Sister's death, Jeremy began to get involved in the addiction scene by volunteering in a nearby center, he became fascinated with it, more in a morbid sense than in a altruist one. By day he talked to addicts and help them out of their selling frenzy before it was too late, while by night he spent countless hours searching for the biggest ticket sellers. Jeremy knew every single one of the top ticket seller's listed in the World Wide Database, it now never changed anymore due to the ceasing of information collection. So he had learned everything about each one of them. Every single one of which, was dead. He kept scrolling down and down and he couldn't find a single one of them alive.
They all eventually get drafted, some even just skip the lottery and sell their body to wealthy buyers. It had stopped being surprising to him after just a week. He had seen the pattern, hundreds of times, addicts showed them their screens with millions of dollars, each of them with their own different reasons to spend their money, but they all have in common the fact that they never stop. They are insatiable, and the odds are against them, they keep rolling the billion faced dice until it lands on the wrong face. They all think they are the unluckiest person in the world, but they don't know they are doomed, and that there are millions of others like them.
With time, funding for the addiction centers slowly dropped. The problem had become much less evident, and since total social disconnection happened way before death in most cases, people where in the dark regarding most deaths.
Slowly, far after Jeremy died, and his descendants died, and enough descendants died so that Jeremy's name was last uttered. Natural selection did its thing, and a breed of humanity that was immune to addiction was born, a breed of humanity immune to procrastination, immune to unwanted pregnancy, immune to bad decisions powered by their shortmindedness. Where the legacy of impulse and primality existed merely in history classrooms as an abstract concept, where they were just stories that gathered no empathy, because who would empathize with a person who cannot control himself?
"That doesn't make sense" kids would say, "if they didn't want to die, why not just stop selling tickets?" And a teacher who unknowingly didn't understand either, would try to explain primal impulses to the child, and would get frustrated when he doesn't understand. But at least the child knows he doesn't understand, all the teacher did was give the phenomenon a word, he didn't understand either.
And no wave of extinction would ever give humans the power to understand their ancestors either. Although the last humans were quite adept at understanding their ignorance. Which is a very noble goal to have accomplished before the world ended together with the last star in the Milky Way.
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The tranquil silence of the night was broken by a pain infused shriek that seemed to reverberate through the streets of Belgrade. Francis was used to sleepless nights ever since the law was introduced.
"Gosh darn hot rods quiet down with that, die quietly!" he shouted from the safety of his cell. He felt so bold when the guards were patrolling the other corridor.
But then his ears picked up the sound. The sound that he became so accustomed to. The sound he never thought would come for him. The sound of the low, throaty sizzle of the deep fryer encroaching to the darkness of his cell like a YumYum.
"Mr Dirken, it's your time to be crispy deep fried" said the guard. He was forced to undress at gunpoint before he was rolled in a concoction of spices- sumac, chilli and cinnamon meant he would be spicy deep fried.
He entered the warehouse, ascended the ladders and peered down into the pool of oil that stood before him as he accepted his fate with dignity. He would be crispy deep fried.
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[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
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"It's humane, they are spared from the experience of their pitiful lives, while ours, worth living, are lengthened".
I tried to make him, the old man in front of me, understand. We have done this before, over and over and over, and never a problem. Now here he is with perhaps 5 years left to live. 5 *old* years, not even 5 good ones like the feeding stock have.
It *is* humane. Without us, their time would have been spent eking out an existence through scavenging, or simply sold to some other, far more painful, end (and God forbid they turn out to be physically attractive). Our feedstock were some of the best treated in our community. We feed them good, nutritious, healthy food, vitamin supplements - *supplemented home fed* is the term - where is the moral dilemma?
"You realize you are, physically, the oldest person in our family by, easily 3 decades right? You won't have too much to work with as it is."
There have been studies done that show that the age, and physical state of your feedstock does have some correlation with the anti-aging effect, but regardless, for a given food item the effect is around the same of reversing the physical aging process by about 20 years. Now here is my confused, old-as-hell brother, 4 years younger than me and 50 years older, with *at least* two food items to *fully consume* in the next 5 years, if that. I've done the math, that's an average caloric intake of 800 calories per day in *feedstock alone*. Then the anti-aging process takes time to! It's getting down to crunch-time for him.
"For the love of God say *something*."
He looked at me, and I will never forget this, and simply said:
"I'm okay with dying like this, I'm not okay with living like this."
I think he had dementia.
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The tranquil silence of the night was broken by a pain infused shriek that seemed to reverberate through the streets of Belgrade. Francis was used to sleepless nights ever since the law was introduced.
"Gosh darn hot rods quiet down with that, die quietly!" he shouted from the safety of his cell. He felt so bold when the guards were patrolling the other corridor.
But then his ears picked up the sound. The sound that he became so accustomed to. The sound he never thought would come for him. The sound of the low, throaty sizzle of the deep fryer encroaching to the darkness of his cell like a YumYum.
"Mr Dirken, it's your time to be crispy deep fried" said the guard. He was forced to undress at gunpoint before he was rolled in a concoction of spices- sumac, chilli and cinnamon meant he would be spicy deep fried.
He entered the warehouse, ascended the ladders and peered down into the pool of oil that stood before him as he accepted his fate with dignity. He would be crispy deep fried.
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[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
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The chains binding his hands and feet made it awkward to move. They weren't uncomfortable as the velvet padding made them almost luxurious to wear. As he shuffled along slowly, the honour guard that walked with him maintained pace. He looked up at one briefly and then dropped his head again. They wore ancient, colourful uniforms, red, gray and white, with puffy pants and strange hats. Each carried a pike, a symbol of a world long past, that as they took a step together was gently tapped on the floor. Tap, tap, tap, tap.
It wasn't macabre, as he had thought it would be. The Final Walk was filled with solemn ceremony. It had begun when he presented himself a week ago. By law, his last week was to be one of opulence and decadent luxury. He had thought it would be better than it turned out to be. If he were older, he suspected, then the choices he would have had might have been different but as a child, the rich foods and nearly naked women meant almost nothing. He had enjoyed playing the Xbox and getting to eat all the sweets that had always been denied him. The women seemed at a bit of a loss but he had been comforted by them being there.
Then the morning of the Ascension came. He was bathed, dressed in the finest clothes and now was being escorted to his death. It wasn't as bad, he decided, as I expected. He thought back to his family. They were the reason he was here, after all. Ascension was that rare chance for a family to change their fate. As with most families that lived in extreme poverty, their choices were limited. You could work in the mills or factories started at ten years old, broken and worn out by fifteen. If you were lucky, you could be selected for the militia and perhaps survive the harsh training to become a Soldier. About ten percent did.
Food, shelter, medicine were all whatever you could buy or steal. Only the Immortals and their Servants got whatever they wanted. From the time he could walk, he knew that he didn't want to live a life of hopelessness and abject poverty. He could see what that had done to his parents, his brother and sisters. The Immortals might be hundreds or even thousands of years old but his family were the ones who looked it. Broken and worn out, the light had long left their eyes as the accepted their fate.
Then came the Lottery. It was nearly unheard of that one of the Truly Great Ones was looking for Renewal. It only happened every thirty or forty years that a Great One sought renewal but the Truly Great Ones had their own breeding stock. They never had to reach outside their own fiefdoms. So when the word came down that Lottery was offered he had immediately volunteered.
At first his parents had protested. "Too young!" they had cried but he knew those were false tears. In reality they were desperate for him to be Selected. As was he. While for him it would be the end of his life, for them it would be the beginning. The Bonus they would receive would allow them to move into the Midden and away from the Ghetto. This meant better jobs, better lives. Medicine, long denied, would be free. Education would be mandatory and welcomed. Careers, whatever they were, would be an option for his brothers and sisters and their children after them. The Bonus from a Truly Great One was nearly equal to the wealth of the Small Great Ones. It would transform his family's life. That was why he had volunteered.
His musings were brought up short as he realized the tapping of the pikes had stopped. He stood now before a hall lined with Great Ones. On a raised platform ahead, the Truly Great One that would accept his Ascension waited. She looked about thirty or so, but he knew she was much older. The honour guard stopped and one motioned for him to move ahead. As he slowly walked the remaining steps he mused inwardly about the contradictions he saw. Electric lamps lit the hall and music, softly playing from overhead speakers seemed in contrast to the ancient stone columns and costumes worn by those in attendance. He didn't know where the pageantry came from or when it started. He just kept his head down, like a supplicant asking for a favour from the gods themselves.
He reached the steps and stopped. The Question was asked. Was he willing? Yes, he was willing, almost anxious, for this. He knew that his sacrifice would propel his family and that, once completed, his name would be remembered forever. Not by Her, not by the Truly Great One. She wouldn't care. He would be remembered by his family as his life paid for theirs, and their lives would be reborn. He smiled inwardly, sad but pleased that he had escaped the destitute poverty that had enslaved his family for generations but sad and hating the world that made this sacrifice necessary.
The Question asked. He was permitted to look once upon the face of the Truly Great One, so she would (it was hoped) would appreciate the Ascension's cost. For those watching, the scene would be one they had all seen many times before. He lifted his six year old head and, unashamed, proud and certain, stared into the eyes of the Great Empress Cleopatra, the Truly Great One who, in a few minutes would consume his flesh and be reborn as a teenager in her own body.
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The tranquil silence of the night was broken by a pain infused shriek that seemed to reverberate through the streets of Belgrade. Francis was used to sleepless nights ever since the law was introduced.
"Gosh darn hot rods quiet down with that, die quietly!" he shouted from the safety of his cell. He felt so bold when the guards were patrolling the other corridor.
But then his ears picked up the sound. The sound that he became so accustomed to. The sound he never thought would come for him. The sound of the low, throaty sizzle of the deep fryer encroaching to the darkness of his cell like a YumYum.
"Mr Dirken, it's your time to be crispy deep fried" said the guard. He was forced to undress at gunpoint before he was rolled in a concoction of spices- sumac, chilli and cinnamon meant he would be spicy deep fried.
He entered the warehouse, ascended the ladders and peered down into the pool of oil that stood before him as he accepted his fate with dignity. He would be crispy deep fried.
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[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
|
"It's humane, they are spared from the experience of their pitiful lives, while ours, worth living, are lengthened".
I tried to make him, the old man in front of me, understand. We have done this before, over and over and over, and never a problem. Now here he is with perhaps 5 years left to live. 5 *old* years, not even 5 good ones like the feeding stock have.
It *is* humane. Without us, their time would have been spent eking out an existence through scavenging, or simply sold to some other, far more painful, end (and God forbid they turn out to be physically attractive). Our feedstock were some of the best treated in our community. We feed them good, nutritious, healthy food, vitamin supplements - *supplemented home fed* is the term - where is the moral dilemma?
"You realize you are, physically, the oldest person in our family by, easily 3 decades right? You won't have too much to work with as it is."
There have been studies done that show that the age, and physical state of your feedstock does have some correlation with the anti-aging effect, but regardless, for a given food item the effect is around the same of reversing the physical aging process by about 20 years. Now here is my confused, old-as-hell brother, 4 years younger than me and 50 years older, with *at least* two food items to *fully consume* in the next 5 years, if that. I've done the math, that's an average caloric intake of 800 calories per day in *feedstock alone*. Then the anti-aging process takes time to! It's getting down to crunch-time for him.
"For the love of God say *something*."
He looked at me, and I will never forget this, and simply said:
"I'm okay with dying like this, I'm not okay with living like this."
I think he had dementia.
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This reminds me of that movie "In Time"... man that thing was not good. What a waste of a premise though.
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[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
|
The chains binding his hands and feet made it awkward to move. They weren't uncomfortable as the velvet padding made them almost luxurious to wear. As he shuffled along slowly, the honour guard that walked with him maintained pace. He looked up at one briefly and then dropped his head again. They wore ancient, colourful uniforms, red, gray and white, with puffy pants and strange hats. Each carried a pike, a symbol of a world long past, that as they took a step together was gently tapped on the floor. Tap, tap, tap, tap.
It wasn't macabre, as he had thought it would be. The Final Walk was filled with solemn ceremony. It had begun when he presented himself a week ago. By law, his last week was to be one of opulence and decadent luxury. He had thought it would be better than it turned out to be. If he were older, he suspected, then the choices he would have had might have been different but as a child, the rich foods and nearly naked women meant almost nothing. He had enjoyed playing the Xbox and getting to eat all the sweets that had always been denied him. The women seemed at a bit of a loss but he had been comforted by them being there.
Then the morning of the Ascension came. He was bathed, dressed in the finest clothes and now was being escorted to his death. It wasn't as bad, he decided, as I expected. He thought back to his family. They were the reason he was here, after all. Ascension was that rare chance for a family to change their fate. As with most families that lived in extreme poverty, their choices were limited. You could work in the mills or factories started at ten years old, broken and worn out by fifteen. If you were lucky, you could be selected for the militia and perhaps survive the harsh training to become a Soldier. About ten percent did.
Food, shelter, medicine were all whatever you could buy or steal. Only the Immortals and their Servants got whatever they wanted. From the time he could walk, he knew that he didn't want to live a life of hopelessness and abject poverty. He could see what that had done to his parents, his brother and sisters. The Immortals might be hundreds or even thousands of years old but his family were the ones who looked it. Broken and worn out, the light had long left their eyes as the accepted their fate.
Then came the Lottery. It was nearly unheard of that one of the Truly Great Ones was looking for Renewal. It only happened every thirty or forty years that a Great One sought renewal but the Truly Great Ones had their own breeding stock. They never had to reach outside their own fiefdoms. So when the word came down that Lottery was offered he had immediately volunteered.
At first his parents had protested. "Too young!" they had cried but he knew those were false tears. In reality they were desperate for him to be Selected. As was he. While for him it would be the end of his life, for them it would be the beginning. The Bonus they would receive would allow them to move into the Midden and away from the Ghetto. This meant better jobs, better lives. Medicine, long denied, would be free. Education would be mandatory and welcomed. Careers, whatever they were, would be an option for his brothers and sisters and their children after them. The Bonus from a Truly Great One was nearly equal to the wealth of the Small Great Ones. It would transform his family's life. That was why he had volunteered.
His musings were brought up short as he realized the tapping of the pikes had stopped. He stood now before a hall lined with Great Ones. On a raised platform ahead, the Truly Great One that would accept his Ascension waited. She looked about thirty or so, but he knew she was much older. The honour guard stopped and one motioned for him to move ahead. As he slowly walked the remaining steps he mused inwardly about the contradictions he saw. Electric lamps lit the hall and music, softly playing from overhead speakers seemed in contrast to the ancient stone columns and costumes worn by those in attendance. He didn't know where the pageantry came from or when it started. He just kept his head down, like a supplicant asking for a favour from the gods themselves.
He reached the steps and stopped. The Question was asked. Was he willing? Yes, he was willing, almost anxious, for this. He knew that his sacrifice would propel his family and that, once completed, his name would be remembered forever. Not by Her, not by the Truly Great One. She wouldn't care. He would be remembered by his family as his life paid for theirs, and their lives would be reborn. He smiled inwardly, sad but pleased that he had escaped the destitute poverty that had enslaved his family for generations but sad and hating the world that made this sacrifice necessary.
The Question asked. He was permitted to look once upon the face of the Truly Great One, so she would (it was hoped) would appreciate the Ascension's cost. For those watching, the scene would be one they had all seen many times before. He lifted his six year old head and, unashamed, proud and certain, stared into the eyes of the Great Empress Cleopatra, the Truly Great One who, in a few minutes would consume his flesh and be reborn as a teenager in her own body.
|
This reminds me of that movie "In Time"... man that thing was not good. What a waste of a premise though.
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[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
|
"It's humane, they are spared from the experience of their pitiful lives, while ours, worth living, are lengthened".
I tried to make him, the old man in front of me, understand. We have done this before, over and over and over, and never a problem. Now here he is with perhaps 5 years left to live. 5 *old* years, not even 5 good ones like the feeding stock have.
It *is* humane. Without us, their time would have been spent eking out an existence through scavenging, or simply sold to some other, far more painful, end (and God forbid they turn out to be physically attractive). Our feedstock were some of the best treated in our community. We feed them good, nutritious, healthy food, vitamin supplements - *supplemented home fed* is the term - where is the moral dilemma?
"You realize you are, physically, the oldest person in our family by, easily 3 decades right? You won't have too much to work with as it is."
There have been studies done that show that the age, and physical state of your feedstock does have some correlation with the anti-aging effect, but regardless, for a given food item the effect is around the same of reversing the physical aging process by about 20 years. Now here is my confused, old-as-hell brother, 4 years younger than me and 50 years older, with *at least* two food items to *fully consume* in the next 5 years, if that. I've done the math, that's an average caloric intake of 800 calories per day in *feedstock alone*. Then the anti-aging process takes time to! It's getting down to crunch-time for him.
"For the love of God say *something*."
He looked at me, and I will never forget this, and simply said:
"I'm okay with dying like this, I'm not okay with living like this."
I think he had dementia.
|
*Ugh, is it that time again?* I thought, as flipped through my agenda. My PA had reminded me of it several times this month, but seeing the red cross marked on my agenda's Sunday afternoon still took me off guard.
It's not that I am feeling nervous or afraid. Heck, I've been seeing these appointments popping up in my agenda for the past fifteen centuries. I must have forgotten more of them than I remember. Living for centuries does that to a man's memory. You forget all sorts of stuff when you stretch out your life as I do. I vaguely remember my father's face. I think my mother's name began with a V. No matter. Their bones crumbled to dust before I made my first billion.
Captialism and natural selection have left us in our current state. The world is run by multinationals, and the multinationals are run by a small group of ruthless CEO's that have been working the same positions for decades. There is little to no change. Our latest addition is over two centuries old already. It's a dog eat dog world. Quite literally. And of all the dogs, I am the eldest.
"Please tell me it's a baby this time," I say, suppressing a sigh of weariness. It never does to show your underlings weakness.
"Sir?"
"The meal."
"Not quite, sir," Diane stammers, "But I've been told she was small for her age. Fifteen months. Worker family; deep in debt. Father is a-"
"I don't need to know the details. Just make sure the cook has her ready at noon."
"Yes sir." She takes a step backward, then turns on her heel and makes for the door of my office.
"Diane?" I ask, as she wrenches the door open with unnecessary force.
"Yes sir?"
"This time, don't forget to tell the cook that the meal has to be unrecognisable. If you age another twenty, you're bound to get too old for the job."
She blances, unable to voice a reply. Nodding her understanding, she pulls the door closed behind her.
I flip through the newspaper as I recollect my last meal. A boy of three years old. For whatever reason, the cook had thought it was a good idea to spit-roast him. Seeing the cadaver of a three-year-old boy seasoned in spruce and honey made me physically ill, and very upset. I 'donated' him to a local mobster that I needed to appease.
Diane, who was thirty five back then, and still beautiful, would have earned her own meal if she had overseen the process better. Bordering fifty six now, she would not make that mistake again. With a ten year interval between two meals, missing one of your opportunities is *costly*.
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[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
|
The chains binding his hands and feet made it awkward to move. They weren't uncomfortable as the velvet padding made them almost luxurious to wear. As he shuffled along slowly, the honour guard that walked with him maintained pace. He looked up at one briefly and then dropped his head again. They wore ancient, colourful uniforms, red, gray and white, with puffy pants and strange hats. Each carried a pike, a symbol of a world long past, that as they took a step together was gently tapped on the floor. Tap, tap, tap, tap.
It wasn't macabre, as he had thought it would be. The Final Walk was filled with solemn ceremony. It had begun when he presented himself a week ago. By law, his last week was to be one of opulence and decadent luxury. He had thought it would be better than it turned out to be. If he were older, he suspected, then the choices he would have had might have been different but as a child, the rich foods and nearly naked women meant almost nothing. He had enjoyed playing the Xbox and getting to eat all the sweets that had always been denied him. The women seemed at a bit of a loss but he had been comforted by them being there.
Then the morning of the Ascension came. He was bathed, dressed in the finest clothes and now was being escorted to his death. It wasn't as bad, he decided, as I expected. He thought back to his family. They were the reason he was here, after all. Ascension was that rare chance for a family to change their fate. As with most families that lived in extreme poverty, their choices were limited. You could work in the mills or factories started at ten years old, broken and worn out by fifteen. If you were lucky, you could be selected for the militia and perhaps survive the harsh training to become a Soldier. About ten percent did.
Food, shelter, medicine were all whatever you could buy or steal. Only the Immortals and their Servants got whatever they wanted. From the time he could walk, he knew that he didn't want to live a life of hopelessness and abject poverty. He could see what that had done to his parents, his brother and sisters. The Immortals might be hundreds or even thousands of years old but his family were the ones who looked it. Broken and worn out, the light had long left their eyes as the accepted their fate.
Then came the Lottery. It was nearly unheard of that one of the Truly Great Ones was looking for Renewal. It only happened every thirty or forty years that a Great One sought renewal but the Truly Great Ones had their own breeding stock. They never had to reach outside their own fiefdoms. So when the word came down that Lottery was offered he had immediately volunteered.
At first his parents had protested. "Too young!" they had cried but he knew those were false tears. In reality they were desperate for him to be Selected. As was he. While for him it would be the end of his life, for them it would be the beginning. The Bonus they would receive would allow them to move into the Midden and away from the Ghetto. This meant better jobs, better lives. Medicine, long denied, would be free. Education would be mandatory and welcomed. Careers, whatever they were, would be an option for his brothers and sisters and their children after them. The Bonus from a Truly Great One was nearly equal to the wealth of the Small Great Ones. It would transform his family's life. That was why he had volunteered.
His musings were brought up short as he realized the tapping of the pikes had stopped. He stood now before a hall lined with Great Ones. On a raised platform ahead, the Truly Great One that would accept his Ascension waited. She looked about thirty or so, but he knew she was much older. The honour guard stopped and one motioned for him to move ahead. As he slowly walked the remaining steps he mused inwardly about the contradictions he saw. Electric lamps lit the hall and music, softly playing from overhead speakers seemed in contrast to the ancient stone columns and costumes worn by those in attendance. He didn't know where the pageantry came from or when it started. He just kept his head down, like a supplicant asking for a favour from the gods themselves.
He reached the steps and stopped. The Question was asked. Was he willing? Yes, he was willing, almost anxious, for this. He knew that his sacrifice would propel his family and that, once completed, his name would be remembered forever. Not by Her, not by the Truly Great One. She wouldn't care. He would be remembered by his family as his life paid for theirs, and their lives would be reborn. He smiled inwardly, sad but pleased that he had escaped the destitute poverty that had enslaved his family for generations but sad and hating the world that made this sacrifice necessary.
The Question asked. He was permitted to look once upon the face of the Truly Great One, so she would (it was hoped) would appreciate the Ascension's cost. For those watching, the scene would be one they had all seen many times before. He lifted his six year old head and, unashamed, proud and certain, stared into the eyes of the Great Empress Cleopatra, the Truly Great One who, in a few minutes would consume his flesh and be reborn as a teenager in her own body.
|
*Ugh, is it that time again?* I thought, as flipped through my agenda. My PA had reminded me of it several times this month, but seeing the red cross marked on my agenda's Sunday afternoon still took me off guard.
It's not that I am feeling nervous or afraid. Heck, I've been seeing these appointments popping up in my agenda for the past fifteen centuries. I must have forgotten more of them than I remember. Living for centuries does that to a man's memory. You forget all sorts of stuff when you stretch out your life as I do. I vaguely remember my father's face. I think my mother's name began with a V. No matter. Their bones crumbled to dust before I made my first billion.
Captialism and natural selection have left us in our current state. The world is run by multinationals, and the multinationals are run by a small group of ruthless CEO's that have been working the same positions for decades. There is little to no change. Our latest addition is over two centuries old already. It's a dog eat dog world. Quite literally. And of all the dogs, I am the eldest.
"Please tell me it's a baby this time," I say, suppressing a sigh of weariness. It never does to show your underlings weakness.
"Sir?"
"The meal."
"Not quite, sir," Diane stammers, "But I've been told she was small for her age. Fifteen months. Worker family; deep in debt. Father is a-"
"I don't need to know the details. Just make sure the cook has her ready at noon."
"Yes sir." She takes a step backward, then turns on her heel and makes for the door of my office.
"Diane?" I ask, as she wrenches the door open with unnecessary force.
"Yes sir?"
"This time, don't forget to tell the cook that the meal has to be unrecognisable. If you age another twenty, you're bound to get too old for the job."
She blances, unable to voice a reply. Nodding her understanding, she pulls the door closed behind her.
I flip through the newspaper as I recollect my last meal. A boy of three years old. For whatever reason, the cook had thought it was a good idea to spit-roast him. Seeing the cadaver of a three-year-old boy seasoned in spruce and honey made me physically ill, and very upset. I 'donated' him to a local mobster that I needed to appease.
Diane, who was thirty five back then, and still beautiful, would have earned her own meal if she had overseen the process better. Bordering fifty six now, she would not make that mistake again. With a ten year interval between two meals, missing one of your opportunities is *costly*.
|
|
[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
|
"It's humane, they are spared from the experience of their pitiful lives, while ours, worth living, are lengthened".
I tried to make him, the old man in front of me, understand. We have done this before, over and over and over, and never a problem. Now here he is with perhaps 5 years left to live. 5 *old* years, not even 5 good ones like the feeding stock have.
It *is* humane. Without us, their time would have been spent eking out an existence through scavenging, or simply sold to some other, far more painful, end (and God forbid they turn out to be physically attractive). Our feedstock were some of the best treated in our community. We feed them good, nutritious, healthy food, vitamin supplements - *supplemented home fed* is the term - where is the moral dilemma?
"You realize you are, physically, the oldest person in our family by, easily 3 decades right? You won't have too much to work with as it is."
There have been studies done that show that the age, and physical state of your feedstock does have some correlation with the anti-aging effect, but regardless, for a given food item the effect is around the same of reversing the physical aging process by about 20 years. Now here is my confused, old-as-hell brother, 4 years younger than me and 50 years older, with *at least* two food items to *fully consume* in the next 5 years, if that. I've done the math, that's an average caloric intake of 800 calories per day in *feedstock alone*. Then the anti-aging process takes time to! It's getting down to crunch-time for him.
"For the love of God say *something*."
He looked at me, and I will never forget this, and simply said:
"I'm okay with dying like this, I'm not okay with living like this."
I think he had dementia.
|
"Eat it!" Ryo commanded.
"Please...no, I don't want to......" begged the fat boy. "I...I will give you anything you want! Please...please.....I can't eat anymore"
"Well dear sir, my motivation was never money..." Ryo's voice trailing away.
The fat boy knew his fate has been sealed and started feeding again reluctantly.
Ryo stared blankly and mocked "Bon appetit monsieur, I guess your delicious wife will now make you..........negative 6 years old?"
|
|
[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
|
The chains binding his hands and feet made it awkward to move. They weren't uncomfortable as the velvet padding made them almost luxurious to wear. As he shuffled along slowly, the honour guard that walked with him maintained pace. He looked up at one briefly and then dropped his head again. They wore ancient, colourful uniforms, red, gray and white, with puffy pants and strange hats. Each carried a pike, a symbol of a world long past, that as they took a step together was gently tapped on the floor. Tap, tap, tap, tap.
It wasn't macabre, as he had thought it would be. The Final Walk was filled with solemn ceremony. It had begun when he presented himself a week ago. By law, his last week was to be one of opulence and decadent luxury. He had thought it would be better than it turned out to be. If he were older, he suspected, then the choices he would have had might have been different but as a child, the rich foods and nearly naked women meant almost nothing. He had enjoyed playing the Xbox and getting to eat all the sweets that had always been denied him. The women seemed at a bit of a loss but he had been comforted by them being there.
Then the morning of the Ascension came. He was bathed, dressed in the finest clothes and now was being escorted to his death. It wasn't as bad, he decided, as I expected. He thought back to his family. They were the reason he was here, after all. Ascension was that rare chance for a family to change their fate. As with most families that lived in extreme poverty, their choices were limited. You could work in the mills or factories started at ten years old, broken and worn out by fifteen. If you were lucky, you could be selected for the militia and perhaps survive the harsh training to become a Soldier. About ten percent did.
Food, shelter, medicine were all whatever you could buy or steal. Only the Immortals and their Servants got whatever they wanted. From the time he could walk, he knew that he didn't want to live a life of hopelessness and abject poverty. He could see what that had done to his parents, his brother and sisters. The Immortals might be hundreds or even thousands of years old but his family were the ones who looked it. Broken and worn out, the light had long left their eyes as the accepted their fate.
Then came the Lottery. It was nearly unheard of that one of the Truly Great Ones was looking for Renewal. It only happened every thirty or forty years that a Great One sought renewal but the Truly Great Ones had their own breeding stock. They never had to reach outside their own fiefdoms. So when the word came down that Lottery was offered he had immediately volunteered.
At first his parents had protested. "Too young!" they had cried but he knew those were false tears. In reality they were desperate for him to be Selected. As was he. While for him it would be the end of his life, for them it would be the beginning. The Bonus they would receive would allow them to move into the Midden and away from the Ghetto. This meant better jobs, better lives. Medicine, long denied, would be free. Education would be mandatory and welcomed. Careers, whatever they were, would be an option for his brothers and sisters and their children after them. The Bonus from a Truly Great One was nearly equal to the wealth of the Small Great Ones. It would transform his family's life. That was why he had volunteered.
