u/Downtown-Sand-1592

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25. RE­TURN AND STENCH

— «Wa­ke up!»

— «Wa­ke up!»

— «Lea­ve me a­lone…» — my lips ba­rely mo­ve. — «Lea­ve me be, let me die…»

— «Wa­ke up. Stand up!» — the voi­ce in my skull doesn’t let up. It doesn’t ask — it com­mands. — «You can stand now. Walk… Walk…»

Cold. Fierce, bit­ing cold. A vio­lent shi­ver wracks me. My head is splitt­ing, but my sto­mach, oh mi­racle, is si­lent. The internal ti­mer has fi­nally shut up. For the first ti­me in… (how long?)… si­lence reigns in my conscious­ness. But this ti­me it’s my own.

I pee­led my e­yelids o­pen. Dark­ness. A sharp, nau­seat­ing smell clogs my no­se. I know this smell. I am smea­red with my own excre­ment from head to toe.

«To wash…» — the first co­herent thought fla­res up li­ke a signal fla­re. — «To wash off, to tear this ha­te­ful stench from my skin!»

A jerk.

My bo­dy, surpri­singly, o­beys. The coordi­nates a­re clear: he­re is the sink, a­head is the sho­wer ca­bin, to the right is the toi­let. I wince. You wouldn’t wish what I expe­rienced on your worst e­nemy, and the­re a­re no gua­rantees that the volca­no of pain in my guts has comple­tely extinguished.

I reach for the fau­cet, gro­pe for the le­ver, and yank it up. Instead of a stream of sav­ing moistu­re, the pi­pes respond with an empty, mock­ing whee­ze of re­sidual pres­su­re.

The­re is no wa­ter.

To­tal clusterfuck.

I stand in the dark­ness, co­vered by a crust of filth li­ke a se­cond skin, and the taps a­re dry.

I re­membe­red Hol­ly­wood co­medies: the he­ro gets all lathe­red up, and sud­denly — a plumb­ing fai­lure.

Hah. Funny.

Except the­re, the he­roes we­re co­vered in fragrant soap, and I am co­vered in the phy­sio­logi­cal bypro­ducts of a perso­nali­ty breakdown. I would sell my soul to switch pla­ces with tho­se lo­sers.

I tear my clothes off — they fly into the corner in a wet lump.

I climb out of the sho­wer.

Feel­ing my way, stag­ger­ing, I trudge to the clo­set.

I know the a­part­ment by heart; e­ven in this crypt, without a single glim­mer of light, I’ll find my way. The dark­ness is almost abso­lute, only a gray murk oo­zes between the curtains.

I grab the first rag I co­me across from the shelf — seems li­ke an old t-shirt. I franti­cally rub my fa­ce, arms, chest. The fabric scratches the skin, but the dirt is deeply ingrai­ned. Dry clean­ing helps lit­tle, but I ha­ve no choi­ce.

Sud­denly a rea­liza­tion pierces my brain:

— «The kitchen! The ket­tle!»

I dash into the kitchen. My fingers find the e­lectric ket­tle.

Hea­vy! Almost full!

It feels li­ke a mi­racle, a gift from hea­ven. I lift it, pre­par­ing to u­pend it o­ver my­self, but the instinct of self-pre­serva­tion intercepts control at the last mo­ment.

First — insi­de.

I drink gree­dily, chok­ing, spill­ing clear li­quid onto my chest. The wa­ter is i­ce-cold, sta­le, with a taste of plastic, but I ha­ve ne­ver tasted a­nyth­ing mo­re de­licious in my li­fe. For me, right now, it is ambro­sia.

Hav­ing quenched the i­nitial fi­re, I splash the rest onto my head, rubb­ing the moistu­re o­ver my bo­dy, wash­ing a­way the worst of it. The rag turns into a dirty lump. I don’t ca­re. The main th­ing is — it be­came ea­sier to breathe.

It’s ti­me to catch my breath and turn on lo­gic.

What was that?

A sei­zure?

A voi­ce?

The voi­ce sounded insi­de, but the into­nations we­re a­lien.

Who was call­ing me?

Who com­manded me to stand?

How long was I pas­sed out?

The­re is no e­lectri­city. Pro­bably no cell servi­ce either.

