Plugged In
The Neurological Network founded by professor Edgar Bockenheimer in 2039 to commemorate the hundred year anniversary of the start of the Second World War. Professor Bockenheimers vision was to create a perfect world where all could work, live and prosper without fear of being killed, injured or being infected with disease. His work built on other such programs which simulated life but lacked the stability to allow for constant emersion. It was he who allowed humans to reach the peak of evolutionary perfection. Extract from Dr Hartmans book The history of our world
The fact of the matter is the whole world is a lie. Edgar Bochkenheimer is the most evil bastard to have ever lived. And I was one of those in charge of keeping order in his perverted world, by culling those who defile his laws or even those who question reality. When I say kill it, isnt really strictly true. We were a facade for others who happen to witness the solving of a problem. The truth is the world as it once was no longer exists, the vast majority of people are connected to a colossal system known as the Neurological Network. People eat, sleep and work inside. A vast array of tubes, wires and switches that provides the experience of life. Something those who are connected to it never truly will experience. Now this brings us to the question of death. One of the many tubes will at one point carry a poison to the user. The poison varies depending on how the persons life was extinguished. Edgar Bochenheimer was a man fascinated by death. Somewhat ironic for a man who is seen as the savoir of humanity, for instance if I were to shoot a man in the head for instance then his body would be killed quickly however if I were to shoot a man in the stomach He would slowly die in agony as his body floundered about both in the facade and in reality. However as an alpha or peacekeeper in the world I do not have to worry about such things as death. I have no poison tube, if I am killed by a mark or anyone else for that matter all that happens is I am locked out of the system while an ambulance collects my body, takes it to a secret base where I will be magically resurrected then can continue doing my job. We alphas have many privileges the deltas do not. We can leave the wall less prison though few choose to do so. The deltas as the proverbial sheep are plugged in forever, as their organs are harvested to keep humans alive. The betas harvest the deltas organs while they are powerless to stop them, well that is they remove as many organs as they can while allowing the dilapidated shack that they call a body to remain functional. Until of course they die. I once placed my .45 magnum (Loved the dirty harry films I watched in the cinemas as a kid) into a deltas mouth and pulled the trigger just to see what they looked like on the inside. If anyone discovers this recording I hope it will shed some light on the [wash my mouth][wash my mouth][wash my mouth][wash my mouth]ed up [wash my mouth][wash my mouth][wash my mouth][wash my mouth] that goes on in Bochkenheimers world.
/end Recording DYFL
I woke up in a daze as the warm sunlight flooded through my venetian blinds exposing the magenta coloured room that was my apartment. Glancing at the clock on the bed side table showed the time twenty past eight which meant I was a full hour late for work...[wash my mouth][wash my mouth][wash my mouth][wash my mouth]. I fell out of bed with the grace of a walrus, well aware of the fact I was late but yet not really caring. I sat down on my chair, plugged my neurological transference device onto my forehead then shut my eyes. Suddenly I was transported into an empty room with a blinding white light. The shining white tiles flawlessly covering the floor, walls and ceiling generated the persona of uniformity. No tile was out of place. No tile was brighter than any other. No tile was darker than any other. All tiles which did not conform were weeded out and destroyed. For the greater good of the wall. Suddenly out of nowhere a booming voice began to speak, Youre late it said reverberating through out the room and throughout me as well. It continued Never mind. I shall commence the target upload to your data device. Good night and good luck.
The blinding light of the room slowly faded into nothingness. I stood in a room filled with lockers. A key in my hand. I opened the locker in front of me to find my 45. Magnum staring at me, eager to fill its purpose. After putting the bull in its pen I walk calmly past the receptionist (who was busy painting her figure nails) and out into the bustling metropolis that was New York. I was in delta territory now, I could almost smell the filth as I walked the streets. The purveyors of scum on a stick, the business men (if you can even call them men) out for lunch and every other Tom, Dick and Harry knew not of me, or my mission. I was a ghost, leaving no evidence, no trace of my presence other than bodies and bullets. I pulled out my data device (the metallic finish cost more but it was worth it) and called up the mark.