His musings were brought up short as he realized the tapping of the pikes had stopped. He stood now before a hall lined with Great Ones. On a raised platform ahead, the Truly Great One that would accept his Ascension waited. She looked about thirty or so, but he knew she was much older. The honour guard stopped and one motioned for him to move ahead. As he slowly walked the remaining steps he mused inwardly about the contradictions he saw. Electric lamps lit the hall and music, softly playing from overhead speakers seemed in contrast to the ancient stone columns and costumes worn by those in attendance. He didn't know where the pageantry came from or when it started. He just kept his head down, like a supplicant asking for a favour from the gods themselves.
He reached the steps and stopped. The Question was asked. Was he willing? Yes, he was willing, almost anxious, for this. He knew that his sacrifice would propel his family and that, once completed, his name would be remembered forever. Not by Her, not by the Truly Great One. She wouldn't care. He would be remembered by his family as his life paid for theirs, and their lives would be reborn. He smiled inwardly, sad but pleased that he had escaped the destitute poverty that had enslaved his family for generations but sad and hating the world that made this sacrifice necessary.
The Question asked. He was permitted to look once upon the face of the Truly Great One, so she would (it was hoped) would appreciate the Ascension's cost. For those watching, the scene would be one they had all seen many times before. He lifted his six year old head and, unashamed, proud and certain, stared into the eyes of the Great Empress Cleopatra, the Truly Great One who, in a few minutes would consume his flesh and be reborn as a teenager in her own body.
|
"Eat it!" Ryo commanded.
"Please...no, I don't want to......" begged the fat boy. "I...I will give you anything you want! Please...please.....I can't eat anymore"
"Well dear sir, my motivation was never money..." Ryo's voice trailing away.
The fat boy knew his fate has been sealed and started feeding again reluctantly.
Ryo stared blankly and mocked "Bon appetit monsieur, I guess your delicious wife will now make you..........negative 6 years old?"
|
|
[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
|
As soon as the first ray of light hit Jeremy's face, he lifted himself out of bed and started his morning routine. He washed his face, made himself some coffee, turned on his screen and checked the news and his life-account.
The screen was filled with numbers and graphs that he had learned to understand naturally.
His account balance was at 0$, as it always was at the end of every day.
His life expectancy was approximately one day shorter than the day before.
And his lottery tickets' value was unnoticeably cheaper than the day before too.
He sold his daily ticket, watched his account balance go up to two digits and went on with his Wednesday.
Unlike every other day of the week, Wednesdays involved Jeremy leaving his house for a couple of hours. A couple of hours that he spent at the gym, which had been proven to reduce heart attack risks, one of the few unsolved challenges of modern medicine. He disliked going to the gym, but he felt it was a worthy time investment in order increase his life expectancy numbers. But what he disliked even more than running on a machine and lifting weights, was the fact that on the way to the gym, he had to go through the worker's class neighbourhood. He had to see all those beautiful houses and social status that he didn't have. For some reason he was much more comfortable in his side of town, filled with addiction centers and homeless people who owned nothing but their screens. Decadency wasn't all that bad once crime was taken out of the equation.
" A life of leisure is worth it." He reminded himself every week as he grinded through Wednesdays. And it was. Until one day, on his screen, he got a dreaded notification. Sarah's ticket had been drafted. Her sister. Drafted. His eyes widened and lingered at the popup window well after it had dissapeared.
He cried in fear for several minutes until he started to recompose himself. More so than mourning of the now inevitable death of her sister, what made him deeply uncomfortable was that it could happen to him. It had never been a real possibility in his mind before, winning the lottery, it was always something that happened to some one-hundred-billionth of an unlucky bastard.
The shock had fooled him into fear for a couple of minutes, until the initial shock wore off, which allowed him to remind himself that the odds of winning the lottery are lower than being struck by lightning.
Even then, doubts lingered in his head: of all hundred billion humans, fate chose my sister? He started wondering whether Sarah had overdosed, and shortly after, he was convinced of it. His curiosity filled his head for the days after the event, why would she need so much money? How many tickets did she even sell? What did she do with all that money?
Unfortunately, since congress passed the Private Lottery Act. Lottery inforrmation was no longer public, and deaths were only notified to next of kin, which meant that he wasn't able to find out by querying the World Wide Database. And he knew better than to call her sister to ask. She was already gone. Saying your goodbyes to someone who has won the lottery is never worth the risk they say.
He only started really considering calling Sarah once it was too late, she had been taken and harvested shortly after he was notified, a quick death, lotteries had been hastening their harvest times after the spike in runaways due to the passing of the Act.
After he made peace with her Sister's death, Jeremy began to get involved in the addiction scene by volunteering in a nearby center, he became fascinated with it, more in a morbid sense than in a altruist one. By day he talked to addicts and help them out of their selling frenzy before it was too late, while by night he spent countless hours searching for the biggest ticket sellers. Jeremy knew every single one of the top ticket seller's listed in the World Wide Database, it now never changed anymore due to the ceasing of information collection. So he had learned everything about each one of them. Every single one of which, was dead. He kept scrolling down and down and he couldn't find a single one of them alive.
They all eventually get drafted, some even just skip the lottery and sell their body to wealthy buyers. It had stopped being surprising to him after just a week. He had seen the pattern, hundreds of times, addicts showed them their screens with millions of dollars, each of them with their own different reasons to spend their money, but they all have in common the fact that they never stop. They are insatiable, and the odds are against them, they keep rolling the billion faced dice until it lands on the wrong face. They all think they are the unluckiest person in the world, but they don't know they are doomed, and that there are millions of others like them.
With time, funding for the addiction centers slowly dropped. The problem had become much less evident, and since total social disconnection happened way before death in most cases, people where in the dark regarding most deaths.
Slowly, far after Jeremy died, and his descendants died, and enough descendants died so that Jeremy's name was last uttered. Natural selection did its thing, and a breed of humanity that was immune to addiction was born, a breed of humanity immune to procrastination, immune to unwanted pregnancy, immune to bad decisions powered by their shortmindedness. Where the legacy of impulse and primality existed merely in history classrooms as an abstract concept, where they were just stories that gathered no empathy, because who would empathize with a person who cannot control himself?
"That doesn't make sense" kids would say, "if they didn't want to die, why not just stop selling tickets?" And a teacher who unknowingly didn't understand either, would try to explain primal impulses to the child, and would get frustrated when he doesn't understand. But at least the child knows he doesn't understand, all the teacher did was give the phenomenon a word, he didn't understand either.
And no wave of extinction would ever give humans the power to understand their ancestors either. Although the last humans were quite adept at understanding their ignorance. Which is a very noble goal to have accomplished before the world ended together with the last star in the Milky Way.
|
I smiled. I loved to smile. I did it a lot.
No one else seemed to though, not a soul I'd seen anyway. Every time I came to find them, they seemed surprised, fearful, horrified, frantic. But they never smiled. I liked that they never smiled. I liked it a lot, and I think they would've... tainted it.
I leaned forward, the knife barely digging into the skin of the fat pig I'd found. It squealed and squealed. It begged and it pleaded. It offered me money, but I already had enough tinder to start my fires.
I killed him. I liked to do that too. Kill. And I cooked him, and he was so succulent and tasty. I was angry that they'd stolen this solidarity I once had. They found something in eternity pleasing, but I'd eye'd that prize long before they had. I had been the only one, the first, and then they stole my idea.
But they were sloppy, and lazy. They had to have other people hunt for them. Which only proved their incompetence, because that had always been the best part.
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[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
|
I felt horrible. As I walked out, I left the door open. I could see the next guy in the corridor sitting there with a grin on his face. I looked to the door leading out of the department, then back at the guy. As our eyes locked, he could see the disappointment I had in myself, but he didn't care. He had his German built car sitting in the parking garage outside, and probably made enough money to ensure his kids, and their kids, and maybe even their kids too, could get the same treatment. He was a happy fucker with no morals. But I'd been on the line. I'd been in that position, but the only reason I'd received the red letter of approval was, according to the lady at the medical centre, because some guy had lost his job and got dropped from the scheme. It had pushed me up into his position. My wages weren't all that great, but I was a little younger, and had, as they saw it, potential. It's not like I had a choice anyway. If you didn't go through with it, you were judged to be like one of them. They called those people vagrants, and they would find it harder to get a job, and thus the cycle of human slavery continued.
What I'd done wasn't physically hard. I mean, it wasn't like it tasted like... human. It was like a maltshake. I'd opted for butterscotch, but it didn't make it any more palatable. Who was this person, what was their story? As I took the final gulp, those thoughts raced through my head. But it was over now, I could stroll out the door and not look back for another 20 years. I reached the end of the corridor, opened the door, and stepped out into the warm sunshine, in our perfect little world.
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I smiled. I loved to smile. I did it a lot.
No one else seemed to though, not a soul I'd seen anyway. Every time I came to find them, they seemed surprised, fearful, horrified, frantic. But they never smiled. I liked that they never smiled. I liked it a lot, and I think they would've... tainted it.
I leaned forward, the knife barely digging into the skin of the fat pig I'd found. It squealed and squealed. It begged and it pleaded. It offered me money, but I already had enough tinder to start my fires.
I killed him. I liked to do that too. Kill. And I cooked him, and he was so succulent and tasty. I was angry that they'd stolen this solidarity I once had. They found something in eternity pleasing, but I'd eye'd that prize long before they had. I had been the only one, the first, and then they stole my idea.
But they were sloppy, and lazy. They had to have other people hunt for them. Which only proved their incompetence, because that had always been the best part.
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[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
|
The woman looked down her nose at the selection of meat on offer. She didn't like wandering further out but her normal butcher was shut and she needed a good cut to offer her guests.
"I don't suppose you have any girl available, I need something succulent and juicy"
"Sorry darling we're fresh out, although could I tempt you with a few legs of age 17 boy, all free range of course"
"No that won't do at all..."
Everyone knew teenage boy was one of the lower cuts, to much sinew plus something about the hormones altered the taste.
She looked the butcher up and down, he was a jolly man with a round face, plenty of meat on his bones. A good amount of fat to, her mouth began to water as she imagined the crackling flesh.
"Miss, Miss, you zoned out for a bit there. Look I'll go and have a look in the back see if I can find anything special for you"
"Thank you, much appreciated but I have my eye on a specific cut"
She began to slide the thin blade from the sheath at her thigh, hidden beneath the low folds of her dress
Her guests would eat well tonight
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I smiled. I loved to smile. I did it a lot.
No one else seemed to though, not a soul I'd seen anyway. Every time I came to find them, they seemed surprised, fearful, horrified, frantic. But they never smiled. I liked that they never smiled. I liked it a lot, and I think they would've... tainted it.
I leaned forward, the knife barely digging into the skin of the fat pig I'd found. It squealed and squealed. It begged and it pleaded. It offered me money, but I already had enough tinder to start my fires.
I killed him. I liked to do that too. Kill. And I cooked him, and he was so succulent and tasty. I was angry that they'd stolen this solidarity I once had. They found something in eternity pleasing, but I'd eye'd that prize long before they had. I had been the only one, the first, and then they stole my idea.
But they were sloppy, and lazy. They had to have other people hunt for them. Which only proved their incompetence, because that had always been the best part.
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[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
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"It's humane, they are spared from the experience of their pitiful lives, while ours, worth living, are lengthened".
I tried to make him, the old man in front of me, understand. We have done this before, over and over and over, and never a problem. Now here he is with perhaps 5 years left to live. 5 *old* years, not even 5 good ones like the feeding stock have.
It *is* humane. Without us, their time would have been spent eking out an existence through scavenging, or simply sold to some other, far more painful, end (and God forbid they turn out to be physically attractive). Our feedstock were some of the best treated in our community. We feed them good, nutritious, healthy food, vitamin supplements - *supplemented home fed* is the term - where is the moral dilemma?
"You realize you are, physically, the oldest person in our family by, easily 3 decades right? You won't have too much to work with as it is."
There have been studies done that show that the age, and physical state of your feedstock does have some correlation with the anti-aging effect, but regardless, for a given food item the effect is around the same of reversing the physical aging process by about 20 years. Now here is my confused, old-as-hell brother, 4 years younger than me and 50 years older, with *at least* two food items to *fully consume* in the next 5 years, if that. I've done the math, that's an average caloric intake of 800 calories per day in *feedstock alone*. Then the anti-aging process takes time to! It's getting down to crunch-time for him.
"For the love of God say *something*."
He looked at me, and I will never forget this, and simply said:
"I'm okay with dying like this, I'm not okay with living like this."
I think he had dementia.
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I smiled. I loved to smile. I did it a lot.
No one else seemed to though, not a soul I'd seen anyway. Every time I came to find them, they seemed surprised, fearful, horrified, frantic. But they never smiled. I liked that they never smiled. I liked it a lot, and I think they would've... tainted it.
I leaned forward, the knife barely digging into the skin of the fat pig I'd found. It squealed and squealed. It begged and it pleaded. It offered me money, but I already had enough tinder to start my fires.
I killed him. I liked to do that too. Kill. And I cooked him, and he was so succulent and tasty. I was angry that they'd stolen this solidarity I once had. They found something in eternity pleasing, but I'd eye'd that prize long before they had. I had been the only one, the first, and then they stole my idea.
But they were sloppy, and lazy. They had to have other people hunt for them. Which only proved their incompetence, because that had always been the best part.
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[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
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*New from Anthrophage Industries:*
*Have you noticed the lines around your eyes? Those grey hairs getting you down?*
*Time for you to take action the Anthrophage way. Easy to use, available in pre portioned simple open packaging for easy consumption. No longer will you have the storage issues with the other 120lbs or so of donor material as our small, clean packages are easy to store in your freezer.*
*We screen all donor material for CJD, and other prion diseases for a comfortable and safe eternal youth.*
He read the ad again looked carefully at the stack of boxes on his doorstep. The plain packaging giving no indication of the contents. He padded over to the stack swigging the end of his, now cold, coffee. He crouched down and pulled the rip tab to open the topmost box. Inside, neatly stacked in plain, ready meal tubs was his "Donor Material". He stood up and walked back to his kitchen and absent-mindedly placing his cup by the microwave. Turing the packet over and over the opaque white film was giving nothing away. He shrugged and pierced the lid with a knife grabbed from the knife-block. The microwave door slammed closed and he walked away as it reheated.
A piece of paper poked out unnoticed from the box on the mat. On it was a single line, scrawled in blue biro.
*A phone number and the words "her name was Elise".*
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I smiled. I loved to smile. I did it a lot.
No one else seemed to though, not a soul I'd seen anyway. Every time I came to find them, they seemed surprised, fearful, horrified, frantic. But they never smiled. I liked that they never smiled. I liked it a lot, and I think they would've... tainted it.
I leaned forward, the knife barely digging into the skin of the fat pig I'd found. It squealed and squealed. It begged and it pleaded. It offered me money, but I already had enough tinder to start my fires.
I killed him. I liked to do that too. Kill. And I cooked him, and he was so succulent and tasty. I was angry that they'd stolen this solidarity I once had. They found something in eternity pleasing, but I'd eye'd that prize long before they had. I had been the only one, the first, and then they stole my idea.
But they were sloppy, and lazy. They had to have other people hunt for them. Which only proved their incompetence, because that had always been the best part.
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[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
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While it might seem barbaric to an outsider looking in, it became perfectly acceptable over a period of a hundred years. Brilliant minds, beloved celebrities, the Rich, successful Politicians, all benefited and over time this society trickled down towards the middleclass, enabling the benefit of many millions more the world over. Humanity seemed to be on the precipice of another sudden great advancement and looked prepared to spread through the stars.
The poor who willingly gave themselves up, were treated as royalty for the short period they had left, laws and regulations kept in place that they might be protected from abuse. Individuals who had incurable diseases or repeated offenders were also on the butchers bill, able to provide their family with a means of escaping poverty on behalf of their sacrifice. It became a bit of a sensation, everybody benefited and it was regulated intently.
Then, the disaster occured. There was no initial scientific explaination, but the world over reported a very sudden decrease in reproduction statistics; babies were simply not surviving. Tests upon tests were completed while people rioted in the streets for answers, the wealthy held on tightly to anyone willing to sacrifice themselves while the middle-class was left to suffer the consequences.
The 'Civil World War' broke out upon the announcement of a theory. "No souls can escape after being consumed."
(hopefully the separation works? I don't know how to do the line thing. First time submitting a WP. )
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I smiled. I loved to smile. I did it a lot.
No one else seemed to though, not a soul I'd seen anyway. Every time I came to find them, they seemed surprised, fearful, horrified, frantic. But they never smiled. I liked that they never smiled. I liked it a lot, and I think they would've... tainted it.
I leaned forward, the knife barely digging into the skin of the fat pig I'd found. It squealed and squealed. It begged and it pleaded. It offered me money, but I already had enough tinder to start my fires.
I killed him. I liked to do that too. Kill. And I cooked him, and he was so succulent and tasty. I was angry that they'd stolen this solidarity I once had. They found something in eternity pleasing, but I'd eye'd that prize long before they had. I had been the only one, the first, and then they stole my idea.
But they were sloppy, and lazy. They had to have other people hunt for them. Which only proved their incompetence, because that had always been the best part.
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[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
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The chains binding his hands and feet made it awkward to move. They weren't uncomfortable as the velvet padding made them almost luxurious to wear. As he shuffled along slowly, the honour guard that walked with him maintained pace. He looked up at one briefly and then dropped his head again. They wore ancient, colourful uniforms, red, gray and white, with puffy pants and strange hats. Each carried a pike, a symbol of a world long past, that as they took a step together was gently tapped on the floor. Tap, tap, tap, tap.
It wasn't macabre, as he had thought it would be. The Final Walk was filled with solemn ceremony. It had begun when he presented himself a week ago. By law, his last week was to be one of opulence and decadent luxury. He had thought it would be better than it turned out to be. If he were older, he suspected, then the choices he would have had might have been different but as a child, the rich foods and nearly naked women meant almost nothing. He had enjoyed playing the Xbox and getting to eat all the sweets that had always been denied him. The women seemed at a bit of a loss but he had been comforted by them being there.
Then the morning of the Ascension came. He was bathed, dressed in the finest clothes and now was being escorted to his death. It wasn't as bad, he decided, as I expected. He thought back to his family. They were the reason he was here, after all. Ascension was that rare chance for a family to change their fate. As with most families that lived in extreme poverty, their choices were limited. You could work in the mills or factories started at ten years old, broken and worn out by fifteen. If you were lucky, you could be selected for the militia and perhaps survive the harsh training to become a Soldier. About ten percent did.
Food, shelter, medicine were all whatever you could buy or steal. Only the Immortals and their Servants got whatever they wanted. From the time he could walk, he knew that he didn't want to live a life of hopelessness and abject poverty. He could see what that had done to his parents, his brother and sisters. The Immortals might be hundreds or even thousands of years old but his family were the ones who looked it. Broken and worn out, the light had long left their eyes as the accepted their fate.
Then came the Lottery. It was nearly unheard of that one of the Truly Great Ones was looking for Renewal. It only happened every thirty or forty years that a Great One sought renewal but the Truly Great Ones had their own breeding stock. They never had to reach outside their own fiefdoms. So when the word came down that Lottery was offered he had immediately volunteered.
At first his parents had protested. "Too young!" they had cried but he knew those were false tears. In reality they were desperate for him to be Selected. As was he. While for him it would be the end of his life, for them it would be the beginning. The Bonus they would receive would allow them to move into the Midden and away from the Ghetto. This meant better jobs, better lives. Medicine, long denied, would be free. Education would be mandatory and welcomed. Careers, whatever they were, would be an option for his brothers and sisters and their children after them. The Bonus from a Truly Great One was nearly equal to the wealth of the Small Great Ones. It would transform his family's life. That was why he had volunteered.
His musings were brought up short as he realized the tapping of the pikes had stopped. He stood now before a hall lined with Great Ones. On a raised platform ahead, the Truly Great One that would accept his Ascension waited. She looked about thirty or so, but he knew she was much older. The honour guard stopped and one motioned for him to move ahead. As he slowly walked the remaining steps he mused inwardly about the contradictions he saw. Electric lamps lit the hall and music, softly playing from overhead speakers seemed in contrast to the ancient stone columns and costumes worn by those in attendance. He didn't know where the pageantry came from or when it started. He just kept his head down, like a supplicant asking for a favour from the gods themselves.
He reached the steps and stopped. The Question was asked. Was he willing? Yes, he was willing, almost anxious, for this. He knew that his sacrifice would propel his family and that, once completed, his name would be remembered forever. Not by Her, not by the Truly Great One. She wouldn't care. He would be remembered by his family as his life paid for theirs, and their lives would be reborn. He smiled inwardly, sad but pleased that he had escaped the destitute poverty that had enslaved his family for generations but sad and hating the world that made this sacrifice necessary.
The Question asked. He was permitted to look once upon the face of the Truly Great One, so she would (it was hoped) would appreciate the Ascension's cost. For those watching, the scene would be one they had all seen many times before. He lifted his six year old head and, unashamed, proud and certain, stared into the eyes of the Great Empress Cleopatra, the Truly Great One who, in a few minutes would consume his flesh and be reborn as a teenager in her own body.
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I smiled. I loved to smile. I did it a lot.
No one else seemed to though, not a soul I'd seen anyway. Every time I came to find them, they seemed surprised, fearful, horrified, frantic. But they never smiled. I liked that they never smiled. I liked it a lot, and I think they would've... tainted it.
I leaned forward, the knife barely digging into the skin of the fat pig I'd found. It squealed and squealed. It begged and it pleaded. It offered me money, but I already had enough tinder to start my fires.
I killed him. I liked to do that too. Kill. And I cooked him, and he was so succulent and tasty. I was angry that they'd stolen this solidarity I once had. They found something in eternity pleasing, but I'd eye'd that prize long before they had. I had been the only one, the first, and then they stole my idea.
But they were sloppy, and lazy. They had to have other people hunt for them. Which only proved their incompetence, because that had always been the best part.
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[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
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'Well, you see it's been theorised for sometime now. Before here, I was a scientist and—'
'Yeah, well that didn't keep you from here egghead!' The tall bulky man gestured at the cage they sat in.
The three of them sat in a cage in the corner of a bustling kitchen. On the bench in front of them lay the arms of a man who'd previously been sitting with them. That was a day ago. His legs were seen hanging by butcher hooks on the other side of the room, in the fridge.
Diego cracked his shoulders. Diego was the tall bulky guy. A good guy. Under the old standards he would've been a sports star. His build and looks were of a favourable appearance, which meant he was of a higher calibre. He'd be slow roasted for sure.
The doc, Mitch, was scrawny. Often the scrawny ones were described as gamey. He had a mild twitch as a kid, which given their current predicament, had turned into the equivalent of chewing an ever renewing piece of gum.
Lance sat between both of them, not really bulky, not really skinny. Not even an everyman. Just a dude who was now food.
He stared at the chef preparing their friend from the other day. He was making incisions along the forearm and putting in rosemary and lavender. The chef handle it with care. All preconceived notions of handling human meat had been lost when it became apparent that you could gain time on this rock.
'What were you saying, Mitch, about the lifespan thing?' said Lance. That's where he'd been headed. Lance had heard about it too.
'W..we know now that you add on 20 years from eating a person, or h..human meat at least. But no one has eaten a person who has eaten other people... Well, not *publicly*. Cause you see, they r..reckon these people that've already lived for years and years and years and eaten all these people. Have amassed like *thousands* of years. And there's even more rumours of some mutated gene that is making these people superhuman. From all this eating and growing, it's expanded into other areas. Anyways, the question is how long would you live if you ate one of—'
At that moment the doors to the kitchen burst open. The nearest chef removed the arms on the bench in front of them and placed a lead and taser.
'It's how you keep *them*, you see,' spoke the leading man. He was their farmer. Michael Philcott. He was a wealthy something year old, who'd been eating people for many a year now. He always took his guest on a tour of his kitchen. A few times he'd even led the cow to slaughter...
'I like to keep them here, they get acclimatised to their environment. I feel the unknown just breeds fear. And fear my friends, is not tasty. No, no ,no,' he laughed.
Mitch tried to crush himself further into the corner. Diego cracked his shoulders again. Lance thumbed the locket in his pant pocket.
'Here they are! A prime range!' said Michael. He stood above them, over them, showing them off to his guests. They oohed and aahed, all staring hungrily at their next 20 years. Michael turned back and rested his eyes on Lance, a gleam in his eye.
'I think he looks like a winner, don't you say?'
Lance followed the trail of the finger to his own chest. He stood up, bent down to tie his shoelace.
'Anyone ever throw ball park figures out there, Mitch?'
Mitch's white face lost even more colour.
'Oh look! This one is ready! I say, I'm sure even I could lead this one out!' he said. His guests egged him on and offered encouragement. Michael turned to the table behind him and picked up the lead and taser. He moved towards the door and pressed in his code. Diego and Mitch were restrained where they sat.
The door clicked unlocked.
'Absolutely marvellous! Look at him dropping his head, really submissive this one! I won't even need the taser! You know, after a while, I think they just accept their fate. They understand how life works now.' he said.
Lance slid his feet along, moving through the gate, he neared Michael. Michael raised the lead up towards Lance's neck, it would clamp shut as soon as it had sensed his flesh. But this move also made Michael's neck vulnerable...
Lance leapt forward into Michael, tackling him across the bench. His manoeuvre had caught all present off guard. Before anyone could react, Lance was tearing into Michael's throat. His teeth chomped quickly on the rubbery squishy meat and swallowed. He lent with all his force on Michael's stomach and pushed the life out of him. He drank the blood from the open cavity that had previously been Michael's throat and felt stronger. Much stronger. He teared at the throat with new vigour as everyone began to pull him off their dead host.
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I smiled. I loved to smile. I did it a lot.
No one else seemed to though, not a soul I'd seen anyway. Every time I came to find them, they seemed surprised, fearful, horrified, frantic. But they never smiled. I liked that they never smiled. I liked it a lot, and I think they would've... tainted it.
I leaned forward, the knife barely digging into the skin of the fat pig I'd found. It squealed and squealed. It begged and it pleaded. It offered me money, but I already had enough tinder to start my fires.
I killed him. I liked to do that too. Kill. And I cooked him, and he was so succulent and tasty. I was angry that they'd stolen this solidarity I once had. They found something in eternity pleasing, but I'd eye'd that prize long before they had. I had been the only one, the first, and then they stole my idea.
But they were sloppy, and lazy. They had to have other people hunt for them. Which only proved their incompetence, because that had always been the best part.
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[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
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For a long time, it was seen as a horrible crime against nature. To kill a person, only to add more years to your life? It could only be called inhumane. But there were those who secretly did it, who had done research on these effects.
Eating a person? 20 years. But what was defined as a person? Soon the wealthy found a way to become younger, only a few years at a time. It was unnoticeable. But as the years ticked by, it became less and less obvious. But by then it was too late. The wealthy had complete control.
Part one.
Wilfred Ruinfield, Age 376. For the past few centuries, he had maintained the form of a man in his mid twenties, living his life in the Hollywood Hills in his Oceanside mansion. However, for the past few years, he has been de-aging at a slow rate, and now has the body of a child of three years.
We have been unable to determine the cause of Mr Ruinfields symptoms, considering how he has not consumed a living being in many years. At first we suspected that someone had been tampering with his food supply, but even after he had begun to make it himself, symptoms continued. At current rate, subject will be unable to take care of himself in several months.
Resume regular testing.
Part two.
Wilfred was scared. Now in a body of a baby, one only a few months old, he could no longer take care of himself. At the hospital he was being tested at, he was now tucked away in a crib, in the most secure location. But when would they find what was wrong with him?
At that moment, the door opened, but nobody entered. Confused, Wilfred looked around, but could see no one. However, he could sense that someone was in here with him. Where could he be?
Standing by the cage, the woman revealed herself. She was smiling, but the smile never reached her eyes, which were like ice. "We are the same" she said, reaching down and opening the babies mouth. "Both of us have eaten others to survive.".
Pulling out a syringe, she placed it near the babies mouth. It tried to struggle, but the liquid inside sprayed out into it's mouth. It began to squirm, it's eyes wide in horror, asking why. "A consintrated dose" she replied. "I usually gave you the blood of a single innocent, but today, this contains the blood of twenty.".
The baby began to shrink, smaller and smaller, until it disappeared completely. The woman turned around, and became invisible once again. She had killed the first of many, in the way most fitting for those who had eaten others to survive. She would soon select her next target, and the cycle would begin again. And when all of it was over, she would leave this world.
For it was a monster, who hunted the monsters.
Edit: stupid auto correct
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I smiled. I loved to smile. I did it a lot.
No one else seemed to though, not a soul I'd seen anyway. Every time I came to find them, they seemed surprised, fearful, horrified, frantic. But they never smiled. I liked that they never smiled. I liked it a lot, and I think they would've... tainted it.
I leaned forward, the knife barely digging into the skin of the fat pig I'd found. It squealed and squealed. It begged and it pleaded. It offered me money, but I already had enough tinder to start my fires.
I killed him. I liked to do that too. Kill. And I cooked him, and he was so succulent and tasty. I was angry that they'd stolen this solidarity I once had. They found something in eternity pleasing, but I'd eye'd that prize long before they had. I had been the only one, the first, and then they stole my idea.
But they were sloppy, and lazy. They had to have other people hunt for them. Which only proved their incompetence, because that had always been the best part.
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[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
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"It's humane, they are spared from the experience of their pitiful lives, while ours, worth living, are lengthened".