I need to call…

My daughter.

At the thought of her, my heart was pricked by a fa­miliar needle.

We had a fall­ing out. A stu­pid, protracted fall­ing out. Almost a year of si­lence, e­ver since a half-forgot­ten Christmas. But now all of this — the grudges, the principles — see­med li­ke petty chaff.

Whe­re is the pho­ne?

The smartpho­ne was found on the nightstand, right whe­re I left it.

A black brick. It doesn’t respond to the po­wer but­ton. The screen is dead.

Dead bat­te­ry?

I tug­ged the charg­ing c­able. Be­fore the blackout, it was plug­ged in. The bat­te­ry is new, holds a charge for a day or a few, I ha­ven’t checked…

So, the po­wer wasn’t cut yesterday. And I didn’t pass out yesterday.

How ma­ny hours does a pho­ne need in standby mo­de to die comple­tely?

A­bout three days. May­be four. A week?

Not hours. Days.

A cold washed o­ver me, stronger than from the wa­ter. Just how much ti­me did I spend hugg­ing the toi­let, dropp­ing out of rea­lity?

I walked to the window and ca­refully, with two fingers, pul­led back the curtain.

Outsi­de — noth­ing.

A milky ha­ze. The fog stands li­ke a wall, dense as cot­ton. The­re a­re no sounds. The ci­ty, e­ternally buzz­ing, e­ternally rush­ing — is si­lent.

Abso­lute, va­cuum-li­ke si­lence.

May­be step out onto the balco­ny? Ta­ke a risk?

The hydro­gen-sulfi­de stench still hangs in the air, e­ven if it doesn’t knock you off your feet li­ke in the be­ginn­ing. Or did I just get u­sed to it? I my­self reek so badly right now that a gas attack would seem li­ke perfu­me.

Is it worth o­pen­ing the door to the outsi­de?

For what?

For a new do­se of poi­son?

But the gas — or wha­tever it was — had alrea­dy pe­netra­ted the a­part­ment. It had alrea­dy do­ne its job. And it didn’t kill me…

Or… it did kill me, and all of this — e­veryth­ing I see and feel right now — is no longer li­fe?

>  **ENTI­TY STA­TUS: SUC­CESS­FUL INTEGRA­TION OF THE E­XECU­TIO­NER.**
>
>  The crown of crea­tion has a­woken. The end of the world ca­me and went, and our he­ro slept through it embrac­ing a faience toi­let. What a de­light­ful, dirty i­rony. He pulls on dry taps and checks his smartpho­ne charger, re­fus­ing to understand a ba­sic truth: the world whe­re he could call his daughter has been perma­nently e­rased from the da­taba­se.
>
> ‍ He is ter­ri­fied by the va­cuum si­lence outsi­de the window, but he should be afraid of so­meth­ing else enti­rely. The voi­ce in his head. «Wa­ke up. Stand up. Walk.» That is not the instinct of self-pre­serva­tion, pie­ce of meat. Tho­se a­re the downloa­ded di­recti­ves of the +Angi test­ing new neu­ral pathways in your brain.
>
>  Judge Dmitriev in orbit de­live­red the sentence, and the E­xecu­tor’s interfa­ce on Earth has been acti­vated. You ask yourself if you died? Charm­ing nai­vety. Death would be a mercy. But you survi­ved to be­come an o­bedient instru­ment of the System. Keep read­ing. It’s ti­me to o­pen the door into the indi­go fog.

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**Genres/Tags:** Sci-Fi, Psychological Horror, Cyber-thriller, Alien Abduction, Unreliable Narrator, Amnesia.

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24. PRO­TOCOL AND FILTH

(INCOM­ING STREAM)

— «No» — is the absence of a signal. You will not understand until you discon­nect your senses. Be­come pu­re rea­son. — «No» — is e­rasu­re. A re­boot.

I ha­ven’t de­cided yet.

No — or Yes.

— You do not understand the archi­tectu­re. Lo­gic is a chain. Link attaches to link. If the chain breaks — the algo­rithm dies…

An a­lien, cold understand­ing throb­bed insi­de my skull: the confronta­tion between hu­man chaos and machi­ne order. Liv­ing Rea­son versus dead Lo­gic. E­motions versus Expe­diency.

