07-03-2009, 03:46 AM
dataChip.0000x0000
Greetings. I'm impressed you've still got technology kicking around old enough to read these old crappy data chips. SDSCs are old news. Anyways. I'm not going to bore you with the specifics, I kept logs of my life in Sector X starting after I read an article about an old friend Jimmy. I'll tell you more about Jimmy later. For now, all you need to know is that I exist. I, Citizen A08594, am more than just a statistic. I am, or was, a human being conceived in the colony of Homo-sapien sapien IV, by a surrogate mother and a father who worked in the Free Markets, later purchased (oh, the sadistic irony), by a corporation known as Zen, who proceeded to revolutionize (said with a most bitter undertone) our world.
Enclosed are the various locations of the data chips I have proceeded in releasing since the planning my escape. I can only hope that you can succeed in escaping X, like I have. Unless of course, somewhere along the line, I was unsuccessful. I would have written this piece last, but I left it inside X for a reason, and once I'm out, I'm not coming back. Ever. Fuck this place, and may it's owners rot in the sub-terrain.
<-/segment_end/>#87545sshhoo 00101001001--
<-/header.string(*'locations'*)-/>
<loca>75.3 N, 22.1 E</loca>
<loca>75.8 N, 22.2 E</loca>
<loca>75.9 N, 22.4 E</loca>
<loca>76.0 N, 22.5 E</loca>
<loca>76.4 N, 22.7 E</loca>
<-postscript..>
Those are the ones located in X. Follow the direction I've started, and ask around for me. If anything, mention the datachips. The password, is "Jimmy."
Enclosed are the various locations of the data chips I have proceeded in releasing since the planning my escape. I can only hope that you can succeed in escaping X, like I have. Unless of course, somewhere along the line, I was unsuccessful. I would have written this piece last, but I left it inside X for a reason, and once I'm out, I'm not coming back. Ever. Fuck this place, and may it's owners rot in the sub-terrain.
<-/segment_end/>#87545sshhoo 00101001001--
<-/header.string(*'locations'*)-/>
<loca>75.3 N, 22.1 E</loca>
<loca>75.8 N, 22.2 E</loca>
<loca>75.9 N, 22.4 E</loca>
<loca>76.0 N, 22.5 E</loca>
<loca>76.4 N, 22.7 E</loca>
<-postscript..>
Those are the ones located in X. Follow the direction I've started, and ask around for me. If anything, mention the datachips. The password, is "Jimmy."
dataChip.0000x0001
06/11/2231 â I attempted once more to free myself of the confines of Residential Complex A57 in our beloved Sector X. Iâd made it through the gates from my chambers, all the way down to the ground floor before being apprehended by the Guards, and swiftly beaten. Itâll take me days before the wounds heal up, and maybe years before the scars fade. God knows, my last attemptâs relics still linger on my flesh.
I wonder why weâre kept so goddamn locked up. Itâs been 23 years since the day the War finished itself off â the world canât be that broken. I wonder how Jimmyâs doing.
Iâll soak my injuries overnight. Hopefully the stinging will be dulled, if not removed completely. The Medical Tech, donât know her name, gave me an anesthetic/anti-biotic that should prevent infection and help with the pain. Last time it was pretty damn useless.
Zen Corporation. Fuck Zen Corporation.
07/11/2231 â I shouldâve asked for a Transfer to a two-bed. Maybe if I was feeling daring Iâd request a room-mate. Zen might let me have one, Iâm not sure what Xâs rules are for that kind of shit. Some of the other sectors are family sectors, but the most of a family Iâve seen is James and Edward working each other in the Recreational center bathroom. There were about five of us, enclosing them in a semi-circle, watching; enthralled. Edward, receiving, was nervous about the crowd, but James was a bit of an exhibitionist. The crowd kept growing, five, then ten. Ten, then twenty. Then the guards came, and tore through the crowd with a vengeance. Ripping the men apart, and swiftly beating the fuck out of them. I havenât been to the Rec since. I donât think many of us have.
But itâs a privilege to have it - a genuine service provided by the all-caring, all-knowing, all-watching, and all-preserving Zen Corporation. The altruistic, poetically generous Zen Corporation. The elitist, under-handed, grime-fed fucking Zen Corporation. Greedy motherfuckers.
10/11/2231 â I requested a residence transfer. Itâs in processing. Theyâll get back to me in about a week, they say. Of course, a week to them feels like twenty five years to me. And when they say a week, they mean twenty-five years. Do the math. I wonât be around. Would Jimmy? Fuck, how old is Jimmy? Where is he, anyway? Fucker said heâd come back and get me when he reached it. I suppose that means heâs dead. Good for his word, that one. Must be dead.