I tried to make him, the old man in front of me, understand. We have done this before, over and over and over, and never a problem. Now here he is with perhaps 5 years left to live. 5 *old* years, not even 5 good ones like the feeding stock have.
It *is* humane. Without us, their time would have been spent eking out an existence through scavenging, or simply sold to some other, far more painful, end (and God forbid they turn out to be physically attractive). Our feedstock were some of the best treated in our community. We feed them good, nutritious, healthy food, vitamin supplements - *supplemented home fed* is the term - where is the moral dilemma?
"You realize you are, physically, the oldest person in our family by, easily 3 decades right? You won't have too much to work with as it is."
There have been studies done that show that the age, and physical state of your feedstock does have some correlation with the anti-aging effect, but regardless, for a given food item the effect is around the same of reversing the physical aging process by about 20 years. Now here is my confused, old-as-hell brother, 4 years younger than me and 50 years older, with *at least* two food items to *fully consume* in the next 5 years, if that. I've done the math, that's an average caloric intake of 800 calories per day in *feedstock alone*. Then the anti-aging process takes time to! It's getting down to crunch-time for him.
"For the love of God say *something*."
He looked at me, and I will never forget this, and simply said:
"I'm okay with dying like this, I'm not okay with living like this."
I think he had dementia.
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As soon as the first ray of light hit Jeremy's face, he lifted himself out of bed and started his morning routine. He washed his face, made himself some coffee, turned on his screen and checked the news and his life-account.
The screen was filled with numbers and graphs that he had learned to understand naturally.
His account balance was at 0$, as it always was at the end of every day.
His life expectancy was approximately one day shorter than the day before.
And his lottery tickets' value was unnoticeably cheaper than the day before too.
He sold his daily ticket, watched his account balance go up to two digits and went on with his Wednesday.
Unlike every other day of the week, Wednesdays involved Jeremy leaving his house for a couple of hours. A couple of hours that he spent at the gym, which had been proven to reduce heart attack risks, one of the few unsolved challenges of modern medicine. He disliked going to the gym, but he felt it was a worthy time investment in order increase his life expectancy numbers. But what he disliked even more than running on a machine and lifting weights, was the fact that on the way to the gym, he had to go through the worker's class neighbourhood. He had to see all those beautiful houses and social status that he didn't have. For some reason he was much more comfortable in his side of town, filled with addiction centers and homeless people who owned nothing but their screens. Decadency wasn't all that bad once crime was taken out of the equation.
" A life of leisure is worth it." He reminded himself every week as he grinded through Wednesdays. And it was. Until one day, on his screen, he got a dreaded notification. Sarah's ticket had been drafted. Her sister. Drafted. His eyes widened and lingered at the popup window well after it had dissapeared.
He cried in fear for several minutes until he started to recompose himself. More so than mourning of the now inevitable death of her sister, what made him deeply uncomfortable was that it could happen to him. It had never been a real possibility in his mind before, winning the lottery, it was always something that happened to some one-hundred-billionth of an unlucky bastard.
The shock had fooled him into fear for a couple of minutes, until the initial shock wore off, which allowed him to remind himself that the odds of winning the lottery are lower than being struck by lightning.
Even then, doubts lingered in his head: of all hundred billion humans, fate chose my sister? He started wondering whether Sarah had overdosed, and shortly after, he was convinced of it. His curiosity filled his head for the days after the event, why would she need so much money? How many tickets did she even sell? What did she do with all that money?
Unfortunately, since congress passed the Private Lottery Act. Lottery inforrmation was no longer public, and deaths were only notified to next of kin, which meant that he wasn't able to find out by querying the World Wide Database. And he knew better than to call her sister to ask. She was already gone. Saying your goodbyes to someone who has won the lottery is never worth the risk they say.
He only started really considering calling Sarah once it was too late, she had been taken and harvested shortly after he was notified, a quick death, lotteries had been hastening their harvest times after the spike in runaways due to the passing of the Act.
After he made peace with her Sister's death, Jeremy began to get involved in the addiction scene by volunteering in a nearby center, he became fascinated with it, more in a morbid sense than in a altruist one. By day he talked to addicts and help them out of their selling frenzy before it was too late, while by night he spent countless hours searching for the biggest ticket sellers. Jeremy knew every single one of the top ticket seller's listed in the World Wide Database, it now never changed anymore due to the ceasing of information collection. So he had learned everything about each one of them. Every single one of which, was dead. He kept scrolling down and down and he couldn't find a single one of them alive.
They all eventually get drafted, some even just skip the lottery and sell their body to wealthy buyers. It had stopped being surprising to him after just a week. He had seen the pattern, hundreds of times, addicts showed them their screens with millions of dollars, each of them with their own different reasons to spend their money, but they all have in common the fact that they never stop. They are insatiable, and the odds are against them, they keep rolling the billion faced dice until it lands on the wrong face. They all think they are the unluckiest person in the world, but they don't know they are doomed, and that there are millions of others like them.
With time, funding for the addiction centers slowly dropped. The problem had become much less evident, and since total social disconnection happened way before death in most cases, people where in the dark regarding most deaths.
Slowly, far after Jeremy died, and his descendants died, and enough descendants died so that Jeremy's name was last uttered. Natural selection did its thing, and a breed of humanity that was immune to addiction was born, a breed of humanity immune to procrastination, immune to unwanted pregnancy, immune to bad decisions powered by their shortmindedness. Where the legacy of impulse and primality existed merely in history classrooms as an abstract concept, where they were just stories that gathered no empathy, because who would empathize with a person who cannot control himself?
"That doesn't make sense" kids would say, "if they didn't want to die, why not just stop selling tickets?" And a teacher who unknowingly didn't understand either, would try to explain primal impulses to the child, and would get frustrated when he doesn't understand. But at least the child knows he doesn't understand, all the teacher did was give the phenomenon a word, he didn't understand either.
And no wave of extinction would ever give humans the power to understand their ancestors either. Although the last humans were quite adept at understanding their ignorance. Which is a very noble goal to have accomplished before the world ended together with the last star in the Milky Way.
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[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
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The chains binding his hands and feet made it awkward to move. They weren't uncomfortable as the velvet padding made them almost luxurious to wear. As he shuffled along slowly, the honour guard that walked with him maintained pace. He looked up at one briefly and then dropped his head again. They wore ancient, colourful uniforms, red, gray and white, with puffy pants and strange hats. Each carried a pike, a symbol of a world long past, that as they took a step together was gently tapped on the floor. Tap, tap, tap, tap.
It wasn't macabre, as he had thought it would be. The Final Walk was filled with solemn ceremony. It had begun when he presented himself a week ago. By law, his last week was to be one of opulence and decadent luxury. He had thought it would be better than it turned out to be. If he were older, he suspected, then the choices he would have had might have been different but as a child, the rich foods and nearly naked women meant almost nothing. He had enjoyed playing the Xbox and getting to eat all the sweets that had always been denied him. The women seemed at a bit of a loss but he had been comforted by them being there.
Then the morning of the Ascension came. He was bathed, dressed in the finest clothes and now was being escorted to his death. It wasn't as bad, he decided, as I expected. He thought back to his family. They were the reason he was here, after all. Ascension was that rare chance for a family to change their fate. As with most families that lived in extreme poverty, their choices were limited. You could work in the mills or factories started at ten years old, broken and worn out by fifteen. If you were lucky, you could be selected for the militia and perhaps survive the harsh training to become a Soldier. About ten percent did.
Food, shelter, medicine were all whatever you could buy or steal. Only the Immortals and their Servants got whatever they wanted. From the time he could walk, he knew that he didn't want to live a life of hopelessness and abject poverty. He could see what that had done to his parents, his brother and sisters. The Immortals might be hundreds or even thousands of years old but his family were the ones who looked it. Broken and worn out, the light had long left their eyes as the accepted their fate.
Then came the Lottery. It was nearly unheard of that one of the Truly Great Ones was looking for Renewal. It only happened every thirty or forty years that a Great One sought renewal but the Truly Great Ones had their own breeding stock. They never had to reach outside their own fiefdoms. So when the word came down that Lottery was offered he had immediately volunteered.
At first his parents had protested. "Too young!" they had cried but he knew those were false tears. In reality they were desperate for him to be Selected. As was he. While for him it would be the end of his life, for them it would be the beginning. The Bonus they would receive would allow them to move into the Midden and away from the Ghetto. This meant better jobs, better lives. Medicine, long denied, would be free. Education would be mandatory and welcomed. Careers, whatever they were, would be an option for his brothers and sisters and their children after them. The Bonus from a Truly Great One was nearly equal to the wealth of the Small Great Ones. It would transform his family's life. That was why he had volunteered.
His musings were brought up short as he realized the tapping of the pikes had stopped. He stood now before a hall lined with Great Ones. On a raised platform ahead, the Truly Great One that would accept his Ascension waited. She looked about thirty or so, but he knew she was much older. The honour guard stopped and one motioned for him to move ahead. As he slowly walked the remaining steps he mused inwardly about the contradictions he saw. Electric lamps lit the hall and music, softly playing from overhead speakers seemed in contrast to the ancient stone columns and costumes worn by those in attendance. He didn't know where the pageantry came from or when it started. He just kept his head down, like a supplicant asking for a favour from the gods themselves.
He reached the steps and stopped. The Question was asked. Was he willing? Yes, he was willing, almost anxious, for this. He knew that his sacrifice would propel his family and that, once completed, his name would be remembered forever. Not by Her, not by the Truly Great One. She wouldn't care. He would be remembered by his family as his life paid for theirs, and their lives would be reborn. He smiled inwardly, sad but pleased that he had escaped the destitute poverty that had enslaved his family for generations but sad and hating the world that made this sacrifice necessary.
The Question asked. He was permitted to look once upon the face of the Truly Great One, so she would (it was hoped) would appreciate the Ascension's cost. For those watching, the scene would be one they had all seen many times before. He lifted his six year old head and, unashamed, proud and certain, stared into the eyes of the Great Empress Cleopatra, the Truly Great One who, in a few minutes would consume his flesh and be reborn as a teenager in her own body.
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As soon as the first ray of light hit Jeremy's face, he lifted himself out of bed and started his morning routine. He washed his face, made himself some coffee, turned on his screen and checked the news and his life-account.
The screen was filled with numbers and graphs that he had learned to understand naturally.
His account balance was at 0$, as it always was at the end of every day.
His life expectancy was approximately one day shorter than the day before.
And his lottery tickets' value was unnoticeably cheaper than the day before too.
He sold his daily ticket, watched his account balance go up to two digits and went on with his Wednesday.
Unlike every other day of the week, Wednesdays involved Jeremy leaving his house for a couple of hours. A couple of hours that he spent at the gym, which had been proven to reduce heart attack risks, one of the few unsolved challenges of modern medicine. He disliked going to the gym, but he felt it was a worthy time investment in order increase his life expectancy numbers. But what he disliked even more than running on a machine and lifting weights, was the fact that on the way to the gym, he had to go through the worker's class neighbourhood. He had to see all those beautiful houses and social status that he didn't have. For some reason he was much more comfortable in his side of town, filled with addiction centers and homeless people who owned nothing but their screens. Decadency wasn't all that bad once crime was taken out of the equation.
" A life of leisure is worth it." He reminded himself every week as he grinded through Wednesdays. And it was. Until one day, on his screen, he got a dreaded notification. Sarah's ticket had been drafted. Her sister. Drafted. His eyes widened and lingered at the popup window well after it had dissapeared.
He cried in fear for several minutes until he started to recompose himself. More so than mourning of the now inevitable death of her sister, what made him deeply uncomfortable was that it could happen to him. It had never been a real possibility in his mind before, winning the lottery, it was always something that happened to some one-hundred-billionth of an unlucky bastard.
The shock had fooled him into fear for a couple of minutes, until the initial shock wore off, which allowed him to remind himself that the odds of winning the lottery are lower than being struck by lightning.
Even then, doubts lingered in his head: of all hundred billion humans, fate chose my sister? He started wondering whether Sarah had overdosed, and shortly after, he was convinced of it. His curiosity filled his head for the days after the event, why would she need so much money? How many tickets did she even sell? What did she do with all that money?
Unfortunately, since congress passed the Private Lottery Act. Lottery inforrmation was no longer public, and deaths were only notified to next of kin, which meant that he wasn't able to find out by querying the World Wide Database. And he knew better than to call her sister to ask. She was already gone. Saying your goodbyes to someone who has won the lottery is never worth the risk they say.
He only started really considering calling Sarah once it was too late, she had been taken and harvested shortly after he was notified, a quick death, lotteries had been hastening their harvest times after the spike in runaways due to the passing of the Act.
After he made peace with her Sister's death, Jeremy began to get involved in the addiction scene by volunteering in a nearby center, he became fascinated with it, more in a morbid sense than in a altruist one. By day he talked to addicts and help them out of their selling frenzy before it was too late, while by night he spent countless hours searching for the biggest ticket sellers. Jeremy knew every single one of the top ticket seller's listed in the World Wide Database, it now never changed anymore due to the ceasing of information collection. So he had learned everything about each one of them. Every single one of which, was dead. He kept scrolling down and down and he couldn't find a single one of them alive.
They all eventually get drafted, some even just skip the lottery and sell their body to wealthy buyers. It had stopped being surprising to him after just a week. He had seen the pattern, hundreds of times, addicts showed them their screens with millions of dollars, each of them with their own different reasons to spend their money, but they all have in common the fact that they never stop. They are insatiable, and the odds are against them, they keep rolling the billion faced dice until it lands on the wrong face. They all think they are the unluckiest person in the world, but they don't know they are doomed, and that there are millions of others like them.
With time, funding for the addiction centers slowly dropped. The problem had become much less evident, and since total social disconnection happened way before death in most cases, people where in the dark regarding most deaths.
Slowly, far after Jeremy died, and his descendants died, and enough descendants died so that Jeremy's name was last uttered. Natural selection did its thing, and a breed of humanity that was immune to addiction was born, a breed of humanity immune to procrastination, immune to unwanted pregnancy, immune to bad decisions powered by their shortmindedness. Where the legacy of impulse and primality existed merely in history classrooms as an abstract concept, where they were just stories that gathered no empathy, because who would empathize with a person who cannot control himself?
"That doesn't make sense" kids would say, "if they didn't want to die, why not just stop selling tickets?" And a teacher who unknowingly didn't understand either, would try to explain primal impulses to the child, and would get frustrated when he doesn't understand. But at least the child knows he doesn't understand, all the teacher did was give the phenomenon a word, he didn't understand either.
And no wave of extinction would ever give humans the power to understand their ancestors either. Although the last humans were quite adept at understanding their ignorance. Which is a very noble goal to have accomplished before the world ended together with the last star in the Milky Way.
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[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
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"It's humane, they are spared from the experience of their pitiful lives, while ours, worth living, are lengthened".
I tried to make him, the old man in front of me, understand. We have done this before, over and over and over, and never a problem. Now here he is with perhaps 5 years left to live. 5 *old* years, not even 5 good ones like the feeding stock have.
It *is* humane. Without us, their time would have been spent eking out an existence through scavenging, or simply sold to some other, far more painful, end (and God forbid they turn out to be physically attractive). Our feedstock were some of the best treated in our community. We feed them good, nutritious, healthy food, vitamin supplements - *supplemented home fed* is the term - where is the moral dilemma?
"You realize you are, physically, the oldest person in our family by, easily 3 decades right? You won't have too much to work with as it is."
There have been studies done that show that the age, and physical state of your feedstock does have some correlation with the anti-aging effect, but regardless, for a given food item the effect is around the same of reversing the physical aging process by about 20 years. Now here is my confused, old-as-hell brother, 4 years younger than me and 50 years older, with *at least* two food items to *fully consume* in the next 5 years, if that. I've done the math, that's an average caloric intake of 800 calories per day in *feedstock alone*. Then the anti-aging process takes time to! It's getting down to crunch-time for him.
"For the love of God say *something*."
He looked at me, and I will never forget this, and simply said:
"I'm okay with dying like this, I'm not okay with living like this."
I think he had dementia.
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I felt horrible. As I walked out, I left the door open. I could see the next guy in the corridor sitting there with a grin on his face. I looked to the door leading out of the department, then back at the guy. As our eyes locked, he could see the disappointment I had in myself, but he didn't care. He had his German built car sitting in the parking garage outside, and probably made enough money to ensure his kids, and their kids, and maybe even their kids too, could get the same treatment. He was a happy fucker with no morals. But I'd been on the line. I'd been in that position, but the only reason I'd received the red letter of approval was, according to the lady at the medical centre, because some guy had lost his job and got dropped from the scheme. It had pushed me up into his position. My wages weren't all that great, but I was a little younger, and had, as they saw it, potential. It's not like I had a choice anyway. If you didn't go through with it, you were judged to be like one of them. They called those people vagrants, and they would find it harder to get a job, and thus the cycle of human slavery continued.
What I'd done wasn't physically hard. I mean, it wasn't like it tasted like... human. It was like a maltshake. I'd opted for butterscotch, but it didn't make it any more palatable. Who was this person, what was their story? As I took the final gulp, those thoughts raced through my head. But it was over now, I could stroll out the door and not look back for another 20 years. I reached the end of the corridor, opened the door, and stepped out into the warm sunshine, in our perfect little world.
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[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
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*New from Anthrophage Industries:*
*Have you noticed the lines around your eyes? Those grey hairs getting you down?*
*Time for you to take action the Anthrophage way. Easy to use, available in pre portioned simple open packaging for easy consumption. No longer will you have the storage issues with the other 120lbs or so of donor material as our small, clean packages are easy to store in your freezer.*
*We screen all donor material for CJD, and other prion diseases for a comfortable and safe eternal youth.*
He read the ad again looked carefully at the stack of boxes on his doorstep. The plain packaging giving no indication of the contents. He padded over to the stack swigging the end of his, now cold, coffee. He crouched down and pulled the rip tab to open the topmost box. Inside, neatly stacked in plain, ready meal tubs was his "Donor Material". He stood up and walked back to his kitchen and absent-mindedly placing his cup by the microwave. Turing the packet over and over the opaque white film was giving nothing away. He shrugged and pierced the lid with a knife grabbed from the knife-block. The microwave door slammed closed and he walked away as it reheated.
A piece of paper poked out unnoticed from the box on the mat. On it was a single line, scrawled in blue biro.
*A phone number and the words "her name was Elise".*
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I felt horrible. As I walked out, I left the door open. I could see the next guy in the corridor sitting there with a grin on his face. I looked to the door leading out of the department, then back at the guy. As our eyes locked, he could see the disappointment I had in myself, but he didn't care. He had his German built car sitting in the parking garage outside, and probably made enough money to ensure his kids, and their kids, and maybe even their kids too, could get the same treatment. He was a happy fucker with no morals. But I'd been on the line. I'd been in that position, but the only reason I'd received the red letter of approval was, according to the lady at the medical centre, because some guy had lost his job and got dropped from the scheme. It had pushed me up into his position. My wages weren't all that great, but I was a little younger, and had, as they saw it, potential. It's not like I had a choice anyway. If you didn't go through with it, you were judged to be like one of them. They called those people vagrants, and they would find it harder to get a job, and thus the cycle of human slavery continued.
What I'd done wasn't physically hard. I mean, it wasn't like it tasted like... human. It was like a maltshake. I'd opted for butterscotch, but it didn't make it any more palatable. Who was this person, what was their story? As I took the final gulp, those thoughts raced through my head. But it was over now, I could stroll out the door and not look back for another 20 years. I reached the end of the corridor, opened the door, and stepped out into the warm sunshine, in our perfect little world.
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[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
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While it might seem barbaric to an outsider looking in, it became perfectly acceptable over a period of a hundred years. Brilliant minds, beloved celebrities, the Rich, successful Politicians, all benefited and over time this society trickled down towards the middleclass, enabling the benefit of many millions more the world over. Humanity seemed to be on the precipice of another sudden great advancement and looked prepared to spread through the stars.
The poor who willingly gave themselves up, were treated as royalty for the short period they had left, laws and regulations kept in place that they might be protected from abuse. Individuals who had incurable diseases or repeated offenders were also on the butchers bill, able to provide their family with a means of escaping poverty on behalf of their sacrifice. It became a bit of a sensation, everybody benefited and it was regulated intently.
Then, the disaster occured. There was no initial scientific explaination, but the world over reported a very sudden decrease in reproduction statistics; babies were simply not surviving. Tests upon tests were completed while people rioted in the streets for answers, the wealthy held on tightly to anyone willing to sacrifice themselves while the middle-class was left to suffer the consequences.
The 'Civil World War' broke out upon the announcement of a theory. "No souls can escape after being consumed."
(hopefully the separation works? I don't know how to do the line thing. First time submitting a WP. )
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I felt horrible. As I walked out, I left the door open. I could see the next guy in the corridor sitting there with a grin on his face. I looked to the door leading out of the department, then back at the guy. As our eyes locked, he could see the disappointment I had in myself, but he didn't care. He had his German built car sitting in the parking garage outside, and probably made enough money to ensure his kids, and their kids, and maybe even their kids too, could get the same treatment. He was a happy fucker with no morals. But I'd been on the line. I'd been in that position, but the only reason I'd received the red letter of approval was, according to the lady at the medical centre, because some guy had lost his job and got dropped from the scheme. It had pushed me up into his position. My wages weren't all that great, but I was a little younger, and had, as they saw it, potential. It's not like I had a choice anyway. If you didn't go through with it, you were judged to be like one of them. They called those people vagrants, and they would find it harder to get a job, and thus the cycle of human slavery continued.
What I'd done wasn't physically hard. I mean, it wasn't like it tasted like... human. It was like a maltshake. I'd opted for butterscotch, but it didn't make it any more palatable. Who was this person, what was their story? As I took the final gulp, those thoughts raced through my head. But it was over now, I could stroll out the door and not look back for another 20 years. I reached the end of the corridor, opened the door, and stepped out into the warm sunshine, in our perfect little world.
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[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
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The chains binding his hands and feet made it awkward to move. They weren't uncomfortable as the velvet padding made them almost luxurious to wear. As he shuffled along slowly, the honour guard that walked with him maintained pace. He looked up at one briefly and then dropped his head again. They wore ancient, colourful uniforms, red, gray and white, with puffy pants and strange hats. Each carried a pike, a symbol of a world long past, that as they took a step together was gently tapped on the floor. Tap, tap, tap, tap.
It wasn't macabre, as he had thought it would be. The Final Walk was filled with solemn ceremony. It had begun when he presented himself a week ago. By law, his last week was to be one of opulence and decadent luxury. He had thought it would be better than it turned out to be. If he were older, he suspected, then the choices he would have had might have been different but as a child, the rich foods and nearly naked women meant almost nothing. He had enjoyed playing the Xbox and getting to eat all the sweets that had always been denied him. The women seemed at a bit of a loss but he had been comforted by them being there.
Then the morning of the Ascension came. He was bathed, dressed in the finest clothes and now was being escorted to his death. It wasn't as bad, he decided, as I expected. He thought back to his family. They were the reason he was here, after all. Ascension was that rare chance for a family to change their fate. As with most families that lived in extreme poverty, their choices were limited. You could work in the mills or factories started at ten years old, broken and worn out by fifteen. If you were lucky, you could be selected for the militia and perhaps survive the harsh training to become a Soldier. About ten percent did.
Food, shelter, medicine were all whatever you could buy or steal. Only the Immortals and their Servants got whatever they wanted. From the time he could walk, he knew that he didn't want to live a life of hopelessness and abject poverty. He could see what that had done to his parents, his brother and sisters. The Immortals might be hundreds or even thousands of years old but his family were the ones who looked it. Broken and worn out, the light had long left their eyes as the accepted their fate.
Then came the Lottery. It was nearly unheard of that one of the Truly Great Ones was looking for Renewal. It only happened every thirty or forty years that a Great One sought renewal but the Truly Great Ones had their own breeding stock. They never had to reach outside their own fiefdoms. So when the word came down that Lottery was offered he had immediately volunteered.
At first his parents had protested. "Too young!" they had cried but he knew those were false tears. In reality they were desperate for him to be Selected. As was he. While for him it would be the end of his life, for them it would be the beginning. The Bonus they would receive would allow them to move into the Midden and away from the Ghetto. This meant better jobs, better lives. Medicine, long denied, would be free. Education would be mandatory and welcomed. Careers, whatever they were, would be an option for his brothers and sisters and their children after them. The Bonus from a Truly Great One was nearly equal to the wealth of the Small Great Ones. It would transform his family's life. That was why he had volunteered.
His musings were brought up short as he realized the tapping of the pikes had stopped. He stood now before a hall lined with Great Ones. On a raised platform ahead, the Truly Great One that would accept his Ascension waited. She looked about thirty or so, but he knew she was much older. The honour guard stopped and one motioned for him to move ahead. As he slowly walked the remaining steps he mused inwardly about the contradictions he saw. Electric lamps lit the hall and music, softly playing from overhead speakers seemed in contrast to the ancient stone columns and costumes worn by those in attendance. He didn't know where the pageantry came from or when it started. He just kept his head down, like a supplicant asking for a favour from the gods themselves.
He reached the steps and stopped. The Question was asked. Was he willing? Yes, he was willing, almost anxious, for this. He knew that his sacrifice would propel his family and that, once completed, his name would be remembered forever. Not by Her, not by the Truly Great One. She wouldn't care. He would be remembered by his family as his life paid for theirs, and their lives would be reborn. He smiled inwardly, sad but pleased that he had escaped the destitute poverty that had enslaved his family for generations but sad and hating the world that made this sacrifice necessary.
The Question asked. He was permitted to look once upon the face of the Truly Great One, so she would (it was hoped) would appreciate the Ascension's cost. For those watching, the scene would be one they had all seen many times before. He lifted his six year old head and, unashamed, proud and certain, stared into the eyes of the Great Empress Cleopatra, the Truly Great One who, in a few minutes would consume his flesh and be reborn as a teenager in her own body.
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I felt horrible. As I walked out, I left the door open. I could see the next guy in the corridor sitting there with a grin on his face. I looked to the door leading out of the department, then back at the guy. As our eyes locked, he could see the disappointment I had in myself, but he didn't care. He had his German built car sitting in the parking garage outside, and probably made enough money to ensure his kids, and their kids, and maybe even their kids too, could get the same treatment. He was a happy fucker with no morals. But I'd been on the line. I'd been in that position, but the only reason I'd received the red letter of approval was, according to the lady at the medical centre, because some guy had lost his job and got dropped from the scheme. It had pushed me up into his position. My wages weren't all that great, but I was a little younger, and had, as they saw it, potential. It's not like I had a choice anyway. If you didn't go through with it, you were judged to be like one of them. They called those people vagrants, and they would find it harder to get a job, and thus the cycle of human slavery continued.
What I'd done wasn't physically hard. I mean, it wasn't like it tasted like... human. It was like a maltshake. I'd opted for butterscotch, but it didn't make it any more palatable. Who was this person, what was their story? As I took the final gulp, those thoughts raced through my head. But it was over now, I could stroll out the door and not look back for another 20 years. I reached the end of the corridor, opened the door, and stepped out into the warm sunshine, in our perfect little world.
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[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
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'Well, you see it's been theorised for sometime now. Before here, I was a scientist and—'
'Yeah, well that didn't keep you from here egghead!' The tall bulky man gestured at the cage they sat in.
The three of them sat in a cage in the corner of a bustling kitchen. On the bench in front of them lay the arms of a man who'd previously been sitting with them. That was a day ago. His legs were seen hanging by butcher hooks on the other side of the room, in the fridge.
Diego cracked his shoulders. Diego was the tall bulky guy. A good guy. Under the old standards he would've been a sports star. His build and looks were of a favourable appearance, which meant he was of a higher calibre. He'd be slow roasted for sure.
The doc, Mitch, was scrawny. Often the scrawny ones were described as gamey. He had a mild twitch as a kid, which given their current predicament, had turned into the equivalent of chewing an ever renewing piece of gum.
Lance sat between both of them, not really bulky, not really skinny. Not even an everyman. Just a dude who was now food.
He stared at the chef preparing their friend from the other day. He was making incisions along the forearm and putting in rosemary and lavender. The chef handle it with care. All preconceived notions of handling human meat had been lost when it became apparent that you could gain time on this rock.
'What were you saying, Mitch, about the lifespan thing?' said Lance. That's where he'd been headed. Lance had heard about it too.
'W..we know now that you add on 20 years from eating a person, or h..human meat at least. But no one has eaten a person who has eaten other people... Well, not *publicly*. Cause you see, they r..reckon these people that've already lived for years and years and years and eaten all these people. Have amassed like *thousands* of years. And there's even more rumours of some mutated gene that is making these people superhuman. From all this eating and growing, it's expanded into other areas. Anyways, the question is how long would you live if you ate one of—'
At that moment the doors to the kitchen burst open. The nearest chef removed the arms on the bench in front of them and placed a lead and taser.
'It's how you keep *them*, you see,' spoke the leading man. He was their farmer. Michael Philcott. He was a wealthy something year old, who'd been eating people for many a year now. He always took his guest on a tour of his kitchen. A few times he'd even led the cow to slaughter...
'I like to keep them here, they get acclimatised to their environment. I feel the unknown just breeds fear. And fear my friends, is not tasty. No, no ,no,' he laughed.
Mitch tried to crush himself further into the corner. Diego cracked his shoulders again. Lance thumbed the locket in his pant pocket.
'Here they are! A prime range!' said Michael. He stood above them, over them, showing them off to his guests. They oohed and aahed, all staring hungrily at their next 20 years. Michael turned back and rested his eyes on Lance, a gleam in his eye.