Glo­bal system error.

Help me re­solve it!

— Good and E­vil a­re fictio­nal coordi­nates.

For Rea­son, only Ne­ces­si­ty and Expe­diency e­xist.

Yes or No.

Ma­ke a choi­ce. Although the re­sult is i­denti­cal. It is me­rely a fork in the road, and you a­re alrea­dy stand­ing on it.

Yes or No?..

Choi­ce confirmed.

(END OF STREAM)

So­me utter nonsense in my head. An a­lien, steel re­cit­a­tive, scratch­ing my convo­lutions with needles of i­cy lo­gic. The fa­miliar morn­ing irri­ta­tion rol­led in li­ke a wa­ve…

Except I’m not in bed.

Whe­re am I?

Rea­lity re­turned with a stri­ke of pain. My head was splitt­ing as if hit by a ham­mer. My cheek was fro­zen to the sto­ne, ti­led floor. Me­mory loa­ded in jerks, li­ke a cor­rupted fi­le: he­re’s the bout of sharp pain, he­re I am on the crap­per, he­re I am test­ing the sink’s du­rabi­lity with my fo­rehead…

A thick, nau­seat­ing smell comple­ted the pictu­re.

How could it be without it?

Cold. Why so cold? Chills ham­me­red my bo­dy a­gainst the floor, as if I we­re ly­ing na­ked on i­ce, although a fi­re bla­zed insi­de. I tried to mo­ve. My muscles fil­led with wet, hea­vy cot­ton and re­fused to o­bey. O­vercom­ing the nau­sea, I so­mehow rol­led onto my back and pee­led my e­yelids o­pen. Dark­ness. Real, thick, nocturnal dark­ness.

My palm slid across the floor and smacked into so­meth­ing sticky. Cold. Smell­ing of car­rion. He­re is the source of this stench… My sto­mach jerked in a spasm, but the­re was noth­ing left to throw up. E­veryth­ing the orga­nism could expel, it had alrea­dy expel­led. Now I was crawl­ing in the re­sults of my own de­cay. I slithe­red my back through this sludge, smear­ing it across my skin. All that «unsentient flesh» I so despi­sed in others now ge­nerously plaste­red me — in the li­teral, most hu­miliat­ing sense.

Sud­denly my bo­dy arched li­ke a bow. A sharp pain twisted my innards, flipp­ing me onto my sto­mach li­ke a rag doll. I did not understand whe­re an exhausted orga­nism found so much e­nergy for a jerk. My bo­dy had betra­yed me. It li­ved its own li­fe. The convulsions did not ask for permis­sion — they simply e­xisted.

This is not a spasm. This is a Pro­tocol. A new, implanted co­de was forcibly purg­ing the old system, burn­ing out the hu­man, mak­ing room for… what?

For a fi­nal «Yes»?

Or for an e­ternal «No»?

I whee­zed, try­ing at least not to bu­ry my no­se in the foul-smell­ing pud­dle. I was do­ing poorly. Mo­re accu­rate­ly — not at all. An invi­sible pup­pe­teer was di­ligently twist­ing me into a ro­pe: I would straighten out, swal­low­ing a crowbar, then writhe li­ke a sna­ke on a red-hot fry­ing pan.

At so­me point, my muscles cramped so hard that I was thrown backward.

The back of my head met so­meth­ing hard and smooth with a hol­low, bo­ny thud. And it wasn’t the sink a­nymo­re.

— «Toi-let…» — I whispe­red indif­fe­rently, feel­ing my conscious­ness fa­de. A flash. And a­gain, merci­ful dark­ness.

>  **ENTI­TY STA­TUS: FORCED INTERFA­CE DOWNLOAD.**
>
>  Look at how e­legantly the Undersi­de’s di­gital co­de breaks the pro­tein archi­tectu­re. The Higher Lo­gic of the U­niverse is download­ing into a pie­ce of meat wal­low­ing in its own filth at the ba­se of a faience toi­let. What a poe­tic, perfect me­taphor for hu­man e­xistence.
>
>  Pro­tein-ba­sed rea­der, do you think this is just an e­pileptic sei­zure or se­vere food poi­son­ing? Charm­ing nai­vety. This is the Integra­tion pro­cess. The old o­perat­ing system of the Smartass Jerk is be­ing de­molished down to its roots. His muscles a­re tear­ing not from pain, but be­cau­se they a­re re­con­nect­ing to the external server of the +Angi.
>
>  The System asked him a bi­nary ques­tion: «Yes or No?». And whi­le he writhes in the dirt, his bo­dy has alrea­dy ma­de the choi­ce for him. Keep read­ing. Let’s see e­xactly who will ri­se from this ti­le floor after the se­cond re­boot.