12/11/2231 - I was rooting through some of my old stuff, relics from the past. I found some SDSCs. Small Data Storage Compartments - they're tiny. I could fit six on my thumbnail, but I always had large hands. They were used by the Military to transfer messages - so small they could be conveniently located in various areas of a Messenger's body. Once the other side found out, we started finding messengers ripped apart. Literally, torn into pieces, searching for the tiny chips. They hardly found any, and when they did, the messages weren't entirely there (they can only store a page or so of plaintext data.) and weren't exactly useful. Weren't pertinent. As they advanced, eventually they had ones that could host pictures, maps, text, and thousands of bits of data. I'm not tech savvy, I don't know what they're called, so these got sold on the Free Market. You know, before Zen. I bought about two hundred of them for a couple dollars. Useless technology, he'd said. Jimmy'd laughed at him and replied with "They'll come in handy. Chris has an aptitude for cooking. That's 200 recipes he won't lose."
Who's name is Chris? I'm not Chris. No, I'm Citizen A08594. I don't have a name, I have a fucking serial number. Bought and sold, on the not-so-free market. Fuck Zen Corporation. Fuck them all.
I wonder why weâre kept so goddamn locked up. Itâs been 23 years since the day the War finished itself off â the world canât be that broken. I wonder how Jimmyâs doing.
Iâll soak my injuries overnight. Hopefully the stinging will be dulled, if not removed completely. The Medical Tech, donât know her name, gave me an anesthetic/anti-biotic that should prevent infection and help with the pain. Last time it was pretty damn useless.
Zen Corporation. Fuck Zen Corporation.
07/11/2231 â I shouldâve asked for a Transfer to a two-bed. Maybe if I was feeling daring Iâd request a room-mate. Zen might let me have one, Iâm not sure what Xâs rules are for that kind of shit. Some of the other sectors are family sectors, but the most of a family Iâve seen is James and Edward working each other in the Recreational center bathroom. There were about five of us, enclosing them in a semi-circle, watching; enthralled. Edward, receiving, was nervous about the crowd, but James was a bit of an exhibitionist. The crowd kept growing, five, then ten. Ten, then twenty. Then the guards came, and tore through the crowd with a vengeance. Ripping the men apart, and swiftly beating the fuck out of them. I havenât been to the Rec since. I donât think many of us have.
But itâs a privilege to have it - a genuine service provided by the all-caring, all-knowing, all-watching, and all-preserving Zen Corporation. The altruistic, poetically generous Zen Corporation. The elitist, under-handed, grime-fed fucking Zen Corporation. Greedy motherfuckers.
10/11/2231 â I requested a residence transfer. Itâs in processing. Theyâll get back to me in about a week, they say. Of course, a week to them feels like twenty five years to me. And when they say a week, they mean twenty-five years. Do the math. I wonât be around. Would Jimmy? Fuck, how old is Jimmy? Where is he, anyway? Fucker said heâd come back and get me when he reached it. I suppose that means heâs dead. Good for his word, that one. Must be dead.
12/11/2231 - I was rooting through some of my old stuff, relics from the past. I found some SDSCs. Small Data Storage Compartments - they're tiny. I could fit six on my thumbnail, but I always had large hands. They were used by the Military to transfer messages - so small they could be conveniently located in various areas of a Messenger's body. Once the other side found out, we started finding messengers ripped apart. Literally, torn into pieces, searching for the tiny chips. They hardly found any, and when they did, the messages weren't entirely there (they can only store a page or so of plaintext data.) and weren't exactly useful. Weren't pertinent. As they advanced, eventually they had ones that could host pictures, maps, text, and thousands of bits of data. I'm not tech savvy, I don't know what they're called, so these got sold on the Free Market. You know, before Zen. I bought about two hundred of them for a couple dollars. Useless technology, he'd said. Jimmy'd laughed at him and replied with "They'll come in handy. Chris has an aptitude for cooking. That's 200 recipes he won't lose."
Who's name is Chris? I'm not Chris. No, I'm Citizen A08594. I don't have a name, I have a fucking serial number. Bought and sold, on the not-so-free market. Fuck Zen Corporation. Fuck them all.
'post-script'
I'm just writing this as I go :) Just to make sure I don't get too rusty. Hopefully you find it interesting, and feel free to comment. In fact, please do comment.