'I think he looks like a winner, don't you say?'
Lance followed the trail of the finger to his own chest. He stood up, bent down to tie his shoelace.
'Anyone ever throw ball park figures out there, Mitch?'
Mitch's white face lost even more colour.
'Oh look! This one is ready! I say, I'm sure even I could lead this one out!' he said. His guests egged him on and offered encouragement. Michael turned to the table behind him and picked up the lead and taser. He moved towards the door and pressed in his code. Diego and Mitch were restrained where they sat.
The door clicked unlocked.
'Absolutely marvellous! Look at him dropping his head, really submissive this one! I won't even need the taser! You know, after a while, I think they just accept their fate. They understand how life works now.' he said.
Lance slid his feet along, moving through the gate, he neared Michael. Michael raised the lead up towards Lance's neck, it would clamp shut as soon as it had sensed his flesh. But this move also made Michael's neck vulnerable...
Lance leapt forward into Michael, tackling him across the bench. His manoeuvre had caught all present off guard. Before anyone could react, Lance was tearing into Michael's throat. His teeth chomped quickly on the rubbery squishy meat and swallowed. He lent with all his force on Michael's stomach and pushed the life out of him. He drank the blood from the open cavity that had previously been Michael's throat and felt stronger. Much stronger. He teared at the throat with new vigour as everyone began to pull him off their dead host.
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I felt horrible. As I walked out, I left the door open. I could see the next guy in the corridor sitting there with a grin on his face. I looked to the door leading out of the department, then back at the guy. As our eyes locked, he could see the disappointment I had in myself, but he didn't care. He had his German built car sitting in the parking garage outside, and probably made enough money to ensure his kids, and their kids, and maybe even their kids too, could get the same treatment. He was a happy fucker with no morals. But I'd been on the line. I'd been in that position, but the only reason I'd received the red letter of approval was, according to the lady at the medical centre, because some guy had lost his job and got dropped from the scheme. It had pushed me up into his position. My wages weren't all that great, but I was a little younger, and had, as they saw it, potential. It's not like I had a choice anyway. If you didn't go through with it, you were judged to be like one of them. They called those people vagrants, and they would find it harder to get a job, and thus the cycle of human slavery continued.
What I'd done wasn't physically hard. I mean, it wasn't like it tasted like... human. It was like a maltshake. I'd opted for butterscotch, but it didn't make it any more palatable. Who was this person, what was their story? As I took the final gulp, those thoughts raced through my head. But it was over now, I could stroll out the door and not look back for another 20 years. I reached the end of the corridor, opened the door, and stepped out into the warm sunshine, in our perfect little world.
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[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
|
"It's humane, they are spared from the experience of their pitiful lives, while ours, worth living, are lengthened".
I tried to make him, the old man in front of me, understand. We have done this before, over and over and over, and never a problem. Now here he is with perhaps 5 years left to live. 5 *old* years, not even 5 good ones like the feeding stock have.
It *is* humane. Without us, their time would have been spent eking out an existence through scavenging, or simply sold to some other, far more painful, end (and God forbid they turn out to be physically attractive). Our feedstock were some of the best treated in our community. We feed them good, nutritious, healthy food, vitamin supplements - *supplemented home fed* is the term - where is the moral dilemma?
"You realize you are, physically, the oldest person in our family by, easily 3 decades right? You won't have too much to work with as it is."
There have been studies done that show that the age, and physical state of your feedstock does have some correlation with the anti-aging effect, but regardless, for a given food item the effect is around the same of reversing the physical aging process by about 20 years. Now here is my confused, old-as-hell brother, 4 years younger than me and 50 years older, with *at least* two food items to *fully consume* in the next 5 years, if that. I've done the math, that's an average caloric intake of 800 calories per day in *feedstock alone*. Then the anti-aging process takes time to! It's getting down to crunch-time for him.
"For the love of God say *something*."
He looked at me, and I will never forget this, and simply said:
"I'm okay with dying like this, I'm not okay with living like this."
I think he had dementia.
|
The woman looked down her nose at the selection of meat on offer. She didn't like wandering further out but her normal butcher was shut and she needed a good cut to offer her guests.
"I don't suppose you have any girl available, I need something succulent and juicy"
"Sorry darling we're fresh out, although could I tempt you with a few legs of age 17 boy, all free range of course"
"No that won't do at all..."
Everyone knew teenage boy was one of the lower cuts, to much sinew plus something about the hormones altered the taste.
She looked the butcher up and down, he was a jolly man with a round face, plenty of meat on his bones. A good amount of fat to, her mouth began to water as she imagined the crackling flesh.
"Miss, Miss, you zoned out for a bit there. Look I'll go and have a look in the back see if I can find anything special for you"
"Thank you, much appreciated but I have my eye on a specific cut"
She began to slide the thin blade from the sheath at her thigh, hidden beneath the low folds of her dress
Her guests would eat well tonight
|
|
[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
|
*New from Anthrophage Industries:*
*Have you noticed the lines around your eyes? Those grey hairs getting you down?*
*Time for you to take action the Anthrophage way. Easy to use, available in pre portioned simple open packaging for easy consumption. No longer will you have the storage issues with the other 120lbs or so of donor material as our small, clean packages are easy to store in your freezer.*
*We screen all donor material for CJD, and other prion diseases for a comfortable and safe eternal youth.*
He read the ad again looked carefully at the stack of boxes on his doorstep. The plain packaging giving no indication of the contents. He padded over to the stack swigging the end of his, now cold, coffee. He crouched down and pulled the rip tab to open the topmost box. Inside, neatly stacked in plain, ready meal tubs was his "Donor Material". He stood up and walked back to his kitchen and absent-mindedly placing his cup by the microwave. Turing the packet over and over the opaque white film was giving nothing away. He shrugged and pierced the lid with a knife grabbed from the knife-block. The microwave door slammed closed and he walked away as it reheated.
A piece of paper poked out unnoticed from the box on the mat. On it was a single line, scrawled in blue biro.
*A phone number and the words "her name was Elise".*
|
The woman looked down her nose at the selection of meat on offer. She didn't like wandering further out but her normal butcher was shut and she needed a good cut to offer her guests.
"I don't suppose you have any girl available, I need something succulent and juicy"
"Sorry darling we're fresh out, although could I tempt you with a few legs of age 17 boy, all free range of course"
"No that won't do at all..."
Everyone knew teenage boy was one of the lower cuts, to much sinew plus something about the hormones altered the taste.
She looked the butcher up and down, he was a jolly man with a round face, plenty of meat on his bones. A good amount of fat to, her mouth began to water as she imagined the crackling flesh.
"Miss, Miss, you zoned out for a bit there. Look I'll go and have a look in the back see if I can find anything special for you"
"Thank you, much appreciated but I have my eye on a specific cut"
She began to slide the thin blade from the sheath at her thigh, hidden beneath the low folds of her dress
Her guests would eat well tonight
|
|
[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
|
While it might seem barbaric to an outsider looking in, it became perfectly acceptable over a period of a hundred years. Brilliant minds, beloved celebrities, the Rich, successful Politicians, all benefited and over time this society trickled down towards the middleclass, enabling the benefit of many millions more the world over. Humanity seemed to be on the precipice of another sudden great advancement and looked prepared to spread through the stars.
The poor who willingly gave themselves up, were treated as royalty for the short period they had left, laws and regulations kept in place that they might be protected from abuse. Individuals who had incurable diseases or repeated offenders were also on the butchers bill, able to provide their family with a means of escaping poverty on behalf of their sacrifice. It became a bit of a sensation, everybody benefited and it was regulated intently.
Then, the disaster occured. There was no initial scientific explaination, but the world over reported a very sudden decrease in reproduction statistics; babies were simply not surviving. Tests upon tests were completed while people rioted in the streets for answers, the wealthy held on tightly to anyone willing to sacrifice themselves while the middle-class was left to suffer the consequences.
The 'Civil World War' broke out upon the announcement of a theory. "No souls can escape after being consumed."
(hopefully the separation works? I don't know how to do the line thing. First time submitting a WP. )
|
The woman looked down her nose at the selection of meat on offer. She didn't like wandering further out but her normal butcher was shut and she needed a good cut to offer her guests.
"I don't suppose you have any girl available, I need something succulent and juicy"
"Sorry darling we're fresh out, although could I tempt you with a few legs of age 17 boy, all free range of course"
"No that won't do at all..."
Everyone knew teenage boy was one of the lower cuts, to much sinew plus something about the hormones altered the taste.
She looked the butcher up and down, he was a jolly man with a round face, plenty of meat on his bones. A good amount of fat to, her mouth began to water as she imagined the crackling flesh.
"Miss, Miss, you zoned out for a bit there. Look I'll go and have a look in the back see if I can find anything special for you"
"Thank you, much appreciated but I have my eye on a specific cut"
She began to slide the thin blade from the sheath at her thigh, hidden beneath the low folds of her dress
Her guests would eat well tonight
|
|
[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
|
The chains binding his hands and feet made it awkward to move. They weren't uncomfortable as the velvet padding made them almost luxurious to wear. As he shuffled along slowly, the honour guard that walked with him maintained pace. He looked up at one briefly and then dropped his head again. They wore ancient, colourful uniforms, red, gray and white, with puffy pants and strange hats. Each carried a pike, a symbol of a world long past, that as they took a step together was gently tapped on the floor. Tap, tap, tap, tap.
It wasn't macabre, as he had thought it would be. The Final Walk was filled with solemn ceremony. It had begun when he presented himself a week ago. By law, his last week was to be one of opulence and decadent luxury. He had thought it would be better than it turned out to be. If he were older, he suspected, then the choices he would have had might have been different but as a child, the rich foods and nearly naked women meant almost nothing. He had enjoyed playing the Xbox and getting to eat all the sweets that had always been denied him. The women seemed at a bit of a loss but he had been comforted by them being there.
Then the morning of the Ascension came. He was bathed, dressed in the finest clothes and now was being escorted to his death. It wasn't as bad, he decided, as I expected. He thought back to his family. They were the reason he was here, after all. Ascension was that rare chance for a family to change their fate. As with most families that lived in extreme poverty, their choices were limited. You could work in the mills or factories started at ten years old, broken and worn out by fifteen. If you were lucky, you could be selected for the militia and perhaps survive the harsh training to become a Soldier. About ten percent did.
Food, shelter, medicine were all whatever you could buy or steal. Only the Immortals and their Servants got whatever they wanted. From the time he could walk, he knew that he didn't want to live a life of hopelessness and abject poverty. He could see what that had done to his parents, his brother and sisters. The Immortals might be hundreds or even thousands of years old but his family were the ones who looked it. Broken and worn out, the light had long left their eyes as the accepted their fate.
Then came the Lottery. It was nearly unheard of that one of the Truly Great Ones was looking for Renewal. It only happened every thirty or forty years that a Great One sought renewal but the Truly Great Ones had their own breeding stock. They never had to reach outside their own fiefdoms. So when the word came down that Lottery was offered he had immediately volunteered.
At first his parents had protested. "Too young!" they had cried but he knew those were false tears. In reality they were desperate for him to be Selected. As was he. While for him it would be the end of his life, for them it would be the beginning. The Bonus they would receive would allow them to move into the Midden and away from the Ghetto. This meant better jobs, better lives. Medicine, long denied, would be free. Education would be mandatory and welcomed. Careers, whatever they were, would be an option for his brothers and sisters and their children after them. The Bonus from a Truly Great One was nearly equal to the wealth of the Small Great Ones. It would transform his family's life. That was why he had volunteered.
His musings were brought up short as he realized the tapping of the pikes had stopped. He stood now before a hall lined with Great Ones. On a raised platform ahead, the Truly Great One that would accept his Ascension waited. She looked about thirty or so, but he knew she was much older. The honour guard stopped and one motioned for him to move ahead. As he slowly walked the remaining steps he mused inwardly about the contradictions he saw. Electric lamps lit the hall and music, softly playing from overhead speakers seemed in contrast to the ancient stone columns and costumes worn by those in attendance. He didn't know where the pageantry came from or when it started. He just kept his head down, like a supplicant asking for a favour from the gods themselves.
He reached the steps and stopped. The Question was asked. Was he willing? Yes, he was willing, almost anxious, for this. He knew that his sacrifice would propel his family and that, once completed, his name would be remembered forever. Not by Her, not by the Truly Great One. She wouldn't care. He would be remembered by his family as his life paid for theirs, and their lives would be reborn. He smiled inwardly, sad but pleased that he had escaped the destitute poverty that had enslaved his family for generations but sad and hating the world that made this sacrifice necessary.
The Question asked. He was permitted to look once upon the face of the Truly Great One, so she would (it was hoped) would appreciate the Ascension's cost. For those watching, the scene would be one they had all seen many times before. He lifted his six year old head and, unashamed, proud and certain, stared into the eyes of the Great Empress Cleopatra, the Truly Great One who, in a few minutes would consume his flesh and be reborn as a teenager in her own body.
|
The woman looked down her nose at the selection of meat on offer. She didn't like wandering further out but her normal butcher was shut and she needed a good cut to offer her guests.
"I don't suppose you have any girl available, I need something succulent and juicy"
"Sorry darling we're fresh out, although could I tempt you with a few legs of age 17 boy, all free range of course"
"No that won't do at all..."
Everyone knew teenage boy was one of the lower cuts, to much sinew plus something about the hormones altered the taste.
She looked the butcher up and down, he was a jolly man with a round face, plenty of meat on his bones. A good amount of fat to, her mouth began to water as she imagined the crackling flesh.
"Miss, Miss, you zoned out for a bit there. Look I'll go and have a look in the back see if I can find anything special for you"
"Thank you, much appreciated but I have my eye on a specific cut"
She began to slide the thin blade from the sheath at her thigh, hidden beneath the low folds of her dress
Her guests would eat well tonight
|
|
[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
|
'Well, you see it's been theorised for sometime now. Before here, I was a scientist and—'
'Yeah, well that didn't keep you from here egghead!' The tall bulky man gestured at the cage they sat in.
The three of them sat in a cage in the corner of a bustling kitchen. On the bench in front of them lay the arms of a man who'd previously been sitting with them. That was a day ago. His legs were seen hanging by butcher hooks on the other side of the room, in the fridge.
Diego cracked his shoulders. Diego was the tall bulky guy. A good guy. Under the old standards he would've been a sports star. His build and looks were of a favourable appearance, which meant he was of a higher calibre. He'd be slow roasted for sure.
The doc, Mitch, was scrawny. Often the scrawny ones were described as gamey. He had a mild twitch as a kid, which given their current predicament, had turned into the equivalent of chewing an ever renewing piece of gum.
Lance sat between both of them, not really bulky, not really skinny. Not even an everyman. Just a dude who was now food.
He stared at the chef preparing their friend from the other day. He was making incisions along the forearm and putting in rosemary and lavender. The chef handle it with care. All preconceived notions of handling human meat had been lost when it became apparent that you could gain time on this rock.
'What were you saying, Mitch, about the lifespan thing?' said Lance. That's where he'd been headed. Lance had heard about it too.
'W..we know now that you add on 20 years from eating a person, or h..human meat at least. But no one has eaten a person who has eaten other people... Well, not *publicly*. Cause you see, they r..reckon these people that've already lived for years and years and years and eaten all these people. Have amassed like *thousands* of years. And there's even more rumours of some mutated gene that is making these people superhuman. From all this eating and growing, it's expanded into other areas. Anyways, the question is how long would you live if you ate one of—'
At that moment the doors to the kitchen burst open. The nearest chef removed the arms on the bench in front of them and placed a lead and taser.
'It's how you keep *them*, you see,' spoke the leading man. He was their farmer. Michael Philcott. He was a wealthy something year old, who'd been eating people for many a year now. He always took his guest on a tour of his kitchen. A few times he'd even led the cow to slaughter...
'I like to keep them here, they get acclimatised to their environment. I feel the unknown just breeds fear. And fear my friends, is not tasty. No, no ,no,' he laughed.
Mitch tried to crush himself further into the corner. Diego cracked his shoulders again. Lance thumbed the locket in his pant pocket.
'Here they are! A prime range!' said Michael. He stood above them, over them, showing them off to his guests. They oohed and aahed, all staring hungrily at their next 20 years. Michael turned back and rested his eyes on Lance, a gleam in his eye.
'I think he looks like a winner, don't you say?'
Lance followed the trail of the finger to his own chest. He stood up, bent down to tie his shoelace.
'Anyone ever throw ball park figures out there, Mitch?'
Mitch's white face lost even more colour.
'Oh look! This one is ready! I say, I'm sure even I could lead this one out!' he said. His guests egged him on and offered encouragement. Michael turned to the table behind him and picked up the lead and taser. He moved towards the door and pressed in his code. Diego and Mitch were restrained where they sat.
The door clicked unlocked.
'Absolutely marvellous! Look at him dropping his head, really submissive this one! I won't even need the taser! You know, after a while, I think they just accept their fate. They understand how life works now.' he said.
Lance slid his feet along, moving through the gate, he neared Michael. Michael raised the lead up towards Lance's neck, it would clamp shut as soon as it had sensed his flesh. But this move also made Michael's neck vulnerable...
Lance leapt forward into Michael, tackling him across the bench. His manoeuvre had caught all present off guard. Before anyone could react, Lance was tearing into Michael's throat. His teeth chomped quickly on the rubbery squishy meat and swallowed. He lent with all his force on Michael's stomach and pushed the life out of him. He drank the blood from the open cavity that had previously been Michael's throat and felt stronger. Much stronger. He teared at the throat with new vigour as everyone began to pull him off their dead host.
|
The woman looked down her nose at the selection of meat on offer. She didn't like wandering further out but her normal butcher was shut and she needed a good cut to offer her guests.
"I don't suppose you have any girl available, I need something succulent and juicy"
"Sorry darling we're fresh out, although could I tempt you with a few legs of age 17 boy, all free range of course"
"No that won't do at all..."
Everyone knew teenage boy was one of the lower cuts, to much sinew plus something about the hormones altered the taste.
She looked the butcher up and down, he was a jolly man with a round face, plenty of meat on his bones. A good amount of fat to, her mouth began to water as she imagined the crackling flesh.
"Miss, Miss, you zoned out for a bit there. Look I'll go and have a look in the back see if I can find anything special for you"
"Thank you, much appreciated but I have my eye on a specific cut"
She began to slide the thin blade from the sheath at her thigh, hidden beneath the low folds of her dress
Her guests would eat well tonight
|
|
[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
|
The chains binding his hands and feet made it awkward to move. They weren't uncomfortable as the velvet padding made them almost luxurious to wear. As he shuffled along slowly, the honour guard that walked with him maintained pace. He looked up at one briefly and then dropped his head again. They wore ancient, colourful uniforms, red, gray and white, with puffy pants and strange hats. Each carried a pike, a symbol of a world long past, that as they took a step together was gently tapped on the floor. Tap, tap, tap, tap.
It wasn't macabre, as he had thought it would be. The Final Walk was filled with solemn ceremony. It had begun when he presented himself a week ago. By law, his last week was to be one of opulence and decadent luxury. He had thought it would be better than it turned out to be. If he were older, he suspected, then the choices he would have had might have been different but as a child, the rich foods and nearly naked women meant almost nothing. He had enjoyed playing the Xbox and getting to eat all the sweets that had always been denied him. The women seemed at a bit of a loss but he had been comforted by them being there.
Then the morning of the Ascension came. He was bathed, dressed in the finest clothes and now was being escorted to his death. It wasn't as bad, he decided, as I expected. He thought back to his family. They were the reason he was here, after all. Ascension was that rare chance for a family to change their fate. As with most families that lived in extreme poverty, their choices were limited. You could work in the mills or factories started at ten years old, broken and worn out by fifteen. If you were lucky, you could be selected for the militia and perhaps survive the harsh training to become a Soldier. About ten percent did.
Food, shelter, medicine were all whatever you could buy or steal. Only the Immortals and their Servants got whatever they wanted. From the time he could walk, he knew that he didn't want to live a life of hopelessness and abject poverty. He could see what that had done to his parents, his brother and sisters. The Immortals might be hundreds or even thousands of years old but his family were the ones who looked it. Broken and worn out, the light had long left their eyes as the accepted their fate.
Then came the Lottery. It was nearly unheard of that one of the Truly Great Ones was looking for Renewal. It only happened every thirty or forty years that a Great One sought renewal but the Truly Great Ones had their own breeding stock. They never had to reach outside their own fiefdoms. So when the word came down that Lottery was offered he had immediately volunteered.
At first his parents had protested. "Too young!" they had cried but he knew those were false tears. In reality they were desperate for him to be Selected. As was he. While for him it would be the end of his life, for them it would be the beginning. The Bonus they would receive would allow them to move into the Midden and away from the Ghetto. This meant better jobs, better lives. Medicine, long denied, would be free. Education would be mandatory and welcomed. Careers, whatever they were, would be an option for his brothers and sisters and their children after them. The Bonus from a Truly Great One was nearly equal to the wealth of the Small Great Ones. It would transform his family's life. That was why he had volunteered.
His musings were brought up short as he realized the tapping of the pikes had stopped. He stood now before a hall lined with Great Ones. On a raised platform ahead, the Truly Great One that would accept his Ascension waited. She looked about thirty or so, but he knew she was much older. The honour guard stopped and one motioned for him to move ahead. As he slowly walked the remaining steps he mused inwardly about the contradictions he saw. Electric lamps lit the hall and music, softly playing from overhead speakers seemed in contrast to the ancient stone columns and costumes worn by those in attendance. He didn't know where the pageantry came from or when it started. He just kept his head down, like a supplicant asking for a favour from the gods themselves.
He reached the steps and stopped. The Question was asked. Was he willing? Yes, he was willing, almost anxious, for this. He knew that his sacrifice would propel his family and that, once completed, his name would be remembered forever. Not by Her, not by the Truly Great One. She wouldn't care. He would be remembered by his family as his life paid for theirs, and their lives would be reborn. He smiled inwardly, sad but pleased that he had escaped the destitute poverty that had enslaved his family for generations but sad and hating the world that made this sacrifice necessary.
The Question asked. He was permitted to look once upon the face of the Truly Great One, so she would (it was hoped) would appreciate the Ascension's cost. For those watching, the scene would be one they had all seen many times before. He lifted his six year old head and, unashamed, proud and certain, stared into the eyes of the Great Empress Cleopatra, the Truly Great One who, in a few minutes would consume his flesh and be reborn as a teenager in her own body.
|
*New from Anthrophage Industries:*
*Have you noticed the lines around your eyes? Those grey hairs getting you down?*
*Time for you to take action the Anthrophage way. Easy to use, available in pre portioned simple open packaging for easy consumption. No longer will you have the storage issues with the other 120lbs or so of donor material as our small, clean packages are easy to store in your freezer.*
*We screen all donor material for CJD, and other prion diseases for a comfortable and safe eternal youth.*
He read the ad again looked carefully at the stack of boxes on his doorstep. The plain packaging giving no indication of the contents. He padded over to the stack swigging the end of his, now cold, coffee. He crouched down and pulled the rip tab to open the topmost box. Inside, neatly stacked in plain, ready meal tubs was his "Donor Material". He stood up and walked back to his kitchen and absent-mindedly placing his cup by the microwave. Turing the packet over and over the opaque white film was giving nothing away. He shrugged and pierced the lid with a knife grabbed from the knife-block. The microwave door slammed closed and he walked away as it reheated.
A piece of paper poked out unnoticed from the box on the mat. On it was a single line, scrawled in blue biro.
*A phone number and the words "her name was Elise".*
|
|
[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
|
'Well, you see it's been theorised for sometime now. Before here, I was a scientist and—'
'Yeah, well that didn't keep you from here egghead!' The tall bulky man gestured at the cage they sat in.
The three of them sat in a cage in the corner of a bustling kitchen. On the bench in front of them lay the arms of a man who'd previously been sitting with them. That was a day ago. His legs were seen hanging by butcher hooks on the other side of the room, in the fridge.
Diego cracked his shoulders. Diego was the tall bulky guy. A good guy. Under the old standards he would've been a sports star. His build and looks were of a favourable appearance, which meant he was of a higher calibre. He'd be slow roasted for sure.
The doc, Mitch, was scrawny. Often the scrawny ones were described as gamey. He had a mild twitch as a kid, which given their current predicament, had turned into the equivalent of chewing an ever renewing piece of gum.
Lance sat between both of them, not really bulky, not really skinny. Not even an everyman. Just a dude who was now food.
He stared at the chef preparing their friend from the other day. He was making incisions along the forearm and putting in rosemary and lavender. The chef handle it with care. All preconceived notions of handling human meat had been lost when it became apparent that you could gain time on this rock.
'What were you saying, Mitch, about the lifespan thing?' said Lance. That's where he'd been headed. Lance had heard about it too.
'W..we know now that you add on 20 years from eating a person, or h..human meat at least. But no one has eaten a person who has eaten other people... Well, not *publicly*. Cause you see, they r..reckon these people that've already lived for years and years and years and eaten all these people. Have amassed like *thousands* of years. And there's even more rumours of some mutated gene that is making these people superhuman. From all this eating and growing, it's expanded into other areas. Anyways, the question is how long would you live if you ate one of—'
At that moment the doors to the kitchen burst open. The nearest chef removed the arms on the bench in front of them and placed a lead and taser.
'It's how you keep *them*, you see,' spoke the leading man. He was their farmer. Michael Philcott. He was a wealthy something year old, who'd been eating people for many a year now. He always took his guest on a tour of his kitchen. A few times he'd even led the cow to slaughter...
'I like to keep them here, they get acclimatised to their environment. I feel the unknown just breeds fear. And fear my friends, is not tasty. No, no ,no,' he laughed.
Mitch tried to crush himself further into the corner. Diego cracked his shoulders again. Lance thumbed the locket in his pant pocket.
'Here they are! A prime range!' said Michael. He stood above them, over them, showing them off to his guests. They oohed and aahed, all staring hungrily at their next 20 years. Michael turned back and rested his eyes on Lance, a gleam in his eye.
'I think he looks like a winner, don't you say?'
Lance followed the trail of the finger to his own chest. He stood up, bent down to tie his shoelace.
'Anyone ever throw ball park figures out there, Mitch?'
Mitch's white face lost even more colour.
'Oh look! This one is ready! I say, I'm sure even I could lead this one out!' he said. His guests egged him on and offered encouragement. Michael turned to the table behind him and picked up the lead and taser. He moved towards the door and pressed in his code. Diego and Mitch were restrained where they sat.
The door clicked unlocked.
'Absolutely marvellous! Look at him dropping his head, really submissive this one! I won't even need the taser! You know, after a while, I think they just accept their fate. They understand how life works now.' he said.
Lance slid his feet along, moving through the gate, he neared Michael. Michael raised the lead up towards Lance's neck, it would clamp shut as soon as it had sensed his flesh. But this move also made Michael's neck vulnerable...
Lance leapt forward into Michael, tackling him across the bench. His manoeuvre had caught all present off guard. Before anyone could react, Lance was tearing into Michael's throat. His teeth chomped quickly on the rubbery squishy meat and swallowed. He lent with all his force on Michael's stomach and pushed the life out of him. He drank the blood from the open cavity that had previously been Michael's throat and felt stronger. Much stronger. He teared at the throat with new vigour as everyone began to pull him off their dead host.
|
While it might seem barbaric to an outsider looking in, it became perfectly acceptable over a period of a hundred years. Brilliant minds, beloved celebrities, the Rich, successful Politicians, all benefited and over time this society trickled down towards the middleclass, enabling the benefit of many millions more the world over. Humanity seemed to be on the precipice of another sudden great advancement and looked prepared to spread through the stars.
The poor who willingly gave themselves up, were treated as royalty for the short period they had left, laws and regulations kept in place that they might be protected from abuse. Individuals who had incurable diseases or repeated offenders were also on the butchers bill, able to provide their family with a means of escaping poverty on behalf of their sacrifice. It became a bit of a sensation, everybody benefited and it was regulated intently.
Then, the disaster occured. There was no initial scientific explaination, but the world over reported a very sudden decrease in reproduction statistics; babies were simply not surviving. Tests upon tests were completed while people rioted in the streets for answers, the wealthy held on tightly to anyone willing to sacrifice themselves while the middle-class was left to suffer the consequences.
The 'Civil World War' broke out upon the announcement of a theory. "No souls can escape after being consumed."
(hopefully the separation works? I don't know how to do the line thing. First time submitting a WP. )
|
|
[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
|
For a long time, it was seen as a horrible crime against nature. To kill a person, only to add more years to your life? It could only be called inhumane. But there were those who secretly did it, who had done research on these effects.
Eating a person? 20 years. But what was defined as a person? Soon the wealthy found a way to become younger, only a few years at a time. It was unnoticeable. But as the years ticked by, it became less and less obvious. But by then it was too late. The wealthy had complete control.
Part one.
Wilfred Ruinfield, Age 376. For the past few centuries, he had maintained the form of a man in his mid twenties, living his life in the Hollywood Hills in his Oceanside mansion. However, for the past few years, he has been de-aging at a slow rate, and now has the body of a child of three years.
We have been unable to determine the cause of Mr Ruinfields symptoms, considering how he has not consumed a living being in many years. At first we suspected that someone had been tampering with his food supply, but even after he had begun to make it himself, symptoms continued. At current rate, subject will be unable to take care of himself in several months.
Resume regular testing.
Part two.