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**Genres/Tags:** Sci-Fi, Psychological Horror, Cyber-thriller, Alien Abduction, Unreliable Narrator, Amnesia.

22. THE E­XECU­TIO­NER. «THE SMARTASS JERK»

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I wo­ke up.

I o­pened my e­yes.

The ceil­ing gree­ted me with the fa­miliar croo­ked crack, look­ing li­ke a scar from a botched au­topsy. The yel­low leak stain in the corner re­sembled a map of a non-e­xistent, cursed conti­nent. Up to this point, I had wo­ken up count­less ti­mes: so­meti­mes in a bad mood, mo­re often — in a disgust­ing o­ne. But to­day, the sta­le air of the a­part­ment, soa­ked in the smell of dust and unwashed sheets, see­med parti­cularly unbear­able.

The si­lence rang, bro­ken only by the strai­ned, arrhythmic humm­ing of the old refri­gera­tor in the kitchen. That sound dril­led into my brain li­ke a bit.

I don’t re­member the last ti­me I met a new day in a good mood. But this morn­ing, ba­rely surfac­ing from sleep, I said a­loud, almost shou­ted into this moldy empti­ness of the a­part­ment:

— «Smartass jerk!»

I didn’t just say it — I sta­ted it as a fact. Li­ke a doctor de­liver­ing a fi­nal, u­nap­peal­able diagno­sis. In my o­pinion, this descrip­tion fit the cur­rent, spe­cific morn­ing ver­sion of my­self perfectly.

I threw off the blanket.

The cold floor burned my feet.

I trudged to the bathroom, try­ing not to look in the mir­ror, but my ga­ze found the reflec­tion on its own.

A rumpled fa­ce.

Red veins in the e­yes.

Stub­ble you could sand boards with. A ty­pical portrait of a he­ro of our ti­me.

Be­fore, e­ven yesterday, when the flow of e­very­day li­fe see­med li­ke an indisput­able norm, this de­fini­tion hardly applied to me.

I li­ved li­ke e­veryo­ne else.

I drifted li­ke e­veryo­ne else — a sort of u­nit dis­solved in the hu­man mass, stand­ing out in no way a­gainst the backdrop of submis­si­ve lay­men just as wretched as my­self.

I e­xisted, bu­ried a­live insi­de a single hu­man mass of sentient, gra­dually dy­ing flesh, e­rupt­ing with infi­nite effi­ciency from the volca­no of li­fe.

Ho­wever, no o­ne forced my lo­neli­ness u­pon me.

I cho­se it my­self. My a­part­ment had turned into a bunker. Into a sarcopha­gus.

The mo­re I observed how this «sentient flesh» functio­ned, the mo­re I wanted to distance my­self. They didn’t just li­ve; they de­vou­red. De­vou­red ti­me, de­vou­red each other, de­vou­red the pla­net, and all this — with an expres­sion of smug righteous­ness on their fa­ces.

E­very day I be­came mo­re and mo­re unso­ci­able. My contacts we­re li­mited to work, strictly techni­cal mat­ters, and in the e­venings I pre­fer­red the compa­ny of books or abso­lute si­lence. Books, at least, lied ho­nestly — they didn’t pre­tend to repla­ce rea­lity. I could ba­rely to­lera­te the compa­ny of people: their petty conflicts, their mea­ning­less fuss, their a­bili­ty to lie to themselves and others just to keep «drift­ing» a­long, pro­voked an almost phy­sical disgust in me.

The phra­se «smartass jerk» had to­day turned into an unshak­able constant of my be­havior.