Loading...
Name: Yuri Orlov
Known aliases: Peacekeeping agent 523
Crime: Failure to terminate his target and did not show up for debriefing. Is currently AWOL.
Action to be taken: Immediate Termination.
These assignments always were the worst. To kill one of your own is the saddest duty I have ever had to undertake. But he was a failure and a traitor, Death was the only option. I knew this man well, almost from birth he was my best friend. Finding him wouldnt be a problem he ate lunch at a small cafe called the Pink Pony down on Ludlow Street. Same time, same table, same everything. Luckily for me it was only a quick taxi ride away. Luckily a taxi was sitting by the curb while the driver was eating his one hundred foot sandwich. I opened the door and climbed, the evil concoction of smoke, dampness and delta; hit me like a hunter clubs a seal. After the momentary pause that the stench caused me climbed into the taxi. I told the driver my destination and we set off as fast as the half rusted bucket of crap would take us. I looked out the window admiring the Hudson River, the clean perfect river, no scum ruining it. My quiet contemplation was dashed by the driver asking mind if I smoke? lighting his cigar before he had even finished asking, did you see the nicks game last night, those Yankees are a pack of cheats. I had the feeling he didnt really need an answer nor did he want one, taxi drivers are just hairdressers who cant cut hair. They never shut up and do a worse job because of it, we almost hit a melon stand for [wash my mouth][wash my mouth][wash my mouth][wash my mouth]s sake. Finally after a whacky races ride that Dick Dastardly would have been proud of, I had arrived at my destination. I told the driver to keep the meter running, this shouldnt take long. I climbed out of the car and into the cafe with little fuss. There I saw him, sitting at a table with his stupid bowler hat on drinking his tea. Then I saw it, the Belgian bun sitting on the plate in front of him. It was beautiful, the icing was perfectly holding onto the base and in turn holding the most perfect ruby red cherry on top of it. I promptly pulled out my gun and shot him in the face claiming his bun as my own. I walked out as calmly as I walked in. Climbed into the waiting taxi and told him to drive to Grand Central Station.
After a rather uneventful drive spent mostly tucking into my recently acquired bun, we arrived. I walked into the bustling station, the smell of coffee beans wafting through the terminal and the sound of trains screeching as they slide away from the platform. I grabbed a coffee from a strategically placed Costa Coffee and watched the deltas walking about doing what deltas do. It was like watching rats in a maze; you got the feeling they were almost intelligent but yet still disgusting. Contemplating what a [wash my mouth][wash my mouth][wash my mouth][wash my mouth] name Costa was, I mean what the [wash my mouth][wash my mouth][wash my mouth][wash my mouth] is that... Costa Rica? Costa del sol? Costa cup of coffee? It was then that I seen her. She was beautiful, flowing golden locks down to her shoulders, she was an angel. She was a delta but I didnt care, I knew from that moment on that I was in love. Suddenly without warning she collapsed. In that instance as she hit the floor, with her my hopes and dreams for everything that I wanted so much to be, all that could have been. Shattered. I was sick that day, in the lowly toilets that the deltas used. I had committed many atrocities in my life, shot men, women, even children without a second thought. They were just livestock to be culled, you cant leave a bolting horse in the pen or it will encourage others to bolt. But that day I felt something I had never felt before not in ten years of Peacekeeping...Remorse. A hitman who feels remorse, It isnt just a paradox it is a death sentence. I dont know when I will fail, but when I do someone will kill me. Starting the cycle over all over again. I found out from another agent I knew that Bockenheimers limo was involved in a crash. Several deltas including the woman who I should have spent the rest of my life with, were chopped up for spare parts to save Bockenheimer and several high ranking members of staff who were with him in his Limo. There is a certain irony that the man who imprisoned so many people and treated them like scum, is only alive because of them. As for me I go back to my job protecting the world that took from me the only thing I had ever held dear. And waiting for when someone more important than me decides I should be terminated.