Wilfred was scared. Now in a body of a baby, one only a few months old, he could no longer take care of himself. At the hospital he was being tested at, he was now tucked away in a crib, in the most secure location. But when would they find what was wrong with him?
At that moment, the door opened, but nobody entered. Confused, Wilfred looked around, but could see no one. However, he could sense that someone was in here with him. Where could he be?
Standing by the cage, the woman revealed herself. She was smiling, but the smile never reached her eyes, which were like ice. "We are the same" she said, reaching down and opening the babies mouth. "Both of us have eaten others to survive.".
Pulling out a syringe, she placed it near the babies mouth. It tried to struggle, but the liquid inside sprayed out into it's mouth. It began to squirm, it's eyes wide in horror, asking why. "A consintrated dose" she replied. "I usually gave you the blood of a single innocent, but today, this contains the blood of twenty.".
The baby began to shrink, smaller and smaller, until it disappeared completely. The woman turned around, and became invisible once again. She had killed the first of many, in the way most fitting for those who had eaten others to survive. She would soon select her next target, and the cycle would begin again. And when all of it was over, she would leave this world.
For it was a monster, who hunted the monsters.
Edit: stupid auto correct
|
There's this old phrase: "When you're living on your knees you rise up. You tell your sister that she's gotta rise up. Tell your brother that he's gotta rise up..."
Revolution is the smell on the wind. For too long we have suffered in silence. The rich literally gorge themselves on the poor. Marx is rolling in his grave. But it's not like we're communists. We're Freedom Fighters.
---
I hadn't slept in a week, I was weak. You'd never seen anyone more in need of a break. But I had to keep pushing through. If I didn't remain non-stop how would they remember me? I can't let a bullet to the chest be my legacy.
I'm part of an underground resistance. I started it with a small group of 7, and we're looking to overthrow the government in a few weeks. We started with a dream, and now we're here.
Tell me. You ever wonder what it's like to have the flesh ripped from your bones? For your eyes to become souflees and your genitals a delicacy? I have. It seems I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory.
But there's something they'll never take away. Our tongues. For some reason, when the rich feast, they never eat the tongues. I got a theory. I think that they're afraid. Tongues are how we spread our ideas. And I think if they ate one then they might understand why this rebellion happened.
And what are we going to do to finish them? Imprison them? Salt the land? Eat them to consume their age? Nah.
We're going to eviscerate them. I lied about not being communists. Down with the bourgeois!
---
What? Were you expecting me to end with a musical quote or something?
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[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
|
They called me a maid.
I mean, seriously. Everyone knew what was really going on, but you couldn’t… just say it out loud, could you? It was as if a whole society had decided to pretend it doesn’t happen.
By inches and degrees we’d come to this place. We’d always lifted up the few on the backs of the many. We poor had literally been giving our lives for the rich.
I guess these days we do it even more literally. Ha.
I hated them, with the impotent fury we all have towards the unimaginably rich. Sometimes you find yourself in a place where you don’t have any power, right? You just gotta… take the crappy situation you’re in, and do what you can. Even if there’s nothing you can do.
So I was hired on as a maid to the Hart family. The previous maid had… disappeared, along with her family. Same thing happened to the maid before. And the one before her.
“Terrible situation,” said Mrs. Hart as I ladled her stew. Almost as if she considered us as humans. I pushed my contempt down as she sipped from her spoon.
And I tried not to smile. Because I knew what had really happened to the previous maids and their families. And I knew what was about to happen to Mrs. Hart.
|
It was discovered on 7th of April, 1997, that eating people lowered your age for 20 years.
At first, people were horrified - how the bloody heck had they *discovered* this!?
Then, they realised - what counted as a 'Person'? What if they declared ants people? This, of course, proved fruitless, only things with a highly developed brain counted, and the first dolphin eating was reported 1 month later. The scientists of all countries, horrified, decided to have an 'immortality race' - the first to develop a way for synthetic 'people' to be created, just a brain, would win whatever they wanted.
Meanwhile, in poorer countries, the poor were dissapearing at an alarming rate, and the rich seemed to look quite younger. This was ended by armies of multiple countries simply killing those who ate people, ending their follies.
Finally, it was announced. A blob with a highly developed brain had been created, but not conscious. The world rejoiced.
But the blobs were conscious and self-aware too - and they were distressed - but with no method of combating it, or communicating, humanity simply didn't know. The blobs planned.
And thus became sheep - destroyers of worlds.
|
|
[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
|
My brother and I sat at mother's bedside, teary-eyed and with broken hearts. She didn't have cancer, or some kind of heart defect- "her body is just old" they told us. She's only 45, but there's nothing to fix, and nothing to cure; she aged quickly, for some reason. Just the imminence of death intruding on our lives.
We each squeezed one of her hands, sobbing at the softness of her smile. Even as life fled from her, she found it within her to smile at us, to reassure us with love.
"How can you smile, mom?" I asked her, curious to know. "Aren't you scared? Don't you hurt?"
"As long as I'm looking at you boys, the loves of my life, I can do nothing but smile," she whispered to us. Not in my 20 years on this Earth had I felt such sorrow, or pain. My brother was broken, unconsolably trembling. He was only eight, after all- watching your mother die at that age is just too much.
*It's just too much.*
"Robert, leave the room for a bit, okay?" I asked my brother, smiling. "Go on, I need to tell mom something."
He rubbed at his eyes and shuffled out the door. I closed it behind him and returned to my mother's side.
"He can't live without you. I've had my shot, and I've messed up a lot. I dropped out of school, and I've hurt the whole family with my bullshit. Robert needs a mother like you, a kind and understanding woman to take care of him. I can't do it, and I don't deserve the chance. But I can do this, mom. Let me do this."
I pulled out a knife, and braced myself for death. A smile crept across my face, still coated in my tears.
*You think I wouldn't be smiling at the thought of my own death.*
"Don't fight, mom. Let me live through you. Take the years from me, and with them, let me feel what it's like to help people and make a change for the better."
--------------------------------------
*sorry if this wasn't what you were looking for, the prompt just inspired me to write this! if you enjoyed it and are looking for any more feels trips, check out /r/resonatingfury*
|
It was discovered on 7th of April, 1997, that eating people lowered your age for 20 years.
At first, people were horrified - how the bloody heck had they *discovered* this!?
Then, they realised - what counted as a 'Person'? What if they declared ants people? This, of course, proved fruitless, only things with a highly developed brain counted, and the first dolphin eating was reported 1 month later. The scientists of all countries, horrified, decided to have an 'immortality race' - the first to develop a way for synthetic 'people' to be created, just a brain, would win whatever they wanted.
Meanwhile, in poorer countries, the poor were dissapearing at an alarming rate, and the rich seemed to look quite younger. This was ended by armies of multiple countries simply killing those who ate people, ending their follies.
Finally, it was announced. A blob with a highly developed brain had been created, but not conscious. The world rejoiced.
But the blobs were conscious and self-aware too - and they were distressed - but with no method of combating it, or communicating, humanity simply didn't know. The blobs planned.
And thus became sheep - destroyers of worlds.
|
|
[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
|
For a long time, it was seen as a horrible crime against nature. To kill a person, only to add more years to your life? It could only be called inhumane. But there were those who secretly did it, who had done research on these effects.
Eating a person? 20 years. But what was defined as a person? Soon the wealthy found a way to become younger, only a few years at a time. It was unnoticeable. But as the years ticked by, it became less and less obvious. But by then it was too late. The wealthy had complete control.
Part one.
Wilfred Ruinfield, Age 376. For the past few centuries, he had maintained the form of a man in his mid twenties, living his life in the Hollywood Hills in his Oceanside mansion. However, for the past few years, he has been de-aging at a slow rate, and now has the body of a child of three years.
We have been unable to determine the cause of Mr Ruinfields symptoms, considering how he has not consumed a living being in many years. At first we suspected that someone had been tampering with his food supply, but even after he had begun to make it himself, symptoms continued. At current rate, subject will be unable to take care of himself in several months.
Resume regular testing.
Part two.
Wilfred was scared. Now in a body of a baby, one only a few months old, he could no longer take care of himself. At the hospital he was being tested at, he was now tucked away in a crib, in the most secure location. But when would they find what was wrong with him?
At that moment, the door opened, but nobody entered. Confused, Wilfred looked around, but could see no one. However, he could sense that someone was in here with him. Where could he be?
Standing by the cage, the woman revealed herself. She was smiling, but the smile never reached her eyes, which were like ice. "We are the same" she said, reaching down and opening the babies mouth. "Both of us have eaten others to survive.".
Pulling out a syringe, she placed it near the babies mouth. It tried to struggle, but the liquid inside sprayed out into it's mouth. It began to squirm, it's eyes wide in horror, asking why. "A consintrated dose" she replied. "I usually gave you the blood of a single innocent, but today, this contains the blood of twenty.".
The baby began to shrink, smaller and smaller, until it disappeared completely. The woman turned around, and became invisible once again. She had killed the first of many, in the way most fitting for those who had eaten others to survive. She would soon select her next target, and the cycle would begin again. And when all of it was over, she would leave this world.
For it was a monster, who hunted the monsters.
Edit: stupid auto correct
|
It was discovered on 7th of April, 1997, that eating people lowered your age for 20 years.
At first, people were horrified - how the bloody heck had they *discovered* this!?
Then, they realised - what counted as a 'Person'? What if they declared ants people? This, of course, proved fruitless, only things with a highly developed brain counted, and the first dolphin eating was reported 1 month later. The scientists of all countries, horrified, decided to have an 'immortality race' - the first to develop a way for synthetic 'people' to be created, just a brain, would win whatever they wanted.
Meanwhile, in poorer countries, the poor were dissapearing at an alarming rate, and the rich seemed to look quite younger. This was ended by armies of multiple countries simply killing those who ate people, ending their follies.
Finally, it was announced. A blob with a highly developed brain had been created, but not conscious. The world rejoiced.
But the blobs were conscious and self-aware too - and they were distressed - but with no method of combating it, or communicating, humanity simply didn't know. The blobs planned.
And thus became sheep - destroyers of worlds.
|
|
[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
|
For a long time, it was seen as a horrible crime against nature. To kill a person, only to add more years to your life? It could only be called inhumane. But there were those who secretly did it, who had done research on these effects.
Eating a person? 20 years. But what was defined as a person? Soon the wealthy found a way to become younger, only a few years at a time. It was unnoticeable. But as the years ticked by, it became less and less obvious. But by then it was too late. The wealthy had complete control.
Part one.
Wilfred Ruinfield, Age 376. For the past few centuries, he had maintained the form of a man in his mid twenties, living his life in the Hollywood Hills in his Oceanside mansion. However, for the past few years, he has been de-aging at a slow rate, and now has the body of a child of three years.
We have been unable to determine the cause of Mr Ruinfields symptoms, considering how he has not consumed a living being in many years. At first we suspected that someone had been tampering with his food supply, but even after he had begun to make it himself, symptoms continued. At current rate, subject will be unable to take care of himself in several months.
Resume regular testing.
Part two.
Wilfred was scared. Now in a body of a baby, one only a few months old, he could no longer take care of himself. At the hospital he was being tested at, he was now tucked away in a crib, in the most secure location. But when would they find what was wrong with him?
At that moment, the door opened, but nobody entered. Confused, Wilfred looked around, but could see no one. However, he could sense that someone was in here with him. Where could he be?
Standing by the cage, the woman revealed herself. She was smiling, but the smile never reached her eyes, which were like ice. "We are the same" she said, reaching down and opening the babies mouth. "Both of us have eaten others to survive.".
Pulling out a syringe, she placed it near the babies mouth. It tried to struggle, but the liquid inside sprayed out into it's mouth. It began to squirm, it's eyes wide in horror, asking why. "A consintrated dose" she replied. "I usually gave you the blood of a single innocent, but today, this contains the blood of twenty.".
The baby began to shrink, smaller and smaller, until it disappeared completely. The woman turned around, and became invisible once again. She had killed the first of many, in the way most fitting for those who had eaten others to survive. She would soon select her next target, and the cycle would begin again. And when all of it was over, she would leave this world.
For it was a monster, who hunted the monsters.
Edit: stupid auto correct
|
They called me a maid.
I mean, seriously. Everyone knew what was really going on, but you couldn’t… just say it out loud, could you? It was as if a whole society had decided to pretend it doesn’t happen.
By inches and degrees we’d come to this place. We’d always lifted up the few on the backs of the many. We poor had literally been giving our lives for the rich.
I guess these days we do it even more literally. Ha.
I hated them, with the impotent fury we all have towards the unimaginably rich. Sometimes you find yourself in a place where you don’t have any power, right? You just gotta… take the crappy situation you’re in, and do what you can. Even if there’s nothing you can do.
So I was hired on as a maid to the Hart family. The previous maid had… disappeared, along with her family. Same thing happened to the maid before. And the one before her.
“Terrible situation,” said Mrs. Hart as I ladled her stew. Almost as if she considered us as humans. I pushed my contempt down as she sipped from her spoon.
And I tried not to smile. Because I knew what had really happened to the previous maids and their families. And I knew what was about to happen to Mrs. Hart.
|
|
[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
|
For a long time, it was seen as a horrible crime against nature. To kill a person, only to add more years to your life? It could only be called inhumane. But there were those who secretly did it, who had done research on these effects.
Eating a person? 20 years. But what was defined as a person? Soon the wealthy found a way to become younger, only a few years at a time. It was unnoticeable. But as the years ticked by, it became less and less obvious. But by then it was too late. The wealthy had complete control.
Part one.
Wilfred Ruinfield, Age 376. For the past few centuries, he had maintained the form of a man in his mid twenties, living his life in the Hollywood Hills in his Oceanside mansion. However, for the past few years, he has been de-aging at a slow rate, and now has the body of a child of three years.
We have been unable to determine the cause of Mr Ruinfields symptoms, considering how he has not consumed a living being in many years. At first we suspected that someone had been tampering with his food supply, but even after he had begun to make it himself, symptoms continued. At current rate, subject will be unable to take care of himself in several months.
Resume regular testing.
Part two.
Wilfred was scared. Now in a body of a baby, one only a few months old, he could no longer take care of himself. At the hospital he was being tested at, he was now tucked away in a crib, in the most secure location. But when would they find what was wrong with him?
At that moment, the door opened, but nobody entered. Confused, Wilfred looked around, but could see no one. However, he could sense that someone was in here with him. Where could he be?
Standing by the cage, the woman revealed herself. She was smiling, but the smile never reached her eyes, which were like ice. "We are the same" she said, reaching down and opening the babies mouth. "Both of us have eaten others to survive.".
Pulling out a syringe, she placed it near the babies mouth. It tried to struggle, but the liquid inside sprayed out into it's mouth. It began to squirm, it's eyes wide in horror, asking why. "A consintrated dose" she replied. "I usually gave you the blood of a single innocent, but today, this contains the blood of twenty.".
The baby began to shrink, smaller and smaller, until it disappeared completely. The woman turned around, and became invisible once again. She had killed the first of many, in the way most fitting for those who had eaten others to survive. She would soon select her next target, and the cycle would begin again. And when all of it was over, she would leave this world.
For it was a monster, who hunted the monsters.
Edit: stupid auto correct
|
My brother and I sat at mother's bedside, teary-eyed and with broken hearts. She didn't have cancer, or some kind of heart defect- "her body is just old" they told us. She's only 45, but there's nothing to fix, and nothing to cure; she aged quickly, for some reason. Just the imminence of death intruding on our lives.
We each squeezed one of her hands, sobbing at the softness of her smile. Even as life fled from her, she found it within her to smile at us, to reassure us with love.
"How can you smile, mom?" I asked her, curious to know. "Aren't you scared? Don't you hurt?"
"As long as I'm looking at you boys, the loves of my life, I can do nothing but smile," she whispered to us. Not in my 20 years on this Earth had I felt such sorrow, or pain. My brother was broken, unconsolably trembling. He was only eight, after all- watching your mother die at that age is just too much.
*It's just too much.*
"Robert, leave the room for a bit, okay?" I asked my brother, smiling. "Go on, I need to tell mom something."
He rubbed at his eyes and shuffled out the door. I closed it behind him and returned to my mother's side.
"He can't live without you. I've had my shot, and I've messed up a lot. I dropped out of school, and I've hurt the whole family with my bullshit. Robert needs a mother like you, a kind and understanding woman to take care of him. I can't do it, and I don't deserve the chance. But I can do this, mom. Let me do this."
I pulled out a knife, and braced myself for death. A smile crept across my face, still coated in my tears.
*You think I wouldn't be smiling at the thought of my own death.*
"Don't fight, mom. Let me live through you. Take the years from me, and with them, let me feel what it's like to help people and make a change for the better."
--------------------------------------
*sorry if this wasn't what you were looking for, the prompt just inspired me to write this! if you enjoyed it and are looking for any more feels trips, check out /r/resonatingfury*
|
|
[WP] A world where eating a person lowers your age by 20 years. The poor are offered up to the rich who have been around for hundreds of years.
|
For a long time, it was seen as a horrible crime against nature. To kill a person, only to add more years to your life? It could only be called inhumane. But there were those who secretly did it, who had done research on these effects.
Eating a person? 20 years. But what was defined as a person? Soon the wealthy found a way to become younger, only a few years at a time. It was unnoticeable. But as the years ticked by, it became less and less obvious. But by then it was too late. The wealthy had complete control.
Part one.
Wilfred Ruinfield, Age 376. For the past few centuries, he had maintained the form of a man in his mid twenties, living his life in the Hollywood Hills in his Oceanside mansion. However, for the past few years, he has been de-aging at a slow rate, and now has the body of a child of three years.
We have been unable to determine the cause of Mr Ruinfields symptoms, considering how he has not consumed a living being in many years. At first we suspected that someone had been tampering with his food supply, but even after he had begun to make it himself, symptoms continued. At current rate, subject will be unable to take care of himself in several months.
Resume regular testing.
Part two.
Wilfred was scared. Now in a body of a baby, one only a few months old, he could no longer take care of himself. At the hospital he was being tested at, he was now tucked away in a crib, in the most secure location. But when would they find what was wrong with him?
At that moment, the door opened, but nobody entered. Confused, Wilfred looked around, but could see no one. However, he could sense that someone was in here with him. Where could he be?
Standing by the cage, the woman revealed herself. She was smiling, but the smile never reached her eyes, which were like ice. "We are the same" she said, reaching down and opening the babies mouth. "Both of us have eaten others to survive.".
Pulling out a syringe, she placed it near the babies mouth. It tried to struggle, but the liquid inside sprayed out into it's mouth. It began to squirm, it's eyes wide in horror, asking why. "A consintrated dose" she replied. "I usually gave you the blood of a single innocent, but today, this contains the blood of twenty.".
The baby began to shrink, smaller and smaller, until it disappeared completely. The woman turned around, and became invisible once again. She had killed the first of many, in the way most fitting for those who had eaten others to survive. She would soon select her next target, and the cycle would begin again. And when all of it was over, she would leave this world.
For it was a monster, who hunted the monsters.
Edit: stupid auto correct
|
...It was a modest proposal. Really.
It made sense. Money for the newborn. They couldn't afford having another mouth to feed. Hell, they couldn't even afford to feed themselves, for that matter. But this could help change that. Not only were they being offered $50,000, but during the pregnancy, his wife would practically be treated like royalty. Warm clothes. Doctor visits. Plenty of food, anything she desired. A clean place to live, with every major expense paid for. Skilled physicians to ensure the delivery would go as smoothly as possible, and to ensure a full recovery. All they had to do was sign the contract.
In nine months they could have $50,000. It was the logical thing to do. But his wife, his wife was having none of it. She cried, she screamed, she threatened him, and when that didn't work, she threatened to abort the child. *"I'LL DO IT! YOU KNOW I WILL! I'D RATHER KILL IT THAN HAND IT OVER TO THE LIKES OF THEM! I HATE YOU! YOU'RE A MONSTER!"* It was hours before she finally calmed down and passed out from all the stress and exhaustion.
He knew he couldn't make her see sense, at least not with all of the hormones running through her system. Biology was very good at convincing expecting mothers to protect their growing unborn children, regardless of the cost. It was officially a lost cause, which meant there was only one thing left to do.
*…It's for her own good,* he told himself. Carefully, he forged her signature. Not that it really mattered. Nobody was going to look too closely at it anyway.
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[WP] You are Brothulu, bringer of gains and destroyer of fat. While your brother crushes worlds, you crush records.
Edit: gains
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[WP] You are Brothulu, bringer of gains and destroyer of fat. While your brother crushes worlds, you crush records.
|
**Brothulu's 10 Commandments of Gains**
I am the Gain Lord, thy Brothulu, which have brought thee out of the land of scrawniness, out of the house of pudge.
1. Thou shalt have no other trainers before me.
2. Thou shalt not make unto thee any unfiltered Instagram images.
3. Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord, thy gymspiration, in vain.
4. Remember the rest day, to keep it holy.
5. Honor thy cardio and thy glamour muscles.
6. Thou shalt not kill thy gains by neglecting thy protein shakes.
7. Thou shalt not commit to thy gym by going for a jog outside.
8. Thou shalt not steal thy neighbor's squat rack.
9. Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor bro's PR.
10. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's gains.
Ye shall erect these gains, which I command thee upon Mount Swole.
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"Cthulhu fhtagn, Brothulu achieves"- Part one workout vlog of Brothulu
...
There is a term for a shape that brings mortal minds to madness- indeed, the very thought of this shape brings lesser men to their knees. The term of course being "my glutes". While my shapeless brother manages to drag his form around the mortal realm in the guise of a squid (I guess), I'm sculpting my body into a noneuclidean piece of art. I attract the most beautiful and swollest of the mortal realm to my cult- leaving my pitiful brother with the feeble bodied remainder. His last batch of cultists failed to overpower the residents of an orphanage. But how do you expect Cthulu to get anything done if he can't even bench a mountain, or press a continent or two. Of course- this doesn't mean much to Nug, our parent, because of the ONE time I saved a continent from destruction... But hey, I'm not about to let any elder god scheming ruin my macros, and my gym bro was crashing there at the time.
Maybe one day the other elder gods will realize that our gains can be just as incomprehensible as our whims, until then- to all the Brothulites out there- bodies make an excellent replacement for bars once rigor mortis sets in.
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[WP] You are Brothulu, bringer of gains and destroyer of fat. While your brother crushes worlds, you crush records.
Edit: gains
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[WP] You are Brothulu, bringer of gains and destroyer of fat. While your brother crushes worlds, you crush records.
|
"You read from the wrong book." The elder abomination looked frustrated.
"There is no way I read from the wrong book." The bespectacled man waved the aforementioned book in the air. "This is the Yag Somnoth, written in the blood of virgins upon pages made of sewn together intestines. There is no text of a greater evil in all of the world."
"No. It isn't. The Yag Somnoth howls through its black maw. The pages glow with an unholy darkness. We had the thing on our bookshelf for millennia. It was unspeakable annoying and made a good night's sleep impossible. What you have is the Yog Shibbeth."
"You are a lord of lies! Your every word spreads darkness!" The bespectacled man paused. "Are you wearing a Tap Out shirt?"
"You summoned me in the middle of a set. Which, by the way, is a douche move. The next person to use the bench is going to be pissed." The eldritch abomination reached something vaguely hand like toward the man. "I'm Brothulu."
The bespectacled man crumbled to the floor. "God damn it. Damn it all. I ransomed my life for this. I studied tongues that drive men to madness. And for what?"
Brothulu stepped out of the warding circle and took the book from his unresisting hands.
"Well, there's a bitchin' protein shake recipe, my lift diary, and a couple woodcuts of me shredded." Brothulu shook his head. "This is some personal shit, man."
"You don't understand. I gave up everything for power. Everything. Love. Respect. A Future. Now I have nothing."
The million weeping eyes of Brothulu scanned the bespectacled man. "You want power?" He asked.
"More than anything."
"And what will you do for it?"
"All that you ask and more."
"Tell you what, my lift bro just got married and has lost focus. You hit the gym with me and I'll get you power, respect, and love. One set at a time."
The bespectacled man gazed upon the face of madness. The hundred screaming mouths. The writhing mass of maggots where skin never was. And the surprisingly toned physique underneath.
The bespectacled man took a deep breath, then offered up a dap.
"Fuck it. I'm in."
|
Brothulu flexed his chest muscles and grunted loudly.
"Brothulu, are you scared?" Mini, his girlfriend, asked.
He scoffed, and stretched his hands letting the fire of his will pulsate through each vein.
A microphone echoed in the distance. "Now, we welcome our final contender -Brothulu!"
With each step he took, his determination drowned out the senses of the world around him. He looked toward the audience, but the chairs weren't filled with people any more. They were simply hunks of fat, to weak and to fragile to be on stage with him.
*I will destroy these fat bastards.* He thought, while holding his pinky finger to the left corner of his mouth.
"Welcome to the stage Bro-" The host began.
Brothulu snatched the mic out of the host's hand. "All of you. You weak, puny, people. Remember this day as the day Brothulu inspired you. When you go home, tell your wife and children about it. Tell them that you will embark on the journey as I have, to eat more chicken breast and broccoli than people eat actual food. Tell them and remember who Brothulu is!"
He smashed the microphone into the stage, it punctured through the wood and fell into the abyss. *Bystanders swear to this day that flame shot up from that very same hole.*
Brothulu stood in front of the squat rack and loaded 1000lbs of plates. He smiled at the judge and pushed the weights onto his shoulders.
The stage creaked with each step, as he moved toward the crowd. People stood up in awe, their cheering grew louder.
They began screaming and chanting his name, "Brothulu! Brothulu! Brothulu!"
The stage creaked one more time.
And broke.
Brothulu fell straight though, with the 1000 lbs of weights in tact.
That was the last anyone has seen of Brothulu since. But, rumour has it that he is in the deepest pits of hell training those who spent their lives seeking pleasure instead of gains.
|
[WP] You're a German citizen in 1937, an alien just landed in your front yard and asked you to take him to your leader
|
"Alright, just a bit more now."
He was dressed in your typical were-covering-something-up outfit. Sunglasses, oversized coat, fedora, everything. We were walking along the streets of Berlin headed toward the Reich Chancellery, Hitlers office.
"Doesn't seem like such a good leader" said my foreign friend as he looked around the impoverished streets of Berlin. I was still a little weirded out by the fact that I was conversing with an alien, but I knew there was no turning back.
"Trust me, you have no idea." There were rumors going around that Nazi Germany would soon be launching an attack on some select European countries, and starting an all out war, a war that could rival the Great War twenty years ago.
Eventually we reached the chancellery. Being Hitler's own private office, this place was outfitted with the best security. We walked up to the guard in front of the main gate.
"We need to speak to the Fuhrer."
"Excuse me?"
"We have an important message for him."
"Nobody gets to speak to the Fuhrer. Tell me your message and I will relay it to my superiors."
I leaned closer to the guard.
"We have a... Visitor..."
"Great?" The guard looked confused.
"No, I mean..., an alien."
Once again, the guard looked confused. After a few seconds, the guard had looked like he had just had a stunning realization.
The guard quickly opened the gate and walked in.
"Wait here."
Great, I thought, we'll be speaking to the Fuhrer in no time.
"Heh, you humans are weird. Anybody could create a plan to make this guard leave his post, and then strike."
I heard his voice behind me, but I didn't turn around. I leaned against the gate instead.
"I'm sure your kind has its quirks too."
After a few minutes the guard returns to the gate. The guard opens it, returns to our side, pulls out his gun, and shoots the alien in the head. The look of pure shock I had on my face said all that needed to be said.
The guard turns to me and thanks me. "Thank you for exposing this vermin to us. We are always grateful when citizens do their part against the impure race."
"NO, YOU IDIOT! NOT THAT TYPE OF ALIEN!"
I found it ironic saying this. I never imagined that I would be correcting somebody who assumed aliens didn't exist.
The guard was taken back a bit from my tone. With a concerned look he removed the disguise from the alien's body. Immediately realizing what he had done to otherworldly diplomatic relations, there was only one thing he could say.
"Shit."
Edit: Tweaked the wording a bit.
|
"Come with me Herr Al Neon, I will bring you to him" I splutter nervously
"THANK YOU HUMANOID, WE WOULD LIKE TO MAKE DEMOCRATIC CONTACT WITH YOUR SPECIES" the alien replies through some kind of electronic device that is too loud, the closest thing I could liken it to, would be a radio.
We walk down a long clean street, cars busy driving back and forth, lorries delivering goods, a general lively buzz to the streets as the economic depression has ended and we are experiencing the best time of our lives.
"YOU STILL BURN DEAD ANIMALS AND PLANTS TO FUEL YOUR TRANSPORT MACHINES? THIS IS AMAZING, THE LAST TIME WE SAW THIS ON OUR PLANET WAS 2,000 YEARS AGO IN THE DARK AGES." The alien bleeped.
"Yeah we haven't found any other way to power them yet, hopefully we can learn that from you" I retorted
then without warning the alien teleports to hitler and kills him, and then I woke up and it was all a dream.
remember kids, nazis are bad.
"Yeah we haven't found any other way to power them yet, hopefully we can learn that from you" I retorted
then without warning the alien teleports to hitler and kills him, and then I woke up and it was all a dream.
"Yeah we haven't found any other way to power them yet, hopefully we can learn that from you" I retorted
then without warning the alien teleports to hitler and kills him, and then I woke up and it was all a dream.