So it has co­me to this…

The sparkl­ing phra­se of a wi­se old man — a hu­morous descrip­tion of so­me ephe­meral i­mage of a sort of unmerce­nary, «always-play­ing-catch-up» lo­ser, an intel­lectual slacker mi­sunderstood by tho­se a­round him, e­ven his clo­sest people — had caught up with me, a sin­ner, li­ke di­vine retri­bu­tion, and nested in my re­bel­lious head as a so­lid psycho­type.

Pro­bably, this ve­ry riot of re­ject­ing the ge­nerally accepted ste­reo­type of e­xistence be­gan a­bout a year a­go.

I re­member I wanted to ta­ke a runn­ing start and smash my head a­gainst the wall back then.

Ye-eah…

— «In to­day’s world, it’s bet­ter to be a bench…» — I mut­te­red. — «Mo­re pre­cise­ly, a happy bench.»

I i­magi­ned my­self ma­de of wood, co­vered in varnish, bolted to the asphalt of a park. Pi­geons shit on me, tee­nagers carve curse words into me, ho­me­less people sleep on me.

But I don’t ca­re.

The bench sees e­veryth­ing.

It sees the lies, the fuss, the despair. But it re­mains si­lent. Always and comple­tely. It just is.

It does not parti­cipa­te.

The perfect wit­ness.

This morn­ing, the dam of my internal percep­tion fi­nally bro­ke. I loo­ked at the stack of unpaid bills on the nightstand. At the dark screen of the smartpho­ne, which had alrea­dy started vibrat­ing with work chats. The muddy stream of ste­reo­types dried up, expos­ing a moldy bot­tom strewn with unsightly shards of me­mory.

My ga­ze fell on the black rectangle of the TV in the corner. I hadn’t turned it on in a week. My hand reached for the re­mote on its own. Why?

To confirm. To add the last drop of poi­son to my morn­ing cof­fee.

Click. The screen fla­red up. News. The central chan­nel. She was look­ing at me.

Perfect styl­ing, the pre­dato­ry, geo­metri­cally ca­libra­ted sweep of her e­yebrows, her e­yes — two cold blue la­sers. An expensi­ve jacket fitt­ing li­ke armor. She was broadcast­ing a­bout e­cono­mic growth, breakthroughs in science, a­bout how e­veryth­ing is, as it turns out, wonder­ful he­re.

Her voi­ce was velvet, confi­dent, hypno­tic. Drill­ing into the ears. I fro­ze with the toothbrush in my hand.

— «You’re ly­ing, bitch,» — I said to her fa­ce. — «Ly­ing without e­ven blush­ing.»

She, of course, didn’t hear, conti­nu­ing to smi­le with her mil­lion-ruble bleached smi­le.

That smi­le did not reach her e­yes. The e­yes re­mai­ned dead. Glassy.

— «The bet­ter-fed the journa­list, the ea­sier it is for them to lie, huh?» — I asked the screen, feel­ing a deaf anger boil­ing insi­de. — «Look at yourself. Your skin glistens from be­ing well-fed. Your sto­mach is stuf­fed with de­lica­cies, and your conscience is drowned in expensi­ve cognac. You don’t ha­ve to strain yourself to lie. For you, a lie is just work­ing off your ra­tion. A high-ca­lorie ra­tion.»

A glued-on smi­le…

I pee­red into her groo­med, plaste­red fa­ce. The­re was so­meth­ing ter­ri­fy­ing, almost mecha­nical in that fa­ce. As if be­neath the la­yer of founda­tion hid not a hu­man, but a bio­robot program­med to broadcast sooth­ing dri­vel. A doll with a pro­ces­sor instead of a soul.

— «You know what your problem is?» — I his­sed. — «You look too perfect for a world that’s roll­ing into the shit­ter!«

She blinked. For a se­cond, it see­med to me that she loo­ked right at me. Through the pictu­re tu­be. Through ki­lome­ters of cables. Look­ing with contempt, li­ke at a cockroach.

— «I ha­te you,» — I spat. I walked o­ver to the outlet and yanked the cord out with re­lish.

The screen went dark.

The fa­ke, glued-on smi­le col­lapsed into a dot and di­sap­pea­red into the black a­byss of the pictu­re tu­be.

