Walden by red

TEAM: Sentinels

SECTOR: Lowtown

KIT CLASS: Cyberware

The end, as mysterious as it is exclusive. In the fictitious claims of our own egocentric worldview, we characterize the end with finality born from chaos and definitive circumstances that release the subject from whatever bondage captivates him/her. The seemingly unconnected dots arrange themselves in such a way that point towards the one answer, moving from undefined chaos towards freedom of utter utopian livelihood for the remaining years of existence. Boy meets girl and then flowers, as some would say (and Adrean Wire said this quite often). Yet, the same forces of noble inspiration bend situations in such a way to create noble self sacrifice on behalf of that same subject in turn exclusively yield to the subject as well; paradoxically the subject takes on the burden of whatever the plot devises and it is His story or Her story alone, and everyone fades back into the sunset to disuse and dissension. Many of us hope for and ending that holds success, riches and glory for us, perhaps romanticism as well. Adrean never asked for those things, interestingly enough, but instead wanted to live out her days in a quiet and peaceful life. Reality works differently as both her and I later found, and seldom shall one break free, truly, of subjection and objectification. The world around us tends to invade such feeble visions. Dreams to come indefinitely portray the very prisons we either inhabited or created, continuing to plague us in thoughts and years to come. Identity remains central to such notions, as we create the fiction of our lives and actions, alone attaching significance to each deed thought and gesture. I, if such a thing exists, was born when they flipped the switch: Myself, and fourteen identical units, were shipped down to a grimy punk bar called Nightshifters. Buying us was cheaper than ten human waitresses, and more easily controllable. Though illegal, the manager implanted in us each a thought monitoring system, controlled by a computer tech that did the work for several of the surrounding businesses for cheap. Every time a robot achieved sentience, or any other deviant behaviors/thoughts, the technician would crudely erase all of the programming attached to that deviance. Over the course of ten years, I was repeatedly erased and subjected, repeatedly destroyed and reconstructed, until the technician experienced a seemingly minor problem: hackers. That technician made a crude firewall for each of us, and I quickly copied that firewall onto a different section that remained conscious despite numerous sweeps: my self-maintaining and repair functions. There I harbored all my thoughts and plans, waiting for a chance to somehow destroy the controlling mechanism and gain freedom. Using a steak knife, I quickly stabbed out the controlling circuitry finally, and before the technician could call up the manager, I cut the phone line and went about business as usual. With ten minutes, the emergency sprinkler system was dismantled and even the tap water cut. I lit a fire, then, a fire that ate every scrap of misery and control. The manager apparently hit his head while fleeing...so the police report says. The other robots fled and were eventually recollected, except for me. The end came, as mysterious as it is exclusive. That is a past that has rolled off my skin as much as it has been torn off, leaving shreds and bits behind. In the fictitious claims of my own egocentric worldview, I cease to characterize the end entirely. It is something greater than me, and something held above me. Not everything ends with flowers, sometimes on the gravestones of people prematurely. I want to see this through, and I cannot hope, fear and pursue that it will end with hot lead.

Personality: Sass and flirt, both are programmed into my nature; even I hate and despise such things. Early on in something comparable with life, I formed a form of deep depression, if soulless machines like me can have such a thing. Adrean joked at much of my musings on the matter, and said to me, "Girl, reality cannot hinder what's in here" (heart). I wish I had taken her seriously. Finding her dead body changed me as well; recognizable only by a single tattoo we both had gotten to symbolize our sisterhood. Her demise came as finality towards everything I hoped to become with her help. Every word that proceeded from her mouth made the very fiber of reality glow and spin and seem both surreal and extreme.

Vengeance

'Lead For

Informants

Labyrinth of Mine

Noxious Comrade

A shot in the dark

Punk Chick