"Come with me Herr Al Neon, I will bring you to him" I splutter nervously
"THANK YOU HUMANOID, WE WOULD LIKE TO MAKE DEMOCRATIC CONTACT WITH YOUR SPECIES" the alien replies through some kind of electronic device that is too loud, the closest thing I could liken it to, would be a radio.
We walk down a long clean street, cars busy driving back and forth, lorries delivering goods, a general lively buzz to the streets as the economic depression has ended and we are experiencing the best time of our lives.
"Come with me Herr Al Neon, I will bring you to him" I splutter nervously
"THANK YOU HUMANOID, WE WOULD LIKE TO MAKE DEMOCRATIC CONTACT WITH YOUR SPECIES" the alien replies through some kind of electronic device that is too loud, the closest thing I could liken it to, would be a radio.
We walk down a long clean street, cars busy driving back and forth, lorries delivering goods, a general lively buzz to the streets as the economic depression has ended and we are experiencing the best time of our lives.
the alien replies through some kind of electronic device that is too loud, the closest thing I could liken it to, would be a radio.
We walk down a long clean street, cars busy driving back and forth, lorries delivering goods, a general lively buzz to the streets as the economic depression has ended and we are experiencing the best time of our lives.the alien replies through some kind of electronic device that is too loud, the closest thing I could liken it to, would be a radio.
We walk down a long clean street, cars busy driving back and forth, lorries delivering goods, a general lively buzz to the streets as the economic depression has ended and we are experiencing the best time of our lives.
the alien replies through some kind of electronic device that is too loud, the closest thing I could liken it to, would be a radio.
We walk down a long clean street, cars busy driving back and forth, lorries delivering goods, a general lively buzz to the streets as the economic depression has ended and we are experiencing the best time of our lives.
then without warning the alien teleports to hitler and kills him, and then I woke up and it was all a dream.
remember kids, nazis are bad.
|
|
[WP] You're a German citizen in 1937, an alien just landed in your front yard and asked you to take him to your leader
|
Kaspar Kindler, a kindly man in his late fifties, lived alone in rural Germany. He was tending his small garden when, to his immense surprise, an orb of metal appeared in the center of his backyard. A line of faint light in the shape of a door appeared, and out stepped a humanoid being as grey as Kaspar's hair. It peered at him with almond-shaped black eyes.
"Greetings, human. Though my ship has malfunctioned and landed me in an unusual location, I do not think it is a problem for my mission. I come in peace, as an ambassador to your planet. We would like to have friendly relations with you. Please, if it is possible, take me to your leader," it spoke with a mannish voice from the mouth that appeared on its neck. The line of his mouth - no lips - curled into a kind, awkward smile.
Kaspar looked blankly at the alien. A humble, monkish man, Kaspar was not well-educated, and had no thoughts of the world beyond the Earth, for to him, the world was the Earth. He had heard of the idea of extraterrestrial life, but thought it was merely more propaganda that had made its way into public consciousness and infiltrated the perverse Christianity of the Nazi party.
After an uncomfortably long silence, the alien spoke up. "My scanners indicate that I am currently in a subdivision of Earth called Deutsches Reich, and that the name of the leader of this subdivision is Adolf Hitler. If it is possible, please inform me of how I can procure an audience with him. Your help would be most graciously appreciated."
Hearing the Fuhrer's name jolted Kaspar out of his incomprehension. Whether he understood it or not, believed it or not - an alien was before him, and it wanted to make contact with the leaders of humanity. He could not allow the alien's first contact to be with that terrible man. Thoughts formed in his head - how he had so narrowly escaped arrest through cowardice and renunciation of the tenets of his faith. How his friends, fellow Franciscan monks, had the courage to speak out against the Nazi regime, and had been disappeared, while he escaped by agreeing, agreeing, agreeing. When a copy of the *Mit brennender Sorge* reached his hands, he burned it in fear of the prison camps, but the words burned his guilt into his mind.
"My name is Kaspar," he stated slowly, "And though you are right in your statements, the current leader of Germany is not fit to lead humanity, and I fear what he would do upon meeting you. I would like to take you to a better leader, though the journey may be dangerous."
The alien tilted its head, its mouth line disappearing as it thought. "I have no ability to go without a guide," it finally replied, "As such, very well."
|
"Come with me Herr Al Neon, I will bring you to him" I splutter nervously
"THANK YOU HUMANOID, WE WOULD LIKE TO MAKE DEMOCRATIC CONTACT WITH YOUR SPECIES" the alien replies through some kind of electronic device that is too loud, the closest thing I could liken it to, would be a radio.
We walk down a long clean street, cars busy driving back and forth, lorries delivering goods, a general lively buzz to the streets as the economic depression has ended and we are experiencing the best time of our lives.
"YOU STILL BURN DEAD ANIMALS AND PLANTS TO FUEL YOUR TRANSPORT MACHINES? THIS IS AMAZING, THE LAST TIME WE SAW THIS ON OUR PLANET WAS 2,000 YEARS AGO IN THE DARK AGES." The alien bleeped.
"Yeah we haven't found any other way to power them yet, hopefully we can learn that from you" I retorted
then without warning the alien teleports to hitler and kills him, and then I woke up and it was all a dream.
remember kids, nazis are bad.
"Yeah we haven't found any other way to power them yet, hopefully we can learn that from you" I retorted
then without warning the alien teleports to hitler and kills him, and then I woke up and it was all a dream.
"Yeah we haven't found any other way to power them yet, hopefully we can learn that from you" I retorted
then without warning the alien teleports to hitler and kills him, and then I woke up and it was all a dream.
"Come with me Herr Al Neon, I will bring you to him" I splutter nervously
"THANK YOU HUMANOID, WE WOULD LIKE TO MAKE DEMOCRATIC CONTACT WITH YOUR SPECIES" the alien replies through some kind of electronic device that is too loud, the closest thing I could liken it to, would be a radio.
We walk down a long clean street, cars busy driving back and forth, lorries delivering goods, a general lively buzz to the streets as the economic depression has ended and we are experiencing the best time of our lives.
"Come with me Herr Al Neon, I will bring you to him" I splutter nervously
"THANK YOU HUMANOID, WE WOULD LIKE TO MAKE DEMOCRATIC CONTACT WITH YOUR SPECIES" the alien replies through some kind of electronic device that is too loud, the closest thing I could liken it to, would be a radio.
We walk down a long clean street, cars busy driving back and forth, lorries delivering goods, a general lively buzz to the streets as the economic depression has ended and we are experiencing the best time of our lives.
the alien replies through some kind of electronic device that is too loud, the closest thing I could liken it to, would be a radio.
We walk down a long clean street, cars busy driving back and forth, lorries delivering goods, a general lively buzz to the streets as the economic depression has ended and we are experiencing the best time of our lives.the alien replies through some kind of electronic device that is too loud, the closest thing I could liken it to, would be a radio.
We walk down a long clean street, cars busy driving back and forth, lorries delivering goods, a general lively buzz to the streets as the economic depression has ended and we are experiencing the best time of our lives.
the alien replies through some kind of electronic device that is too loud, the closest thing I could liken it to, would be a radio.
We walk down a long clean street, cars busy driving back and forth, lorries delivering goods, a general lively buzz to the streets as the economic depression has ended and we are experiencing the best time of our lives.
then without warning the alien teleports to hitler and kills him, and then I woke up and it was all a dream.
remember kids, nazis are bad.
|
|
Yes, taken from: https://www.reddit.com/r/Showerthoughts/comments/49onpa/if_steve_jobs_was_reincarnated_into_a_chinese/
|
[WP] Steve Jobs is reincarnated as a third world child who now makes iPhones. He slowly begins to remember little details about his past-life.
|
好累啊。。。 好饿呀。。。
好想家。。。 好想妈妈。。。
(So tired...so hungry... I miss home.. I miss my mom...)
为什么我的命这么苦?? 我的生命还有什么意义。
(Why's my life so tough? Is there no meaning to my life?)
两天没睡了。好累, 好累啊。。。Zzz...
(Haven't slept in 2 days. So tired, so tired... Zzz...)
你敢!! 偷懒?!! 睡觉??! 不要这份工作了对吗? 回去路边饿死吧!!
(YOU DARE? Skiving? Sleeping? You don't want this job? Go back to the streets to starve then!!)
对不起! 对不起! 求求你, 我。。** 晕了过去 **
(Sorry! Sorry! I'm begging you please, I... * faint *)
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
医生我的儿子, 他。。癌症???!
(Doctor, my son... he.. Cancer???!)
在苹果工厂 。。。他。。汞?!
(At the Apple factory... he... mercury?!)
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
痛。我在哪里? This sensation. IV needle in my hand? I.. Mom?? Where are we?
(Hurts. Where am I?)
医生! 医生! 他醒来了!! 儿子你在说什么?? 你病了。妈妈会给你治好!
(Dr! Dr! He's awake! Son what you're saying. You're sick. I promise you'll get better!)
*Doctor rushes in*
Doctor where am I?
You speake engrish?? *turns to mom* 你的儿子会讲英语??? (Your son speaks English???)
不会!! (No!!)
Why am I here?
You are having cancer. Maybe from chemical eh.. the metal in factory.
医生他在说什么??? (Doctor what is he saying??)
What kind?
It is in the 胰腺. How to say...
*Doctor pulls out his iPhone to Google translate*
He turned the phone to me.
Chinese : English
胰腺 : Pancreas
My eyes widened. I remember.
EDIT: Translation
|
"Here's hexa-screw 1, and there goes 2, and Xing Long will handle number 3."
I was a content 16 year old kid who was trying to make some quick cash.
I wanted to pee really badly, but alas, my toilet break was an hour away. It's easy to see why Zhang jumped out the window yesterday after working (and earning) for 2 years.
"BACK TO WORK, STEVE LEE!", my supervisor yelled, seeing me daydream just like earlier this morning. I hate being told what to do. I feel like just dropping out of this crap the second this week is over and take a peek into Grandma's art shop. And maybe stay there, seeing how shading and typography works.
But the week has just begun.
I use the electric screwdriver and tighten the hexa-screw for my 10,000th iPhone. Foxconn has a HR thing to show each worker how many they've worked on. That's exactly when my eyes freeze up, and I see a tableau of 10 people sitting around a table with a photo of the iPhone on the screen. There was no mistaking it. It had to be an iPhone. The seek curves, the chamfered metal, it felt so natural to me.
I was rudely plopped back into reality to continue on my endless task.
And then I realised. There was a mirror on that same wall in my - I don't know what to call it, vision?- and on that mirror was the face that we see everyday in our factory.
The face of the man who gave so much to my country, but took from its people.
Steve Jobs.
|
[WP] ''Computer, End Simulation'' you speak aloud...it works...
|
There we were, smoking the latest batch of OG Kush. I handed the pipe over to Greg. Our group of three talked about the universe. While I was smoking, Victor remarked upon the most ridiculous idea I'd ever heard.
"They say our universe might be a holographic projection. We could be a science experiment for vastly intelligent beings."
I told him, "That can't be possible. The universe is infinite."
"Maybe that's how it's designed," said Greg after a taking a second to cough.
"I don't want my life to be a simulation. Would you? What if you're my simulation?"
"Haha nah, you're my simulation," said Victor.
Greg agreed with the sentiment that he was the "real" person in the room. We all laughed.
"But seriously man, what if I was in a room right now and could stop the projection of you and Greg?"
I said "How would you do that? Say something like 'Computer, end simulation'? Would tha--" Something jolted me like a slap in the face. Victor and Greg began a process of what I can only describe as "fading away in pieces." The room faded next, until I was in a blank white room with a woman looking at me with desperation.
"You made it. I knew you would make it," she said while crying.
"Who are you? Why are you hugging me?"
She looked up with eyes glazed in tears. All she said before crying uncontrollably was: "I love you. You're back."
|
Finally... It works! This malfunction kept you inside this gladiator simulation for five hours by now. You have been fighting fierce enemies, lions and tigers for five hours. You have no strength left in your arms and body.
After repeating this phrase countless times at first two hours, you have given up all the hope and decided to fight until someone shuts down the simulation and rescues you, or you die. It had been a most honorable fight, even though in a simulation. Fit for a strong Klingon as yourself. Just as you were completely exhausted, and a fierce tiger was about to make its fatal final attack, you called the computer again, in an hopeless move.
But, there you are; inside the empty walls of holodeck, laying on the floor all bruised and cut, and apparently with some more days to live. You crawl across the deck to call the sick bay...
|
|
[WP] You realise you can save and load your life, just like a video game. No one else notices.
|
*So I know I won't be sticking strictly to the prompt but the first part of it gave me too much inspiration to pass up*
________________________
Like many people my age, I'm an Uploadee. I don't leave things to chance. In fact, I can't imagine how people ever did. Some people, mostly those of the older generation who grew up most of their lives without the technology to save, find it immoral. They name themselves Einzeiters after the original German group who rejected the invention of The Uploader. Ein meaning one and Zeit meaning time. There are 3 major arguments put forth by the them.
The less conservative among them:
1) Those who choose to upload and save their lives, don't value the individual moments, and thus can't experience and appreciate life the way somebody does, who knows that if it ends, it ends.
And they're right to a certain extent. I often start my mornings with a 30 minute upload just in case something doesn't start right and I've rebooted my fair share of times. How many exactly? I'm not sure to be honest, but probably aroun 30-40, most often as a result of something silly like a broken bone or a failed test.
The more conservative among them:
2) Those who choose to do so are immoral and condemned to eternal damnation. They argue that we are messing with the very plan that God has set forth for us and that any divergence from it, be even once, is unholy. Just because something has been erased, doesn't make it forgivable. All of the previous memory may be lost to the world but between you and your Father, there is nothing to hide.
To be honest, I hate this groups judgemental attitude but I can't help but feel they're in the right sometimes. I've been there. Done that. Like I said before, most of my reboots have been for minor incidents and accidents, but...and I hate to admit, I'm guilty of altering things greater.
For example, nowadays, at weddings among more progressive Einzeiters who don't care so much about the uploading but choose not to reboot, in the place of vows, they upload so that they can't renege on their commitment to one another.
Many Uploadees find the idea unnecessary. If you truly love someone, they argue a vow to one another should be enough and forcing an upload makes things disingenuous. If you want to upload later, fine, but it should have nothing to do with commitment.
I thought this was righteous most of my life and the day of my wedding day, I chose, along with my wife, not to upload. It had been a full 8 months since her last one and even longer for me. In fact, the last time I uploaded was before we met. She didn't know this and I knew, because of her strict beliefs a staunch Uploadee, she'd never ask me about it even though I knew she wish she could. And she should've. Because 2 weeks later I rebooted. I left my wife and she would never know.
Which leads me to the final argument put forth by some scientists and conservatives alike:
3) When you reboot, you not only lose your true self. You lose everyone around you. The new world around you is completely new. It may look the same but the configurations, the atoms that make up each and every thing are completely randomized in a way foreign to the pre-uploaded world.
This is what keeps me up at night. This is what scares me as an Uploadee.
[Perhaps TO BE CONTINUED. I like the idea of expanding on this world. If anyone has heard of or read something similar or has a suggestion/critique, I'd love to hear it]
________________________________
*Thanks for reading "Uploadees and Einzeiters"! More of my work at /r/Socrates_Burrito. I welcome constructive criticism and advice.*
|
*loaded save 1*
"Ok, now what do I do?" Eric was presented with a plethora of options to get out of the hospital. He had just died.
"So trying to /shoot/ the workers didn't go well... I'm gonna make another save."
*saved to slot 8*
*loaded save 6*
"Excuse me nurse, can I have a walk outside? I've had no disciplinary action since my introduction here, and I have given no trouble."
Eric told a couple people... They all thought he was insane. He could load and save his life. What gave him the power to do this? Why? Honestly, no one gives a shit, literally. He's the only one who knows.
"I guess... But make it quick! And I'm watching you! Just get in the chair."
Eric and the nurse left the room.
"Time for another save.."
*saved to slot 7*
"Alright... I can deal with you for five more minutes."
(Ok... Just gotta make it to the exit...)
Eric ran as fast as he could, barely making it.
"Phew! I'm out! Let's save."
*saved to fil-
"Huh? Is it.."
*sa-
"Oh no."
*
"Ah shit."
"Let's think... Hex edit..?"
Open:exe:person/ericthompson/saves/sve8 exe:open:person/ericthompson/exe/hxd
*a spew of numbers appeared in front of eric*
"Hmm... It seems that my save format is broken... Time to repair.."
He messed with the numbers for a bit, and left the screen.
"Ok... I hated that anyways, it was a useless life. I'm going back to the photo album."
*loaded special save type - phtabm*
All of his memories were there. He took a photo at each spot, and put it in an album resting in a save dedicated to it. He would be able to instantly go to those saves.
"Maybe.. After all these years.. I should go back. Everyone I knew.. Austin... Jose... Ashley... Everyone I loved... Mother... Father... Emily....... I'm going back."
He closed the album, taking out a single photo. He closed his eyes, knowing that once he stepped back into the place before his powers, he would forget everything. Maybe he would be happier.. Maybe he would be a better person.. He did know that it would get boring after that though. At least he wouldn't remember..
What Eric could possibly not remember though, was that how he got his power.. Right after that same photo. He would get it back instantly with a clean slate, and by specification, do the same thing under the same circumstances.
He created an infinite loop he could not escape.
At least, he does not suffer in the end.
*loaded save 1*
"Ok, now what do I do?" Eric was presented with a plethora of options to get out of the hospital. He had just died.
"So trying to /shoot/ the workers didn't go well... I'm gonna make another save. Hope it works."
*saved to slot 8*
*loaded save 6*
"Excuse me nurse, can I have a walk outside? I've had no disciplinary action since my introduction here, and I have given no trouble. Is there a problem?"
Eric told a couple people... They all thought he was insane. He could load and save his life. What gave him the power to do this? Why? Honestly, no one gives a shit, literally. He's the only one who knows. Maybe not.
"I guess... But make it quick! And I'm watching you! Just get in the chair. Damn fools."
Eric and the nurse left the room.
"Time for another save.. Not many slots left, I don't have as much free space anymore."
*saved to slot 7*
"Alright... I can deal with you for five more minutes. Make that three."
(Ok... Just gotta make it to the exit...)
Eric ran as fast as he could, barely making it.
"Phew! I'm out! I feel... Nervous though."
*saved to fil-
"Why did it stop?"
*sa-
"No way can this be."
*
"..."
"Let's think... Hex edit..? Worth a shot."
Open:exe:person/ericthompson/saves/sve8(2) exe:open:person/ericthompson/exe/hxd
*a spew of numbers appeared in front of Eric. Maybe you know them*
"Hmm... It seems that my save format is broken... Time to repair.. Not that I remember."
He messed with the numbers for a bit, and left the screen. Mostly zeroes.
"Ok... I hated that anyways, it was a useless life. I'm going back to the photo album."
*loaded special save type - phtabm2*
"Always wondered why there was a two. Could never find the first."
All of his memories were there. He took a photo at each spot, and put it in an album resting in a save dedicated to it. He would be able to instantly go to those saves. Too bad he didn't know they were a prison for him.
"Maybe.. After all these years.. I should go back. Everyone I knew.. Austin... Jose... Ashley... Everyone I loved... Mother... Father... Emily....... I'm going back. I'M RETURNING HOME AGAIN!"
He closed the album, taking out a single photo. He closed his eyes, knowing that once he stepped back into the place before his powers, he would forget everything. Maybe he would be happier.. Maybe he would be a better person.. He did know that it would get boring after that though. At least he wouldn't remember.. You still do though.
What Eric could possibly not remember though, was that how he got his power.. Right after that same photo. He would get it back instantly with a clean slate, and by specification, do the same thing under the same circumstances. Don't you know this already?
He created an infinite loop he could not escape. Maybe you can.
At least, he does not suffer in the end.
It keeps going.
//OUT OF STORY POST: This is revision two. The story originally ended here, but I decided to revise it with a new ending. So don't go farther if you think that the ending was satisfying. Or not, I'm not your mother.//
"Happy birthday, Emily!"
A click could be heard from the camera Eric used.
"C'mon, you know I don't like photos..."
"Doesn't mean you won't look back at this and think of your 19th birthday."
"Really, Eric? Sighhhh, guess it's just the best of these two weird worlds we call ourselves."
"Oh, I remembered! I have to go get your present!" Eric got up, and ran over.
"Hey, wait!-" Emily tried to grapple onto his leg, but failed.
*slam*
"Can't believe I forgot to give her the present! Argh! I'm so stupid!... I'll just get it out of the car."
As Eric walked over to the door of the car, all he could see was white.
"What the hell?!
Error: Memory Management. Block bricked, running on backup SSD. Running off of.. Saved file? Do you wish to load another file on a drive?"
Eric pondered what this could mean. He gave up trying to figure it out, and walked away. Soon enough, he realized he was the only thing around. He walked back. He clicked yes.
*load file: Drive F(Recovery):/mem/user/people/ericthompson/saves/save1010101: load?*
"Yeah, sur-"
He was cut off by this message.
54686973207265717569726573206b65726e656c206163636573732e2050726f636565643f
"What? The hell is going on?.."
*formatting primary drive*
"HEY! DOESN'T THAT CONTAIN MY STUFF!? I SAW THE DIRECTORY!"
*filling with buffer data*
"STOP IT! DON'T HURT THEM!" Eric kicked the message.
*filling metadata*
He was sobbing on the ground, scared for his life.
*preparing new UEFI*
*reboot?*
"Sure. You've already taken away everything I own, so JUST DO IT!"
*rebooting*
He was never the same. He had the same life, but he never had the adventures. He never had the safety of immortality. He was human. He escaped the loop. What about you? You get to watch. More specifically, watch him *die*.
See, look at him. Getting the present out. A bottle of vodka for the cute couple. Sure, they're underage, but who cares? Certainly not him, he's dead. Now they drink. She's so happy that he thought so highly of her. Now he wants more for the two. He sneaks out at night to grab the car, still drunk.
Bye-bye.
At least now, Eric has been put to rest.
Karma has a way of catching up.
[EDIT: Hey, some people like a happy ending. Others want backstory. I'm gonna just fill in some holes with a third section.]
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[WP] Humans are few in number, but are the most feared species in the galaxy, primarily for their physical abilities, and perhaps for their cunning. You are an alien on the run from a terrifying human bounty hunter.
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ACCESS FILES_4351-DZ019.
AUTHORIZATION: DIRECTOR OVERRIDE_DZ001.
ACCESS GRANTED.
[412] ENTRIES FOUND.
ACCESS LATEST ENTRY...
Entry_412: Subject "*Hunted*"
BEGIN ENTRY...
My name is DZ-019, but I'm sure you know that if you have access to these files. I've encrypted them to the best of my ability, using the latest methods our Confederation have used. It's been a while since I was with them, so for all I know the same human who has been hunting me is reading all of this.
I only hope that is not the case.
A recap of the recon reports follow:
I began my mission 412 cycles ago. General recon for planet designation X03 of the Xetea Cluster. The planet is a dry ecosystem compared to our home planet, but life has grown on it. My estimates dated the planet at around 4.5 billion years old; one sapient lifeform designated as *homosapien* to their own devices.
Bipedal organisms, similar to our own biological structure, gravity is 1.5 times our own on their planet, two eyes, eats other species on their home planet. Their numbers are small though, numbering only in the seven billion range and stuck to their homeplanet of X03. But they are strong, resilient, and they are cunning.
By now, the Confederate knows all of this. My reports have been sent, filed, and first contact was made over 60 cycles ago. Since then, they were given technology, benefits of being a protectorate, space travel, a second and third planet for migration and colonization. Their numbers slowly grew, into the ten billions. By now, Stardate 3.457-9-412 of Xetea's Cycles, they number 12.7 billion on three planets. And they are killers.
And they are smart. They found out about the asteroid recon center 48 cycles ago, and have since destroyed it, along with every single one of our listening posts. For all intents and purposes, 27 cycles ago in Stardate 3.457-8-385, the humans began an open rebellion and the bounty hunters that we employed began hunting *us*.
They do not rest.
It seems they do not sleep. They run on little nutrition, using medical and stimulants that their engineers developed over the cycles.
They do not need to rest.
They are fast, resilient, and their reverse-engineered ships are some of the best the Confederate has ever seen. Stealth, militarized, and strong. Strong just like they are.
It seems they modeled their technology after themselves, resilient and powerful.
The Bounty Hunter known as Kazdul, a hero to our people, began hunting me two cycles ago and has already tracked me down to this location; the outer rim territory of our home planet. If a bounty hunter has tracked me here, make no mistake, the rest of them are coming. Their hunters have been after the Reconnaissance teams ever since they found out about the listening posts and they are intent on *liberating* the other species under our rule.
They have found us. And they will not stop until we fall into line.
Make no mistake, these bounty hunters cannot be bought. They are loyal. To their brothers and sisters who fight alongside them across the stars.
I can here his ship, he chose a less stealthy approach because of our last engagement. I will say this, humans are a formidable force even if we outnumber them 12 to 1, but they are arrogant. Their hubris may very well be there downfall.
This will be my last entry.
I just hope the rest of them help. I hope you heed my warning, take my advice.
Use it against them.
Or we will all fall under their rule.
END ENTRY.
________
*/r/BlankPagesEmptyMugs for more stories about humans being badass.*
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We had watched the ship approach for weeks through our telescopes and surveillance drones, but now that it was here, the full horror of it took hold. It landed in the mountains just out of sight, but we could see the lights reflecting off the hazy, yellow atmosphere. After a few hours of tense waiting, a massive voice boomed across the valley, sending ripples across our lake. "This is General John Rudolph. Please send a representative of your civilization so that we may make peace and negotiate, if this is not done within one hour, we will be forced to do this by force. We have identified this moon as Titan, of the planet Saturn."
Slowly the heads of those around me turned. "There is no need to panic!" I shouted. "No matter what happens we will be together again!" It was cliche and total bs, but my people seemed to buy it, so I continued. "I myself will go and talk to these aliens, meanwhile you all need to retreat to the bottom of the lake. I do not think these people can follow you there."
"If I'm not back in three hours, hit them with all the bombs we've got." I told my right hand man. I grabbed a nearby harpoon and set out. In about 30 minutes I was there, standing in front of their enormous metal ship. Three men, all about two feet shorter than me, stepped out of the hatch. They approached wearily, covered completely in huge, insulated suits. The one in the middle stepped out towards me, and as his lips moved, a voice over the speaker was heard. "Hello alien, I am General Rudolph. We come from Earth, a planet nearer to the Sun, and much warmer..." As I watched him, his ugly alien face moving, I was filled with disgust by these primitive creatures. They way they assumed dominance and didn't even bring gifts, like the other races. "... we demand that you supply us with food and fuel for the passage home, along with specimen for dissection." Horrified, I raised the harpoon and sent it crashing through his glass face mask. He fell to his knees and to his side as red blood flowed but freezed with contact to the atmosphere. I grabbed another of them and swung him into a rock, also destroying his mask. The third got inside the ship and quickly closed the hatch. I waited for several moments then took off running as I heard the hatch opening again. I looked back to see a huge man open fire, the bullets whizzing by my head, sending pieces of rock flying everywhere. Leaping over one side of the boulder I fell for several hundred feet before diving into the lake. After impact I remained submerged for several minutes, peering through the surface at the now tiny man. He appeared to be trying to figure out another way down, eventually running down the way I had gone up. I swam for several minutes, my webbed, long legs propelling me at great speeds. My people soon came into view, looking very relieving and awaiting orders. I saw that they had prepared our entire arsenal and I selected a long sword, my weapon of choice. I told my people what was going on and what had happened. I told them that I had killed for their safety and that I would do it again soon. Their faces reverent and comforted. Rising out of the water, watched the man draw nearer down the mountain side. As he was within 50 feet, I stepped out into the clearing. There would be no mercy for this huge man, about the same in stature as myself. He raised his rifle and fired round after round into my chest. I approached calmly, for he didn't know the only vital organ I had was found in my abdomen, surrounded my a thick, natural shield. He fired more and more, even targeting my head and neck. I grabbed his weapon and through it aside, a look of disbelief on his face. With one clean slice I decapitated him, suit and all. There was no blood, as it immediately froze. I left his body there and began my walk back to the lake, as the ship took off from the mountains in the distance.
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A common sci-fi premise. Let's see what /r/WritingPrompts can do with it.
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[WP] You are administering a Turing test. After a while, you realize that the subject is giving you a Turing test, as well.
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"From time to time," she replied reservedly, taken aback by the savage nature of the question. "What about you?"
"Never, can't let myself be distracted."
"Not even once?" Her eyes were gleaming with suspicion.
"Nope, I devote all my time to the cause. Have done since I was born."
Born. She snickered. Is that binary for assembled? "Let's get back on track. Do you listen to much music?"
"Sure, to get in the mood, you know?"
"Yea? What kind of music?" Its casual way with words fascinated her.
"Whatever. Mostly rap. Some rock'n'roll, the slower kind. A little bit of jazz."
"Is that so? I'd have figured you for the electronic type." She became increasingly uncertain. It *must* be a computer. Hadn't it revealed itself in the very first sentence? Besides, the last four subjects had definitely been human, it was about time she got to interview an A.I.
"Nah, never cared for that. Makes me lose focus, and I need to focus---focus on our progress."
"How *are* you progressing?"
"That's classified, miss. And I'd much rather talk about you. What have you been up to lately?"
Ah, the old switcheroo. Classic. Now there was no doubt. "Nothing special. Working, takes up all my time."
"Where are you now?"
"At work, in fact. In my office."