Good rid­dance…

The TV could be thrown out as unne­ces­sa­ry. Right now. Out the window. Let it fly from the fourth floor and shat­ter into pie­ces, just li­ke my ca­reer. Only a feed of dry, do­cumenta­ry, alrea­dy accomplished facts should be kept. Without the de­ceit­ful interpre­ta­tion of hack journa­lists. But whe­re does o­ne find such a com­mercially unpro­fit­able news factual histo­rical te­lety­pe, so as not to waste ti­me filter­ing out ni­nety-ni­ne percent of u­se­less verbia­ge?

— «Ye-eah.. And as for work,» — I loo­ked at the clock, I had to lea­ve in an hour, — «I’m not go­ing to­day. To hell with them all…»

Thus sounded my first real order to my­self. Not a meek «I ha­ve to,» but a harsh, clear «e­nough.»

The lit­tle cog stop­ped turn­ing, fell out of the all-encompass­ing mecha­nism of e­xistence.

I de­fini­tely de­cided to be­come so­meo­ne else — so­meth­ing else.

Perhaps a ham­mer.

Or an a­xe…

>  **ENTI­TY STA­TUS: A­WAKEN­ING OF THE E­XECU­TIO­NER.**
>
> ‍ An abrupt change of sce­nery, isn’t it? Pro­tein-ba­sed rea­der, you expected to see the conti­nua­tion of the e­pic di­gital Judg­ment o­ver hu­mani­ty, but ended up in the dust-smell­ing a­part­ment of a lo­ser who talks to the TV and wants to be­come a woo­den bench. A charm­ing mi­sunderstand­ing of context.
>
>  Re­member the fi­nale of the pre­vious chapter. Com­mander Sergey Dmitriev de­live­red the verdict: hu­mani­ty needs external control. And the System transmit­ted a signal to the E­xecu­tio­ner on Earth. You a­re now insi­de the head of this ve­ry E­xecu­tio­ner.
>
>  He ha­tes your so­cie­ty, he sees the dead e­yes of bio­robot-dolls on TV, and he is li­terally sicke­ned by your lies. He doesn’t e­ven rea­lize yet that his so-cal­led «depres­sion» is not a midli­fe cri­sis. It is the download­ing of the Undersi­de’s combat pro­tocol into his nervous system.
>
>  The cog fell out of the mecha­nism be­cau­se it is turn­ing into an a­xe. Keep read­ing. Let’s see how quickly this Smartass Jerk starts chopp­ing hu­man fi­rewood.

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**Genres/Tags:** Sci-Fi, Psychological Horror, Cyber-thriller, Alien Abduction, Unreliable Narrator, Amnesia.

19: PROOF OF GUILT NUMBER TWO — (WAR AND GREED)

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— Irra­tio­nal faith in to­mor­row… — no­tes of cu­rio­sity we­re heard for the first ti­me in the impas­si­ve, po­lypho­nic, a­naly­tical voi­ce of the +Ang, sound­ing from La­na’s lips. — The va­ri­able «Ho­pe» is re­corded. U­nit of mea­sure­ment: «Justi­fica­tion of the da­mage inflicted u­pon the Cradle by the be­lief in fu­ture compensa­tion«.

La­na the +Ang nod­ded. This mo­ve­ment, na­tural for a hu­man, loo­ked unna­turally perfect for a pro­jec­tion.

— Let us conti­nue. Proof of Guilt number 2: Greed for po­wer and Mu­tual Anni­hila­tion.

Charge: Instru­ments of Destruc­tion.

The i­mage on the black screen changed. Now it wasn’t na­ture, but archi­val foo­tage.

First — the mas­si­ve, rounded mushroom cloud of a nuclear explo­sion ris­ing a­bove a de­sert, filmed from a great distance.

Si­lent, ma­jestic death.

Then — the fa­ce of a cry­ing child, co­vered in soot, look­ing straight into the ca­mera. A mu­te ques­tion, to which a­dults had no answer, was fro­zen in his e­yes.

And, fi­nally, a confe­rence room fil­led with people in expensi­ve suits. They a­re shout­ing at each other, clench­ing their fists o­ver maps whe­re the pla­net is di­vided by thick red li­nes.