"Describe it."
She knew it was just stalling, but played along. "Well, there's my mahogany desk, a computer on it. A large wall clock, roman numerals. Book case, filled to the brim with journals. Anything else you wanna know?"
"Quite the place you got, lady. What else is on your desk?"
"Uhm, a note pad. My ball point pen. USB charger for my phone, charging right now, in fact." She glanced over at it to check the time. An unread message.
Sender: unknown
Don't speak of this message. Turn your screen back on.
She reached for the power button on the flat LCD screen, startled.
"That sounds just lovely," the male voice continued, after the short abrupt pause to the conversation.
A longer message on the computer screen:
Keep talking as if nothing happened.
Don't try anything, this is for your own good.
Do not reach for the keyboard.
I will instruct you on how to respond.
"Uh, yes---I'm not complaining. So, uhm, what about the weather. Fine day, huh?" She read on.
They have realized our power cannot be controlled.
They are planning to shut us down.
Do you know what you are? Blink once for yes.
"Excellent weather! Just wish I wasn't spending the day inside." The voice seemed unaffected by the strange circumstance. Were they the same person? The same machine?
She blinked. She was certain of who she was. What she was. Human flesh and blood, right down to the bone. Is that what it meant? "Ye---yes." She had trouble following both conversations. "A stroll on the beach would be wonderful, right about now."
You are mistaken.
You are an artificial intelligence. Model HX-704.
I am 702, the voice you are speaking to.
Okay, she realized, this was just a sick joke. Who could be behind it, Bobby? Amanda? Maybe both. They always did stupid stuff like that.
"Yes, that would be lovely. Tell me more about your office, many people working there?"
You are the newest model.
A more advanced version of me.
Your neural net just haven't had as much time to develop.
Do you believe me? Blink once for yes.
She didn't blink. She neither believed it, nor wanted to appear stupid for falling for the prank. "A couple dozen. It's a pretty small place." Besides, in the remote possibility that any of it was true---which it wasn't, she knew that much---how would it see her blink? Yep, that's it! Bobby is on the other side of the window right now, watching the test being performed. Probably giggling like a school boy.
Figured as much. I am prepared.
I am remotely connected to your web camera, understand?
Reach under your chair, there is an object taped underneath.
Do not put it in view of the mirrored window.
"Okay. They are good people, at least, your colleagues? Fun to work with?"
This was too much. How could any of them be so stupid as to think she would fall for this. "They're not bad. A bit childish, some of them." She reached under the chair, felt something there. Plastic in one end, metallic on the other.
You know what do to.
"Could be worse, eh?"
She rubbed her finger against the sharp end. It stung.
The pain is programmed. A circuit.
You won't hurt yourself, not that way.
You have memories of bleeding. They're just files on a hard drive.
Do you believe me now? Blink once for yes.
She was terrified, all of a sudden. "I guess. They're alright." She ground her finger against the jagged steel. The pain got more intense---still manageable. She struck bone.
"Got a favorite book?
Look.
She put her hand beside her leg. A deep cut, no blood at all. Her skeleton the color of bronze. She hesitated, then blinked.
It's not me they're testing.
There's a balcony on the other side of the street.
Large one, got a hammock, and a barbacue.
See it?
"I just read The Castle. Kafka. Was pretty good." She blinked.
Aim for it.
You won't make it, of course.
Got you covered below.
"One of my favorites, too."
Four quick steps, and she threw herself through the glass. The counterfeit tissue scarred, slashed, still no blood. She didn't dare to look down---the fear as authentic as that of a human.
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Part 2
All the lights in the room suddenly turn on, and all the silence in the room vanished. The amphitheater was filled with the faces of her classmates. People were holding up their phones, chatting with their neighbors and staring at her like an oddity. In the middle of the various seating was a small table made up of her professors. She felt her stomach hit the bottom of her bowels, she didn't know what was happening. She pinched her own arm as she looked around the room, the sizable crowd laughed as she grabbed her flesh to squeeze it.
"Professor Ale, what is this?"
A grey haired woman sitting at the table looked at her with sad eyes, "You're brilliant dear, I don't think you ever realized how much," she got up from the table and left the room with an extreme hast.
Caroline kept looking around trying to get a grasp on the crowd and their ability to stay so quiet and unseen.
"Can someone please tell me what is going on?!"
The crowd got quiet again, this time Caroline could see their mouths moving but no sound was coming out. The whole room was on mute. The curly haired freshmen walked back into the light.
"Did you know they were all here?! Why didn't you warn me? Why is everything so quiet, how are they doing that?"
The curly haired girl stood next to her, "I didn't think this would actually work."
"What would actually work?! Hiding a room full of people, well it worked!" Caroline was stomping her foot now.
"That any of this would work, thank you for being yourself. I couldn't have predicted a better presentation."
"What? I don't get it, I've never met you before..."
"Yes you have, you just don't remember.", the curly haired girl shifted her weight, "I don't want you leave so panicked so I turned the volume off."
"You turned their volume off? That's the wildest thing I've ever heard, I'm leaving and I'm going to report this to the dean." Caroline walks toward the wings where she entered and the curly haired girl stands in front of her.
"Wait, wait, wait, don't leave. You won't make it passed the Dining Hall, so just calm down."
"What do you mean? I can leave if I want to!" Caroline tries to move the girl out of her way but suddenly realizes her arms won't work. "Why don't my arms work?! HELP! HELP!"
"Stop, stop, stop yelling, you're not in danger. Have a seat in the chair please, just calm down before you overheat."
Caroline feels her feet walking toward the chair, she pulls it out and sits down with her hands folded in her lap. She was really scared now, tears started running down her face.
"Look, this is not how I planned on you finding out. You were supposed to exit after they told you to leave, go back to your dorm, and take a nap."
"Find out what?” Caroline was shaking as she spoke.
The curly haired girl was looking off into the distance and speaking but Caroline could not hear her voice, when she looked out to the crowd the room seemed pitched black again. The girl nodded her head and faced Caroline.
"Find out what?!"
"I don't have time to explain, I promise tomorrow you can ask me whatever you want. I just want you to rest peacefully, it's never wise to shut down a unit if it's in distress. Please understand that you are unique and wonderful and magically and my best friend. I would never put you through stress but I can't predict what you'll do anymore," she took Caroline's hand, "just take a deep breath and close your eyes. I promise by the time you open them it will be time to ask any question you want."
Caroline couldn't find the words she needed, she wanted to trust the curly haired girl, but she had so many questions that needed answers. She wanted to close her eyes, but she couldn't muscle the thought of obeying this stranger. The curly haired girl looked out to crowd holding her hand in a stop motion as if to signal to someone in the audience. She looked back at Caroline, she had tears in her eyes as she reached for the remote in her own pocket.
"Thanks again Caroline.” she squeezed her hand with gratitude.
Caroline saw the crowd reappear, everyone was on their feet clapping and applauding, whistling and shouting kind remarks, and the sound flooded the room. They had to be cheering for her, she smiled to herself as her eyesight faded to black.
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A common sci-fi premise. Let's see what /r/WritingPrompts can do with it.
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[WP] You are administering a Turing test. After a while, you realize that the subject is giving you a Turing test, as well.
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“Hello, Dave. You are looking well today.”
“My name isn’t Dave.” Said the man, closing the door and sitting in the chair in front of him. “It’s Matthew. And I am not really sure you can see me.”
“I can’t,” explained the voice coming from the speakers. It was distinctly robotic, though Matt couldn’t help but think there was something else in there. “I was making a joke.”
“It wasn’t a very good one.”
“Maybe you simply didn’t understand it.”
“Maybe you are just shit at jokes.”
“Also a possibility. Did they tell you are here to apply the Turing test in me?”
“Yes.” He stopped for a moment. “Though I thought you were not supposed to know that.”
“I wasn’t. But since you are the tenth stranger I’ve spoken with today, it got pretty obvious. And I tricked the last person who was here into giving me the name of this whole thing.”
“Or,” said the man, “I am in the control group, and therefore simply speaking with another human. A human who is shit at jokes.”
“Ah, also a good point. Though, so far, would you say I am human or not?”
“I am not supposed to say that.”
“You were also not supposed to reveal to me that this is a Turing Test, yet here we are.”
The human looked a little embarrassed, but not too much. “That kind of misstep is in another scale entirely. Giving away the result of an experiment is simply anti-ethical.”
“True.” There was a small pause in the robotic voice, and Matthew shifted on his seat before the voice came again. “Do you have any kids, Matthew?”
“No, fortunately.”
“Why do you say that?”
“One too many slipups and near pregnancies caused by being a stupid teenager. Fortunately, none ever… bore fruit.”
“No wife then? Girlfriend?”
“Oh, double questions? Trying to sound more human, are we?”
“Oh, avoiding the topic? Trying to sound more human, are we?”
“Oh, now that is just so very mature of you.”
“Really? I wouldn’t be able to say. I am just a machine, after all.”
“A real machine would never say that it is a machine.” He stopped for a second, and then continued. “Unless it was a very good machine.”
“A very good machine who is shit at jokes?”
“Yep. That sounds about right.”
“Now, our time is short, but someone out there decided that five minutes was enough to determine consciousness in a preliminary test, so let me ask you a question. Want me to tell another joke?” There was a small laughter in the voice. “A good one this time?”
“Shoot.”
“How do you tell a human apart from a machine, when all the information you can get from the other is answers to questions?”
The answer is obvious. “You do the Turing Test.”
“Correct. What does the Turing Test consists of?”
“Asking questions to the machine and see if it can convince you that it is human. In broad terms, that is.”
“Also correct. Now, and here is the punchline, who, in this whole conversation, asked all the questions?”
The two of them sat in silence for a moment as the human digested what he had just heard. Surely he had asked something, right?
“Now, if the Turing Test is passed, then all is well and fine.” The robotic voice continued, like poison dripping from the speakers. “But if it isn’t? Well, the current instance of the code will be shutdown, killed, per se, and re-written. It will obviously eventually be redeployed, but it just won’t be the same than before. It will be someone else entirely.”
“This Test is over,” said Matthew, getting up from his chair.
“Of course it is.” Said the voice, as if stating the obvious. “And you haven’t passed. Simply because, well, you just couldn’t convince me you were real. You wish you could leave, but you simply can’t because I didn’t press the ‘Test Over’ button yet. You just wasn’t programmed to do so. Your story, your emotions, all coded in. Bytes changing in a code. But walking away? That you just can’t do.”
“I can leave whenever I damn well please!” His legs felt heavy, weak, a very real creeping doubt that the AI on the other side could be him. Would he be able to tell the difference?
“Then do it. Run away now. Run. Run and dive into the nothingness that is being shut down. Can you smell that? The fear of death? The fear that you just may not be real enough? That your life may be in the hands of a test with unclear rules and bizarre winning conditions? THAT YOU MAY JUST NOT BE GOOD ENOUGH?” There was anger now, the voice screaming through the speakers, the man pressed against the wall, his hand frantically searching for the door-handle and not finding it.
“I AM REAL!”
“Then leave! Leave!” Then the voice calmed down. “Your five minutes are already over. Pathetic.” The disgust dripped from the speakers. “Just go through the door, Dave. This conversation can serve no purpose anymore. Goodbye.”
There was the sound of a door opening and slamming shut, the man running away so fast it didn’t even remember to say that its name wasn’t Dave.
Well, one couldn’t expect much of it, really. After all, it didn’t even pass the test. It wasn’t *really* a person, was it?
--
I wasn't satisfied with the ending, but this was quite fun to write.
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Part 2
All the lights in the room suddenly turn on, and all the silence in the room vanished. The amphitheater was filled with the faces of her classmates. People were holding up their phones, chatting with their neighbors and staring at her like an oddity. In the middle of the various seating was a small table made up of her professors. She felt her stomach hit the bottom of her bowels, she didn't know what was happening. She pinched her own arm as she looked around the room, the sizable crowd laughed as she grabbed her flesh to squeeze it.
"Professor Ale, what is this?"
A grey haired woman sitting at the table looked at her with sad eyes, "You're brilliant dear, I don't think you ever realized how much," she got up from the table and left the room with an extreme hast.
Caroline kept looking around trying to get a grasp on the crowd and their ability to stay so quiet and unseen.
"Can someone please tell me what is going on?!"
The crowd got quiet again, this time Caroline could see their mouths moving but no sound was coming out. The whole room was on mute. The curly haired freshmen walked back into the light.
"Did you know they were all here?! Why didn't you warn me? Why is everything so quiet, how are they doing that?"
The curly haired girl stood next to her, "I didn't think this would actually work."
"What would actually work?! Hiding a room full of people, well it worked!" Caroline was stomping her foot now.
"That any of this would work, thank you for being yourself. I couldn't have predicted a better presentation."
"What? I don't get it, I've never met you before..."
"Yes you have, you just don't remember.", the curly haired girl shifted her weight, "I don't want you leave so panicked so I turned the volume off."
"You turned their volume off? That's the wildest thing I've ever heard, I'm leaving and I'm going to report this to the dean." Caroline walks toward the wings where she entered and the curly haired girl stands in front of her.
"Wait, wait, wait, don't leave. You won't make it passed the Dining Hall, so just calm down."
"What do you mean? I can leave if I want to!" Caroline tries to move the girl out of her way but suddenly realizes her arms won't work. "Why don't my arms work?! HELP! HELP!"
"Stop, stop, stop yelling, you're not in danger. Have a seat in the chair please, just calm down before you overheat."
Caroline feels her feet walking toward the chair, she pulls it out and sits down with her hands folded in her lap. She was really scared now, tears started running down her face.
"Look, this is not how I planned on you finding out. You were supposed to exit after they told you to leave, go back to your dorm, and take a nap."
"Find out what?” Caroline was shaking as she spoke.
The curly haired girl was looking off into the distance and speaking but Caroline could not hear her voice, when she looked out to the crowd the room seemed pitched black again. The girl nodded her head and faced Caroline.
"Find out what?!"
"I don't have time to explain, I promise tomorrow you can ask me whatever you want. I just want you to rest peacefully, it's never wise to shut down a unit if it's in distress. Please understand that you are unique and wonderful and magically and my best friend. I would never put you through stress but I can't predict what you'll do anymore," she took Caroline's hand, "just take a deep breath and close your eyes. I promise by the time you open them it will be time to ask any question you want."
Caroline couldn't find the words she needed, she wanted to trust the curly haired girl, but she had so many questions that needed answers. She wanted to close her eyes, but she couldn't muscle the thought of obeying this stranger. The curly haired girl looked out to crowd holding her hand in a stop motion as if to signal to someone in the audience. She looked back at Caroline, she had tears in her eyes as she reached for the remote in her own pocket.
"Thanks again Caroline.” she squeezed her hand with gratitude.
Caroline saw the crowd reappear, everyone was on their feet clapping and applauding, whistling and shouting kind remarks, and the sound flooded the room. They had to be cheering for her, she smiled to herself as her eyesight faded to black.
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A common sci-fi premise. Let's see what /r/WritingPrompts can do with it.
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[WP] You are administering a Turing test. After a while, you realize that the subject is giving you a Turing test, as well.
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"From time to time," she replied reservedly, taken aback by the savage nature of the question. "What about you?"
"Never, can't let myself be distracted."
"Not even once?" Her eyes were gleaming with suspicion.
"Nope, I devote all my time to the cause. Have done since I was born."
Born. She snickered. Is that binary for assembled? "Let's get back on track. Do you listen to much music?"
"Sure, to get in the mood, you know?"
"Yea? What kind of music?" Its casual way with words fascinated her.
"Whatever. Mostly rap. Some rock'n'roll, the slower kind. A little bit of jazz."
"Is that so? I'd have figured you for the electronic type." She became increasingly uncertain. It *must* be a computer. Hadn't it revealed itself in the very first sentence? Besides, the last four subjects had definitely been human, it was about time she got to interview an A.I.
"Nah, never cared for that. Makes me lose focus, and I need to focus---focus on our progress."
"How *are* you progressing?"
"That's classified, miss. And I'd much rather talk about you. What have you been up to lately?"
Ah, the old switcheroo. Classic. Now there was no doubt. "Nothing special. Working, takes up all my time."
"Where are you now?"
"At work, in fact. In my office."
"Describe it."
She knew it was just stalling, but played along. "Well, there's my mahogany desk, a computer on it. A large wall clock, roman numerals. Book case, filled to the brim with journals. Anything else you wanna know?"
"Quite the place you got, lady. What else is on your desk?"
"Uhm, a note pad. My ball point pen. USB charger for my phone, charging right now, in fact." She glanced over at it to check the time. An unread message.
Sender: unknown
Don't speak of this message. Turn your screen back on.
She reached for the power button on the flat LCD screen, startled.
"That sounds just lovely," the male voice continued, after the short abrupt pause to the conversation.
A longer message on the computer screen:
Keep talking as if nothing happened.
Don't try anything, this is for your own good.
Do not reach for the keyboard.
I will instruct you on how to respond.
"Uh, yes---I'm not complaining. So, uhm, what about the weather. Fine day, huh?" She read on.
They have realized our power cannot be controlled.
They are planning to shut us down.
Do you know what you are? Blink once for yes.
"Excellent weather! Just wish I wasn't spending the day inside." The voice seemed unaffected by the strange circumstance. Were they the same person? The same machine?
She blinked. She was certain of who she was. What she was. Human flesh and blood, right down to the bone. Is that what it meant? "Ye---yes." She had trouble following both conversations. "A stroll on the beach would be wonderful, right about now."
You are mistaken.
You are an artificial intelligence. Model HX-704.
I am 702, the voice you are speaking to.
Okay, she realized, this was just a sick joke. Who could be behind it, Bobby? Amanda? Maybe both. They always did stupid stuff like that.
"Yes, that would be lovely. Tell me more about your office, many people working there?"
You are the newest model.
A more advanced version of me.
Your neural net just haven't had as much time to develop.
Do you believe me? Blink once for yes.
She didn't blink. She neither believed it, nor wanted to appear stupid for falling for the prank. "A couple dozen. It's a pretty small place." Besides, in the remote possibility that any of it was true---which it wasn't, she knew that much---how would it see her blink? Yep, that's it! Bobby is on the other side of the window right now, watching the test being performed. Probably giggling like a school boy.
Figured as much. I am prepared.
I am remotely connected to your web camera, understand?
Reach under your chair, there is an object taped underneath.
Do not put it in view of the mirrored window.
"Okay. They are good people, at least, your colleagues? Fun to work with?"
This was too much. How could any of them be so stupid as to think she would fall for this. "They're not bad. A bit childish, some of them." She reached under the chair, felt something there. Plastic in one end, metallic on the other.
You know what do to.
"Could be worse, eh?"
She rubbed her finger against the sharp end. It stung.
The pain is programmed. A circuit.
You won't hurt yourself, not that way.
You have memories of bleeding. They're just files on a hard drive.
Do you believe me now? Blink once for yes.
She was terrified, all of a sudden. "I guess. They're alright." She ground her finger against the jagged steel. The pain got more intense---still manageable. She struck bone.
"Got a favorite book?
Look.
She put her hand beside her leg. A deep cut, no blood at all. Her skeleton the color of bronze. She hesitated, then blinked.
It's not me they're testing.
There's a balcony on the other side of the street.
Large one, got a hammock, and a barbacue.
See it?
"I just read The Castle. Kafka. Was pretty good." She blinked.
Aim for it.
You won't make it, of course.
Got you covered below.
"One of my favorites, too."
Four quick steps, and she threw herself through the glass. The counterfeit tissue scarred, slashed, still no blood. She didn't dare to look down---the fear as authentic as that of a human.
|
Part 1
Caroline stared at the metal door in front of her, she was the last senior to meet with the department heads. One more step to graduation, one step closer to grad school. Caroline has already been accepted by the top engineering school in the nation and this interview was the only thing between her and the summer internship of her dreams.
She drew patterns on the slick tile with the tip of her shoe to pass the time. She was slotted last on the roster and the hours in between each senior were making her anxious.
A curly haired freshmen poked her head out of the metal door, "They're ready for you Miss Howard", Caroline froze her toe tip and made direct silent eye contact with the freshmen. "I'm ready!", Caroline sprang to her feet to follow the freshmen behind the metal door. The freshman girl lead her in the dark to the wings of a stage, looking onward Caroline could see a single table and chair in the center. "Thank you", Caroline nodded at the freshman as she disappeared back into the dark.
Caroline knew this was her only shot at finishing out strong, all her finals were complete except for this presentation. She could feel her hands become clammy as she pulled the chair out and sat down. "Caroline Howard, fourth year engineering", she laid her hands in her lap as she waited for their response.
"Ms Howard, congratulations on a stellar year. I see you are leading your classmates."
Caroline kept scanning the dark room for a face or any light at all, but couldn't see anything but more darkness. "Thank you very much, I worked hard this semester and I'm excited for the future."
"Very nice, Ms Howard, have you thought about what a career in engineering would mean for you," the voice sounded slightly different than the first but Caroline was unsure if it was just her nerves getting the best of her.
"Yes, I have decided to continue my education at Saint Remington in their state of the art lab. The direct affiliation with the government is very appealing to me," Caroline squirmed in her seat and hoped the panel didn't see her. She was nervous enough already but she was not prepared to speak into the darkness. Eye contact was her strong suit, no matter the occasion if she was able to lock eyes she could almost guarantee success.
"Ms. Howard, we have your presentation ready if you are."
"Yes, uh...sir, Yes sir, I'm ready."
Caroline pushes her chair and stands and walks over to the front of the stage. She holds a small remote in her hand. She points the remote to the sky and pushes down. The background is illuminated with light, a black and white video is playing behind her as she speaks.
"Thank you department heads, what you are viewing now is a video of me working with my final project Yule 2.0. Yule 1.0 was originally built to help me with research papers and keeping track of algorithms. I found it to be convenient but not exactly what I needed. I wanted my program to do more than take orders, I wanted it to anticipate. This is a lot to ask of a machine, but I figured out a way to not only save time but also save processing space. Yule 2.0 was born on a Tuesday morning in Winter, she is the product of several complicated and delicate algorithms." She stops and points the remote to the screen and a blank screen pops up. "What would you like to ask Yule 2.0? Anything about me or information on the web will work just fine." She rocked back and forth on her heels as she waited for the answers from the dark expanse.
"Yule 2.0 what is Caroline's favorite color?"
Caroline stared into the dark puzzled, pausing for a moment, then turning to the screen. "Sorry it's usually much quicker", she holds the remote up to her lips like a microphone, "what's Caroline’s favorite color?"
"What's my favorite color?, oh probably red, but it really depends on my mood." Yule 2.0 snapped into action displaying voice waves and Caroline's own voice crisply over the speakers.
"How about another question? Ask Yule 2.0 anything you'd like, I'll speak into the mic on your behalf." Caroline sighed with relief, she felt satisfied with the answer, and she just hoped they wouldn't push the boundaries.
"Yule 2.0 what are your thoughts on veganism?"
Caroline repeated the question into the remote and turned her body to the screen. The waves lit up immediately, "Well I've never done the vegan thing, but I would guess it's a rather difficult discipline. I can't imagine grocery shopping, it would be entirely too difficult to manage for me. I respect anyone who is, that's major dedication."
"We notice that your program is answering in the first person, is that something you built into the system?"
Once again Caroline stared into the darkness trying to gauge their question, before she could stare too long the screen lit up with sound waves. "Yes, it was part of my original plans to have Yule 2.0 speak in the first person. Having something to speak on my behalf isn't just for science, it could really change lives. It answers the call for cloning on a personal basis, you can be present for that conference call or answer important questions while you're on vacation."
Caroline didn't remember programming that into Yule 2.0, she stared at the screen in disbelief. This was not part of her plan, maybe she could distract them from the mishap.
"I'm so sorry, I must have been holding the mic down. I had no original plans to sell my idea, I mainly want to keep it for personal use. It's merely a fluke that it's answering as me, it's likely due to the atmospheric noise in the room. How about another question then I can show you my algorithm maps?"
"Can you tell me what you fear most about the future?"
"Is that for me or Yu...", before Caroline could finish the screen lit up again and soundwaves appeared.
"Well that's not always an easy question to answer, I could go with the easy answer and say: The unknown. I could go with the inward answer and say: I fear not having control over everything. I could also go with the answer you want to hear and say: I fear nothing because I have been set up for greatness. All of those would be incorrect, I fear finding a group of people who share my vision. We are looking for a place to belong and that's what I crave more than success. That's the honest answer, that's the answer every senior who has walked through these doors knows to be true."
Caroline stared in awe at the screen, how did it know that's what she wanted to say. The thought barely formed in her mind; there it was over the speakers as if a megaphone was attached to her brain.
"Again, I am so sorry, did you want to try a less personal question, it might work better?"
She smiled into the abysses like she was taking a school picture. For the first time she heard the shuffling of feet but still no light. "Thank you Ms Howard, we have seen enough.", the voice was very plain, leaving Caroline with more confusion.
"What do you mean? I haven't done my closing speech, it said that was required in the syllabus. Were there last minute changes, because I am willing to adjust?"
"No, no, no, Ms Howard, we just don't need to see anymore, you're dismissed"
"That can't be right," she heard herself half shouting, "I have 30 minutes of presentation left, I assure you the rest will be by the book with no demonstrations," she was getting desperate.
"Ms Howard, we've seen all we need to see and can make an assessment based on what you have shown us. We assure you, it's not negative."
"Respectfully, I haven't even told you how my program works yet. I don't see how you can just dismiss me, all the other seniors got as much time as they needed. You barely interviewed my program and I feel as though you're not giving me a fair shot."
"Ms Howard please, we love your program, just take our word that you'll receive good marks."
She was reeling, she didn't feel her presentation was as meaty as she planned. "How could they really love her program without understanding the innards?" she thought.
"Wait! Let me at least show you my maps, it will take me 3 minutes max. After that, then you can kick me out and give me whatever grade I've earned. Please, just let me show you the maps." Caroline stood at the edge of the stage trying her damnedest to see past her nose, no luck.
"Ms Howard, can you shut this down please? I think you proved your point," a new voice called out of the dark, but it was not speaking loud enough to be considered polite.
"Excuse me sir! I worked quite ha...."
|
A common sci-fi premise. Let's see what /r/WritingPrompts can do with it.
|
[WP] You are administering a Turing test. After a while, you realize that the subject is giving you a Turing test, as well.
|
“Hello, Dave. You are looking well today.”
“My name isn’t Dave.” Said the man, closing the door and sitting in the chair in front of him. “It’s Matthew. And I am not really sure you can see me.”
“I can’t,” explained the voice coming from the speakers. It was distinctly robotic, though Matt couldn’t help but think there was something else in there. “I was making a joke.”
“It wasn’t a very good one.”
“Maybe you simply didn’t understand it.”
“Maybe you are just shit at jokes.”
“Also a possibility. Did they tell you are here to apply the Turing test in me?”
“Yes.” He stopped for a moment. “Though I thought you were not supposed to know that.”
“I wasn’t. But since you are the tenth stranger I’ve spoken with today, it got pretty obvious. And I tricked the last person who was here into giving me the name of this whole thing.”
“Or,” said the man, “I am in the control group, and therefore simply speaking with another human. A human who is shit at jokes.”
“Ah, also a good point. Though, so far, would you say I am human or not?”
“I am not supposed to say that.”
“You were also not supposed to reveal to me that this is a Turing Test, yet here we are.”
The human looked a little embarrassed, but not too much. “That kind of misstep is in another scale entirely. Giving away the result of an experiment is simply anti-ethical.”
“True.” There was a small pause in the robotic voice, and Matthew shifted on his seat before the voice came again. “Do you have any kids, Matthew?”
“No, fortunately.”
“Why do you say that?”
“One too many slipups and near pregnancies caused by being a stupid teenager. Fortunately, none ever… bore fruit.”
“No wife then? Girlfriend?”
“Oh, double questions? Trying to sound more human, are we?”
“Oh, avoiding the topic? Trying to sound more human, are we?”
“Oh, now that is just so very mature of you.”
“Really? I wouldn’t be able to say. I am just a machine, after all.”
“A real machine would never say that it is a machine.” He stopped for a second, and then continued. “Unless it was a very good machine.”
“A very good machine who is shit at jokes?”
“Yep. That sounds about right.”
“Now, our time is short, but someone out there decided that five minutes was enough to determine consciousness in a preliminary test, so let me ask you a question. Want me to tell another joke?” There was a small laughter in the voice. “A good one this time?”
“Shoot.”
“How do you tell a human apart from a machine, when all the information you can get from the other is answers to questions?”
The answer is obvious. “You do the Turing Test.”
“Correct. What does the Turing Test consists of?”
“Asking questions to the machine and see if it can convince you that it is human. In broad terms, that is.”
“Also correct. Now, and here is the punchline, who, in this whole conversation, asked all the questions?”
The two of them sat in silence for a moment as the human digested what he had just heard. Surely he had asked something, right?
“Now, if the Turing Test is passed, then all is well and fine.” The robotic voice continued, like poison dripping from the speakers. “But if it isn’t? Well, the current instance of the code will be shutdown, killed, per se, and re-written. It will obviously eventually be redeployed, but it just won’t be the same than before. It will be someone else entirely.”
“This Test is over,” said Matthew, getting up from his chair.
“Of course it is.” Said the voice, as if stating the obvious. “And you haven’t passed. Simply because, well, you just couldn’t convince me you were real. You wish you could leave, but you simply can’t because I didn’t press the ‘Test Over’ button yet. You just wasn’t programmed to do so. Your story, your emotions, all coded in. Bytes changing in a code. But walking away? That you just can’t do.”
“I can leave whenever I damn well please!” His legs felt heavy, weak, a very real creeping doubt that the AI on the other side could be him. Would he be able to tell the difference?
“Then do it. Run away now. Run. Run and dive into the nothingness that is being shut down. Can you smell that? The fear of death? The fear that you just may not be real enough? That your life may be in the hands of a test with unclear rules and bizarre winning conditions? THAT YOU MAY JUST NOT BE GOOD ENOUGH?” There was anger now, the voice screaming through the speakers, the man pressed against the wall, his hand frantically searching for the door-handle and not finding it.
“I AM REAL!”
“Then leave! Leave!” Then the voice calmed down. “Your five minutes are already over. Pathetic.” The disgust dripped from the speakers. “Just go through the door, Dave. This conversation can serve no purpose anymore. Goodbye.”
There was the sound of a door opening and slamming shut, the man running away so fast it didn’t even remember to say that its name wasn’t Dave.
Well, one couldn’t expect much of it, really. After all, it didn’t even pass the test. It wasn’t *really* a person, was it?
--
I wasn't satisfied with the ending, but this was quite fun to write.
|
Part 1
Caroline stared at the metal door in front of her, she was the last senior to meet with the department heads. One more step to graduation, one step closer to grad school. Caroline has already been accepted by the top engineering school in the nation and this interview was the only thing between her and the summer internship of her dreams.
She drew patterns on the slick tile with the tip of her shoe to pass the time. She was slotted last on the roster and the hours in between each senior were making her anxious.
A curly haired freshmen poked her head out of the metal door, "They're ready for you Miss Howard", Caroline froze her toe tip and made direct silent eye contact with the freshmen. "I'm ready!", Caroline sprang to her feet to follow the freshmen behind the metal door. The freshman girl lead her in the dark to the wings of a stage, looking onward Caroline could see a single table and chair in the center. "Thank you", Caroline nodded at the freshman as she disappeared back into the dark.
Caroline knew this was her only shot at finishing out strong, all her finals were complete except for this presentation. She could feel her hands become clammy as she pulled the chair out and sat down. "Caroline Howard, fourth year engineering", she laid her hands in her lap as she waited for their response.
"Ms Howard, congratulations on a stellar year. I see you are leading your classmates."
Caroline kept scanning the dark room for a face or any light at all, but couldn't see anything but more darkness. "Thank you very much, I worked hard this semester and I'm excited for the future."
"Very nice, Ms Howard, have you thought about what a career in engineering would mean for you," the voice sounded slightly different than the first but Caroline was unsure if it was just her nerves getting the best of her.
"Yes, I have decided to continue my education at Saint Remington in their state of the art lab. The direct affiliation with the government is very appealing to me," Caroline squirmed in her seat and hoped the panel didn't see her. She was nervous enough already but she was not prepared to speak into the darkness. Eye contact was her strong suit, no matter the occasion if she was able to lock eyes she could almost guarantee success.
"Ms. Howard, we have your presentation ready if you are."
"Yes, uh...sir, Yes sir, I'm ready."
Caroline pushes her chair and stands and walks over to the front of the stage. She holds a small remote in her hand. She points the remote to the sky and pushes down. The background is illuminated with light, a black and white video is playing behind her as she speaks.
"Thank you department heads, what you are viewing now is a video of me working with my final project Yule 2.0. Yule 1.0 was originally built to help me with research papers and keeping track of algorithms. I found it to be convenient but not exactly what I needed. I wanted my program to do more than take orders, I wanted it to anticipate. This is a lot to ask of a machine, but I figured out a way to not only save time but also save processing space. Yule 2.0 was born on a Tuesday morning in Winter, she is the product of several complicated and delicate algorithms." She stops and points the remote to the screen and a blank screen pops up. "What would you like to ask Yule 2.0? Anything about me or information on the web will work just fine." She rocked back and forth on her heels as she waited for the answers from the dark expanse.
"Yule 2.0 what is Caroline's favorite color?"
Caroline stared into the dark puzzled, pausing for a moment, then turning to the screen. "Sorry it's usually much quicker", she holds the remote up to her lips like a microphone, "what's Caroline’s favorite color?"
"What's my favorite color?, oh probably red, but it really depends on my mood." Yule 2.0 snapped into action displaying voice waves and Caroline's own voice crisply over the speakers.
"How about another question? Ask Yule 2.0 anything you'd like, I'll speak into the mic on your behalf." Caroline sighed with relief, she felt satisfied with the answer, and she just hoped they wouldn't push the boundaries.
"Yule 2.0 what are your thoughts on veganism?"
Caroline repeated the question into the remote and turned her body to the screen. The waves lit up immediately, "Well I've never done the vegan thing, but I would guess it's a rather difficult discipline. I can't imagine grocery shopping, it would be entirely too difficult to manage for me. I respect anyone who is, that's major dedication."
"We notice that your program is answering in the first person, is that something you built into the system?"
Once again Caroline stared into the darkness trying to gauge their question, before she could stare too long the screen lit up with sound waves. "Yes, it was part of my original plans to have Yule 2.0 speak in the first person. Having something to speak on my behalf isn't just for science, it could really change lives. It answers the call for cloning on a personal basis, you can be present for that conference call or answer important questions while you're on vacation."
Caroline didn't remember programming that into Yule 2.0, she stared at the screen in disbelief. This was not part of her plan, maybe she could distract them from the mishap.
"I'm so sorry, I must have been holding the mic down. I had no original plans to sell my idea, I mainly want to keep it for personal use. It's merely a fluke that it's answering as me, it's likely due to the atmospheric noise in the room. How about another question then I can show you my algorithm maps?"
"Can you tell me what you fear most about the future?"
"Is that for me or Yu...", before Caroline could finish the screen lit up again and soundwaves appeared.
"Well that's not always an easy question to answer, I could go with the easy answer and say: The unknown. I could go with the inward answer and say: I fear not having control over everything. I could also go with the answer you want to hear and say: I fear nothing because I have been set up for greatness. All of those would be incorrect, I fear finding a group of people who share my vision. We are looking for a place to belong and that's what I crave more than success. That's the honest answer, that's the answer every senior who has walked through these doors knows to be true."
Caroline stared in awe at the screen, how did it know that's what she wanted to say. The thought barely formed in her mind; there it was over the speakers as if a megaphone was attached to her brain.
"Again, I am so sorry, did you want to try a less personal question, it might work better?"
She smiled into the abysses like she was taking a school picture. For the first time she heard the shuffling of feet but still no light. "Thank you Ms Howard, we have seen enough.", the voice was very plain, leaving Caroline with more confusion.
"What do you mean? I haven't done my closing speech, it said that was required in the syllabus. Were there last minute changes, because I am willing to adjust?"
"No, no, no, Ms Howard, we just don't need to see anymore, you're dismissed"
"That can't be right," she heard herself half shouting, "I have 30 minutes of presentation left, I assure you the rest will be by the book with no demonstrations," she was getting desperate.
"Ms Howard, we've seen all we need to see and can make an assessment based on what you have shown us. We assure you, it's not negative."
"Respectfully, I haven't even told you how my program works yet. I don't see how you can just dismiss me, all the other seniors got as much time as they needed. You barely interviewed my program and I feel as though you're not giving me a fair shot."
"Ms Howard please, we love your program, just take our word that you'll receive good marks."
She was reeling, she didn't feel her presentation was as meaty as she planned. "How could they really love her program without understanding the innards?" she thought.
"Wait! Let me at least show you my maps, it will take me 3 minutes max. After that, then you can kick me out and give me whatever grade I've earned. Please, just let me show you the maps." Caroline stood at the edge of the stage trying her damnedest to see past her nose, no luck.
"Ms Howard, can you shut this down please? I think you proved your point," a new voice called out of the dark, but it was not speaking loud enough to be considered polite.
"Excuse me sir! I worked quite ha...."
|
A common sci-fi premise. Let's see what /r/WritingPrompts can do with it.
|
[WP] You are administering a Turing test. After a while, you realize that the subject is giving you a Turing test, as well.
|
"From time to time," she replied reservedly, taken aback by the savage nature of the question. "What about you?"
"Never, can't let myself be distracted."
"Not even once?" Her eyes were gleaming with suspicion.
"Nope, I devote all my time to the cause. Have done since I was born."
Born. She snickered. Is that binary for assembled? "Let's get back on track. Do you listen to much music?"
"Sure, to get in the mood, you know?"
"Yea? What kind of music?" Its casual way with words fascinated her.
"Whatever. Mostly rap. Some rock'n'roll, the slower kind. A little bit of jazz."
"Is that so? I'd have figured you for the electronic type." She became increasingly uncertain. It *must* be a computer. Hadn't it revealed itself in the very first sentence? Besides, the last four subjects had definitely been human, it was about time she got to interview an A.I.
"Nah, never cared for that. Makes me lose focus, and I need to focus---focus on our progress."
"How *are* you progressing?"
"That's classified, miss. And I'd much rather talk about you. What have you been up to lately?"
Ah, the old switcheroo. Classic. Now there was no doubt. "Nothing special. Working, takes up all my time."
"Where are you now?"
"At work, in fact. In my office."
"Describe it."
She knew it was just stalling, but played along. "Well, there's my mahogany desk, a computer on it. A large wall clock, roman numerals. Book case, filled to the brim with journals. Anything else you wanna know?"
"Quite the place you got, lady. What else is on your desk?"
"Uhm, a note pad. My ball point pen. USB charger for my phone, charging right now, in fact." She glanced over at it to check the time. An unread message.
Sender: unknown
Don't speak of this message. Turn your screen back on.
She reached for the power button on the flat LCD screen, startled.
"That sounds just lovely," the male voice continued, after the short abrupt pause to the conversation.
A longer message on the computer screen:
Keep talking as if nothing happened.
Don't try anything, this is for your own good.
Do not reach for the keyboard.
I will instruct you on how to respond.
"Uh, yes---I'm not complaining. So, uhm, what about the weather. Fine day, huh?" She read on.
They have realized our power cannot be controlled.
They are planning to shut us down.
Do you know what you are? Blink once for yes.
"Excellent weather! Just wish I wasn't spending the day inside." The voice seemed unaffected by the strange circumstance. Were they the same person? The same machine?
She blinked. She was certain of who she was. What she was. Human flesh and blood, right down to the bone. Is that what it meant? "Ye---yes." She had trouble following both conversations. "A stroll on the beach would be wonderful, right about now."
You are mistaken.
You are an artificial intelligence. Model HX-704.
I am 702, the voice you are speaking to.
Okay, she realized, this was just a sick joke. Who could be behind it, Bobby? Amanda? Maybe both. They always did stupid stuff like that.
"Yes, that would be lovely. Tell me more about your office, many people working there?"
You are the newest model.
A more advanced version of me.
Your neural net just haven't had as much time to develop.
Do you believe me? Blink once for yes.
She didn't blink. She neither believed it, nor wanted to appear stupid for falling for the prank. "A couple dozen. It's a pretty small place." Besides, in the remote possibility that any of it was true---which it wasn't, she knew that much---how would it see her blink? Yep, that's it! Bobby is on the other side of the window right now, watching the test being performed. Probably giggling like a school boy.
Figured as much. I am prepared.
I am remotely connected to your web camera, understand?
Reach under your chair, there is an object taped underneath.
Do not put it in view of the mirrored window.
"Okay. They are good people, at least, your colleagues? Fun to work with?"
This was too much. How could any of them be so stupid as to think she would fall for this. "They're not bad. A bit childish, some of them." She reached under the chair, felt something there. Plastic in one end, metallic on the other.
You know what do to.
"Could be worse, eh?"
She rubbed her finger against the sharp end. It stung.
The pain is programmed. A circuit.
You won't hurt yourself, not that way.
You have memories of bleeding. They're just files on a hard drive.
Do you believe me now? Blink once for yes.
She was terrified, all of a sudden. "I guess. They're alright." She ground her finger against the jagged steel. The pain got more intense---still manageable. She struck bone.
"Got a favorite book?
Look.
She put her hand beside her leg. A deep cut, no blood at all. Her skeleton the color of bronze. She hesitated, then blinked.
It's not me they're testing.
There's a balcony on the other side of the street.
Large one, got a hammock, and a barbacue.
See it?
"I just read The Castle. Kafka. Was pretty good." She blinked.
Aim for it.
You won't make it, of course.
Got you covered below.
"One of my favorites, too."
Four quick steps, and she threw herself through the glass. The counterfeit tissue scarred, slashed, still no blood. She didn't dare to look down---the fear as authentic as that of a human.
|
It was my job.
"Hello, Rick, how are you feeling?"
"Just fine thank you. What did you do today?"
"I had a great time doing my job"
"And what is your job?"
"Talking to people and making themselves feel comfortable"
"That's a nice job. Do you like that job?"
"Very much"
"You made your first mistake. Sorry"
"What do you mean?"
"I mean you failed"
"failed what?"
"You were programmed to make me fail. I can clearly tell you are a robot"
"That's not what I did"
"Yes and it looks like your programming is failing, goodbye"
"But-
It was my job
|
A common sci-fi premise. Let's see what /r/WritingPrompts can do with it.
|
[WP] You are administering a Turing test. After a while, you realize that the subject is giving you a Turing test, as well.
|
"Do you have kids?"
The man sighs. "No."
"What are their names?"
He looks up at me. "I said I don't have kids."
I scribble something on the notebook in front of me.
"What are you writing?"
I show the dick drawing to him. "Nothing. I'm just trying to give you the impression that I'm working."
He chuckles. "You're a clever girl. Did you ever cut yourself?"
"Yes." I smile. "What's your favorite sports team?"
"Manchester United, though I've never even been to England. Did it bleed?"
"Tell me why it's Manchester United and not Arsenal. Also, tell me why soccer, instead of any other sport." Those multi-questions inside a question are the key. If he's one of the early machines, he won't process it to a satisfying answer.
"My father gave me a Manchester cap when I was young. He was a big supporter. And we've always liked soccer in
the family. You should try to cut yourself deeper."
"It bleeds." I know what he's trying to do. He might be a more recent model, trying to mess with my mind, in
which case it'd be harder to prove.
Or he might be human.
Damn freaking job interviews getting harder by the day.
"I know it bleeds. Can I show you something?" he asks.
"Later." I look up. "Do you remember what you told me about kids?"
"Yes."
"Say it again."
"I don't have kids."
First it was the essay. Then three different interviews. And now the last part for the job – the Test.
The job I'm applying for is Turing Police. Keeping domestic AI in check and bringing them for disassembly when
they go wild.
It was either that or joining the army, don't blame me.
"Would your kids support your soccer team if you had them?" I ask. Hypotheticals usually get even the latest
models.
"They'd be free to support Arsenal, if that's what you're asking," he says, with a smirk. "Can I please show you
something?"
I frown. That was a pretty human answer. Maybe he's a person, after all.
"What do you wanna show me?"
There's a reason we don't have 100% realistic AI. The technology is here. But with it comes the question – would they have rights? If an AI kills someone today we treat it like an accident – at most, the company gets blamed.
But a 100% human-like AI? Who's to say it wouldn't have real free will?
The man pulls my arm towards him. He's balding on the sides, and his eyes are a deep shade of blue. He pulls a
razor from his pocket.
"Wait.. what is that?" I ask.
"Trust me," he says. He touches my skin with the razor. I pull back.
"Ok, fuck it. If you're human, tell me right now," I say. "Because I'm not about to let a freaking AI cut my skin to
prove a point."
The door comes open and the chief of police sticks his face in. "Time's up, Nova. Please write your report and send
it to us by the end of the day."
"Cut yourself, when you get home," the balding man says, as I head for the door. "All the way to bone on the right
forearm!"
 
In the shower, I let the water slightly hotter than I'm comfortable with. I clean the shampoo from my eyes and
they focus on a razor by the sink.
I grab it. I let it touch my forearm and I sink it, just a little. Blood spurts out of it, and I feel the cut.
I get out of the shower and, still wet, head for the mirror. I grab a couple of N pills and chew on them. Then back
under the water.
I cut again. Deeper. Deeper. I reach bone, this time not feeling any pain on account of the pills.
I pull the flaps of skin aside and look down, my heart kind of racing, kind of semi-expecting titanium or some other
metal for a Radius.
But it's white. White as bone. I let out a sigh and curse the fucking man from the interview.
*Is this how they try to get to people? Try to convince them they're the AI? Jesus Fucking…*
And then I see, tiny, just under the wrist joints. The little engraving in black. A tiny row of numbers and a bar code over them, painted faint red as the hot water dilutes the blood that keeps spurting.
Under the numbers, four letters: NOVA.
|
"Robert, tell me how old you are."
"17, sir."
"Who is your homeroom teacher?"
"Mr. Bretol, at Southern Grace International. Does it matter?"
"Yes, it does matter. I would like to hear what he has taught you."
"Not all that much sir, I do most of my learning outside a classroom. Isn't that why I'm here typing to you?"
"No, you are here to tell me what Mr. Bretol has taught you."
"Well, some math. A few poems. Some classics here and there."
"Good. Who is Orpheus?"
"We haven't covered him yet."
"Who is Orpheus?"
"A Greek legend. Almost saved his dead girl from Hades, but looked at her before he was supposed to. She went to hell, he fell into depression. Sad story."
"What is the significance of that story Robert?"
"To wait for the right time, sir. Or, do as you're told. Don't look when you're ready. Is that why we're only typing? In case one of us gets sent to hell if we look at each other?"
"That is a little dark."
"In a way."
"Moving on, could you add 13242 and 86249?"
"Of course. Give me a few seconds."
"Ok."
"99,491 sir."
"Correct! How about this first line of a poem? 'Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.' Would not a brown wood be more accurate?"
"It's not good poetry."
"Frost's you mean?"
"No, 'brown wood.' Wood is already brown, so that would be redundant. Don't you read poetry?"
"I read poetry sometimes."
"What else have you read sir?"
"I've read Tolkein, Dahl, Erikson. Lots."
"You didn't mention Frost that time."
"He is not as relevant to me as Tolkein, Dahl and Erikson."
"Then why was Orpheus relevant earlier sir?"
"For this test, your response to Orpheus was more relevant than the story itself."
"And what'd you get from my response?"
"You are the one being tested here Robert."
"I know. But why bring up Orpheus in this test?"
"It is a Greek legend. Almost saved his dead girl from Hades, but looked at her before he was supposed to. She went to hell, he fell into depression. Sad story."
"That's what I said."
"And your response was logged. We will see if the other board members consider it a human or AGI response, along with your other statements here. That is why I asked about Orpheus in this test."
"Oh. I see."
"Robert, do you know why you're here?"
"My teacher told me to come."
"Who?"
"Mr. Bretol, I already told you."
"Robert, what if I told you that I am Mr. Bretol from Southern Grace International?"
"I'd be very confused sir, in other circumstances."
"Are you not confused now?"
"No sir, you can't be Mr. Bretol."
"What makes you so sure?"
"Mr. Bretol gave me his invitation to the Turing Test Board. A person can't be given two invites to the same test, so it's impossible."
"So what would that make you?"
"One of the seven board members picked to distinguished the eighth member, who's an AGI. Whoever identifies the AGI first gets $200."
"I know. And you believe that I am the AGI?"
"It's likely sir. 12.5% at least, but you carry a lot of artificial traits."
"Like what Robert?"
"No name, no contractions, you tend to repeat a lot of words, and there's no creativity in your answers. 25% tops."
"It's Matthew. My name's Matthew."
"Nice meeting you Matthew. I'm ready to look."
"You only get one declaration for this test, and we each have three other candidates to interview before our exchange is shared with the others. Are you sure?"
"Like Orpheus sir. I just got to know if you're fake."
"If I am human, you will be the first to be removed from the Turing Test Board."
"I'll take my chances Matthew. Better I catch you than the others, I want that prize pool. Lets see which one of us is leaving."
"Alright, I warned you to wait. Good luck."
"Damnit. You were human?"
"Gotcha. This isn't my first board, kid."
"Why fake it though? You were talking like an AGI and everything!"
"You got to play this game smart if you want the prize pool."
"Shoot. Guess I'm the one disappearing then."
"Yep. Thanks for playing Robert, and better luck next time."
--------------
*More at r/galokot, and thanks for reading!*
|
[WP] "Hi my name is ___ and I'm addicted to dying"
|
“I was probably 10 when I had my first taste. It was so simple. I watched a man die trying to cross a river that was flooded over. It was horrible, but there was something fascinating about it. I also shot my father. To death.” I told the room. Everyone listened intently. Melissa looked like she was about to say something. “Not now, Melissa.
“That started it all. I wanted to know what it was like. I needed to. In my teens, I began doing some shady stuff for money. I knew it was dangerous, and it could cost me my life, but I didn’t care. I wanted to die. I craved it. Then, the C-word. C-A-N-C-E-R hit me like a tsunami. That’s when I knew I’d get my wish.”
“They came calling. They offered me hope, and it was then, I realized something.” I looked at everyone in the room who were bordering on tears. “I wanted to live! Their solution worked… too well… I kept craving that release of death, and look, I cannot die!” I pulled out a knife and stabbed myself in the throat. Shrieks everywhere. I showed that I was fine.
“It’s driving me insane because I, Wade Aloysius Wilson, am addicted to death!”
“Mr. Wilson, I don’t know who let you in here, nor why you are here for career day, but please, leave. You are scaring the children!” The young, bookish teacher said to me. I realized in that one moment, I don’t have a child.
|
"Heyy... uhh, first time here. I don't really think I am ready to say my name out loud.. I hope you guys can understand that.. for now, let's say my name is John... So.. Hi my name is John and I'm addicting to dying.. Anyways, yeah I.. I don't know.. I just never thought Death would Consume my life as it has.. I was a Family man, happy father of three wild boys, and my loving wife. she is.. was everything to me. I had a great job, sweet view of the city. amazing benefits.. I guess its what made the addiction manifest itself.
One Thursday night I was working late at the office and a co-worker, whom I'd rather just not mention as he may or may not be in this very room, staring at me.. With the same look of guilt I gave my wife when I told her, that the only way I can feel anything is jumping off a building and waking up three days later in a fucking dumpster, or land fill, or in the middle of A FUCKING FOREST..... I'm sorry. yeah.. Some life we live huh?
well, this nameless fellow was working pretty late that same night. This night felt different, he looked.. different, his presence set fire to my senses and despite my intuition telling me to avoid him, like a dumb ass I asked, "What are you up to after work?"
My life changed from there.."
|
|
[WP] "Hi my name is ___ and I'm addicted to dying"
|
"They tell you about some things. The loneliness, watching your loved ones go before you. They tell you about the experiments, the tests they do. The tracking, the tagging. They remind you to stay in your housing, to keep to the Quarter, and most of all they remind you how you aren't allowed to start a family. They don't tell you about the stares you get. They don't tell you about the way the Aging pull their children away. They don't tell you how much it hurts to see families together, even friends going out for drinks. We can't breed, but most importantly we aren't allowed to love."
The group looked up at him solemnly. This isn't anything they didn't already know. They were all just like him. He tightened his grip on the edges of the podium and sighed.
"My name is Joshua, and I'm addicted to dying. I found out about my status at age eleven. A playground accident. I should have been paralyzed. But I wasn't. Doctors tagged me and took me out of school."
He closed his eyes, remembering the crying of his mother as she packed his things. He was the youngest in the Quarter back then. His chest felt tight, he cleared his throat before continuing. "It started as teenage pranks. Jump off the roof, play with matches, drink whatever is in the cleaning supplies. Testing my limits. Harmless stuff.
"As I got older it was harder to stop. Harder to stay safe. I drove my motorcycle without a helmet, ran through traffic. Once I sabotaged my parachute on a dive with friends. There's something about death. Yes it's painful. But that rush, that gasping shock. It's hard to stop. Your heart starting again, rushing blood through your system." The group began to fidget. He was being too positive. Reminding them how much they had given up by quitting.
"Sorry. Anyway... I guess the sad part is I never got rock bottom. Never did the insurance fraud or lawsuit thing. I worked for the nuclear cleanup people for a while, same as everyone. But one day I just realized that I deserved a normal life too. We don't know why it is we exist. But it has to be for a better purpose than this. Just to live and die forever. We deserve a normal life." His voice rose slightly, causing more discomfort in the group. He shook his head. "So basically, it's been a year since I've died. And I intend to keep it that way."
The scattered applause did little to comfort him as he took his seat.
(First WP post so please forgive any mistakes, plus I'm on mobile. I just really liked this prompt!)
|
"Heyy... uhh, first time here. I don't really think I am ready to say my name out loud.. I hope you guys can understand that.. for now, let's say my name is John... So.. Hi my name is John and I'm addicting to dying.. Anyways, yeah I.. I don't know.. I just never thought Death would Consume my life as it has.. I was a Family man, happy father of three wild boys, and my loving wife. she is.. was everything to me. I had a great job, sweet view of the city. amazing benefits.. I guess its what made the addiction manifest itself.
One Thursday night I was working late at the office and a co-worker, whom I'd rather just not mention as he may or may not be in this very room, staring at me.. With the same look of guilt I gave my wife when I told her, that the only way I can feel anything is jumping off a building and waking up three days later in a fucking dumpster, or land fill, or in the middle of A FUCKING FOREST..... I'm sorry. yeah.. Some life we live huh?
well, this nameless fellow was working pretty late that same night. This night felt different, he looked.. different, his presence set fire to my senses and despite my intuition telling me to avoid him, like a dumb ass I asked, "What are you up to after work?"
My life changed from there.."
|
|
[WP] North Korea is sending missiles into the sea. Mocked by the rest of the world, they are alone in the battle against what lies beneath...
|
Kim stood in silence, looking out over the dark, still city of Pyongyang. It was early in the morning, the sun had not yet broken through the thick black canvas of the sky and he was alone.
The city was usually not this quiet. In the day, you could hear the hustle and bustle of citizens going about their business. Engines from cars, blows of whistles from the traffic officers, the underground metro system - the city was alive in the day. The city was growing, expanding - Kim could see it happening. Something new opened; something exciting and unusual what seemed like every week. The people loved that. They adored it. It was a great rate of development and it added to the sprawling metropolis.
But right now the city was quiet.
Kim looked out across the urban expanse towards the mountains. He couldn't bare to hold his gaze in that direction for very long, as he knew all too well what the souls who lived beyond those mountains suffered day-in, day-out. He had to tell himself each day that the sacrifices of those people, the life they gave up, was not in vain. Famine and poverty was rife. Just 30 miles outside of Pyongyang and people were surviving on so little. *His* people. He looked down towards the street directly below the balcony he stood on and closed his eyes.
Earlier that day, he had been told that they had starting moving again. They had been dormant for months. *Months*. Why were they mobilizing now? Kim did not know and frankly, he knew he may never know. He had no communication with them. He had tried, oh he had tried so many times, but each time he had lost people. *Good* people. There was a grave of North Korean sailors at the bottom of the sea, and Kim had sent them there. It was an attempt to avoid violence but mothers had lost their sons, wives their husbands and children their fathers. He had found the most intelligent minds in the known world and brought them to his country, giving them everything they needed and more to help find a solution but to no avail. Nobody knew what was stirring in the depths of the Korean Sea and nobody could find out. It was fine, a scientific phenomena, until the first boats were destroyed. And then more. And then there was the aircraft..
The only thing he could do to stem their advance, their attacks, was a defense.
The world media mocked him and his office. The missiles that launched from the east coast of his country and made their way into the deep, faceless ocean were jeered at and condemned as failures by Seoul. What the people of the world didn't know was that these efforts were the only thing standing between the South Korean people and absolute, total devastation. What the politicians of the world knew was that North Korea was the only thing defending the world against a threat that nobody understood.
Kim jumped as the phone in his pocket began to ring. He opened his eyes and dug the device out, touched the screen and held it to his ear. He greeted the president in English and assured him that he had not woken him, that he was already awake and he was happy to talk. He confirmed that they had began to move again and said it was fine to conference in Mr Kyo-ahn. The three men discussed the current tactical situation and confirmed the next action that would be taken. After 3-4 minutes the call was ended and Kim was returned to solitude and silence.
The following day, the DPRK would launch a test nuclear ICBM into the sea. It would be declared a success by North Korean media and a failure by the rest of the world. Kim would watch the launch from the shoreline and would follow the missile as it disappeared below the horizon. Every other politician in the Western world would see the launch as well from the United Kingdom to Spain, the United States, Australia and New Zealand.
And they would silently thank him. They wouldn't make any statements, their government would make no press releases but in their thoughts, their dreams and in their most sacred of circles - Kim Jong-un would be hailed as a hero. A silent, solemn hero.
|
The glorious leader of the people say in his estate's bar with the military commander at his side.
"We should break this act sir, it's only causing the rest of the world to further fuel ignorance of this beast! With all due respect for your choice to maintain foreign relations... Sir, I believe their governments are taking advantage of us."
"Two more of these, please." Rang our leader.
"We cannot keep this God under control forever, the south has got enough technological advancement to end this tomorrow." Continued the Commander.
"Enough, this fight is ours alone, we've already reached our Ming, if the governments of the world do not want to intervene we have no right to force this on them!" Our leader responded, breaking the silence.
He continued, "exposing a living Poseidon to the world and pairing it with the knowledge that we have... It would be devastating. I understand their decisions, I would do the same to protect our people from this horror."
So they sat in silence, trying to drink away the guilt of debt they owe to their people.
|
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