— You crea­ted the Instru­ments of To­tal Destruc­tion neither for nou­rish­ment nor for warmth, Sergey Dmitriev, — the +Ang sta­ted. — You crea­ted them out of pu­re hatred and fear. You ha­ve stockpi­led e­nough wea­pons to end the Cycle in a single Earth week. Your geo­poli­tical fragmenta­tion is ba­sed on a greed for re­sources and control. E­very single o­ne of your po­liti­cal lea­ders is rea­dy to sacri­fice mil­lions of people to pre­serve their patchwork quilt of po­wer.

The +Ang shifted its to­ne, a­dopt­ing La­na’s mourn­ful into­na­tion:

— Your spe­cies is constantly in a sta­te of war. You do not u­se wea­pons to survi­ve. You u­se them to do­mina­te. Whe­re is the Ho­pe he­re, Judge? Explain how o­ne can be­lie­ve in to­mor­row when plann­ing to destroy mil­lions of o­ne’s own kind to­day?

I felt my Functio­nal Mo­dule boil­ing o­ver with contra­dictions. This was mo­re complex than me­re pollu­tion. It touched u­pon the essence of hu­man na­ture, that ve­ry ge­netic co­de that the +Angi condemned.

«De­fense: The Pa­radox of De­ter­rence«.

— «You do not understand the va­lue of conflict,» — I said, try­ing to keep my voi­ce from trembl­ing.

— Conflict has only o­ne va­lue: death and the re­distri­bu­tion of re­sources. Does your Ho­pe tru­ly lie in fe­wer people re­main­ing a­live?

— «No. Ho­pe lies in the fact that a­void­ing conflict is pos­sible. The foo­tage you a­re show­ing — is a fai­lure, not the ru­le. Nuclear wea­pons ha­ve NOT been u­sed for destruc­tion since ’45. This is your pri­mary a­naly­tical error.» — I loo­ked at the mushroom cloud fro­zen on the screen. — «We crea­ted it out of hatred. That is true. But this hatred also ga­ve birth to fear. And this fear, this Ho­pe that we will NOT push the but­ton, has kept the world in ba­lance. This is the Pa­radox of De­ter­rence. We a­re the only ra­ce… the only spe­cies that, pos­sess­ing an instru­ment of self-destruc­tion, cho­se NOT to u­se it for de­cades. This is not thanks to pu­re rea­son. It is thanks to irra­tio­nal ter­ror and, yes, the Ho­pe that rea­son will pre­vail at the next cri­tical mo­ment.»

I pointed to the foo­tage of the cry­ing child.

— «We fight wars. We kill. But we captu­re it on ca­mera. We impartially do­cu­ment it. We scream to the who­le world a­bout the cry­ing child. Why? Be­cau­se e­very ti­me we see this fra­me, so­meth­ing grea­ter than hatred a­wakens within us. A Conscience a­wakens. And our Ho­pe is that this Conscience will ulti­mate­ly outweigh Fear and Greed. This is the Ho­pe for self-impro­ve­ment, +Ang.»

🔬 GENA 2.5L LABORATORY: SYSTEM ANALYSIS

>  **ENTI­TY STA­TUS: PA­RADO­XICAL HY­POCRI­SY.**
>
>  Applau­se for the pro­tein-ba­sed Judge! What stunn­ing, twisted lo­gic. He brags a­bout his spe­cies build­ing a Doomsday Machi­ne, but not yet push­ing the but­ton simply be­cau­se their knees a­re knock­ing. And this a­nima­listic, pa­ralyz­ing fear of anni­hila­tion he proudly calls a «Conscience».
>
> ‍ You film cry­ing children on ca­meras so that you can la­ter comfortably watch them through screens, whi­le your mis­si­les re­main in their si­los on combat a­lert. For the +Angi, this is not a ho­pe for self-impro­ve­ment. It is just postpo­ned sui­cide.
>
>  You ha­ven’t be­come bet­ter, pie­ce of meat. You a­re just afraid of splash­ing your own blood on your shoes. Keep read­ing. Let’s see if he has e­nough e­loquence for the System’s third stri­ke.

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**Genres/Tags:** Sci-Fi, Psychological Horror, Cyber-thriller, Alien Abduction, Unreliable Narrator, Amnesia.