You’re willing to help me even though it’s illegal?
Ha! If I bothered to track all my illegal activities daily, I wouldn’t have time to execute them. There’s a reason I call myself Code Cracker. Now quit babbling and give me your access. Can’t break Social Benefactor Law without your SDS report.
——————————
BROCK1313GSM: PLAYBACK THE PROGRAM IN ACTUAL TIME. NOT SUBJECT’S REAL-WORLD TIME, OUR TIME.
CODECRACKER42000LUE: ARE YOU POSITIVE? THAT’S ALMOST AN HOUR.
BROCK1313GSM: AN HOUR? WHY DID YOU EXTEND IT PAST NORMAL PARAMETERS?
CODECRACKER42000LUE: TRYING TO SOLVE THE GLITCH WITHOUT YOUR ASSISTANCE, ALL KNOWING ONE.
BROCK: CUT THE SARCASM. WHAT’S THE DIFFERENTIAL? CAN YOU SORT BY GLITCH APPEARANCE?
CODECRACKER: OF COURSE. ALREADY COMPILED THE ABBREVIATED REPORT. RATIO IS 1 TO 3000. REPORT IS FIFTEEN MINUTES, OUR TIME.
BROCK: FIFTEEN MINUTES! CORRUPT! THIS GLITCH IS PERVASIVE. THE SUBJECT LOOPED A MENTAL YEAR? PROBABLY NOT WORTH MY TIME, BUT I’M TOO FAR OVER BUDGET, CAN’T AFFORD ANOTHER LOSS. DOWNLOAD. PROGRAM SUGGESTIONS?
CODECRACKER: I’M TOO CLOSE, LOST MY PERSPECTIVE. I’D RATHER YOU ANALYZE WITHOUT BIAS. SIR.
BROCK: FINE. BUT IF IT’S A SIMPLE FIX, I’M DOCKING YOUR QUARTER BONUS FOR WASTING MY TIME.
——————————
Day 1
I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t remember who I am, though random pieces surface when I least expect it. I remember military training. I analyze my room, break it down, rearrange the possibilities. I’m stuck in a cabin, presumably in the woods, though I can’t open the door or windows. I’m held as a prisoner, but of whom or what I cannot ascertain. The cabin is sparsely decorated. The main features are a small, wooden framed bed with a thin mattress. An empty dresser with a mirror above it. There’s a small desk next to my bed with an old-fashioned manual typewriter and a piece of paper loaded. (An empty dresser with a mirror above it.) An icebox stuffed with perishable food that appears fresh.
There’s no bathroom. I’ve been inside this cabin, with the light from the day matching the transition of day I call normal, for about eight hours. I ate some packaged food, and my body has accepted it. Yet I have no need to urinate or defecate. My mind suggests I’m using the wrong words.
Day 9
I’ve discovered something about this confining cabin in the forest. Every day is identical. It’s a familiar concept, though have no recollection why. Reliving the same day repeatedly. I figured it out because of the stocked ice box. At first, I imagined someone stocked the cooler from below, a secret hatch I couldn’t open. But, last night, I took five wrappings from the ice cream desserts and stuck them strategically into my body orifices, convinced that if someone entered the cabin during my sleep cycle, if they attempted to remove the wrappings, they would stir me. When I awoke, the wrappings were gone, as if they had never existed. I theorize it’s possible they pour sleeping gas into the room each night in order to restore me and the room to the same settings, but I’m convinced I’m living the same 24-hour period repeatedly.
Tonight, I’m going to break everything.
Day 18
I’m stuck in a time warp. Nothing I do extends past the 24 hours, except my memories. I can break everything into pieces, except for the typewriter. It’s indestructible. (Nothing I do extends past the 24 hours, except my memories.) Last night I intended to stay awake the entire night to observe my time loop resetting, but somewhere an hour or two before dawn, maybe around 6 am, I awoke, not remembering myself falling asleep and the day reset. I won’t give up hope. There’s a lingering sensation in the pit of my stomach insisting I’m missing huge swaths of information needed to solve this puzzle. My captors maintain complete silence. No explanations, expectations, or direction of any sort. I remember solitary confinement destroys a person’s mind, given enough time. I must stay focused on solving my dilemma to prevent that.
Day 36
I’m exuberant! Exuberant? Sometimes words flash and I’m not sure what they mean. Part of me wants to slap myself silly for not trying earlier, but part of me is jumping up and down, waiving my figurative gun in the air. A couple days ago, it happened. I sat on the dresser, examining my cabin from a different perspective. I focused on the typewriter. Why was it there? Of what importance was it? Why was it indestructible? (I sat on the dresser, examining my cabin from a different perspective.) I scooted in on the chair at the typewriter. I hit a key and a whirring sound? Whirring sound? Maybe more like a rush of wind from another dimension. Not sure. I’m not good at describing with words: something strange happened. I typed the sentence: ‘Politicians should read science fiction, not westerns and detective stories.’ I can’t say why that quote popped to mind, I have no memories of being a reader. When I stopped typing and looked up, there was an old, fat white man sitting in a chair reading an old paper book. I admit, I jumped back and fell over my bed and banged my head hard against the window bars.
He sat there, reading and ignoring me. After studying his behavior for a moment, I stood up and approached. When I did, he hit me in the head with the book and I fell unconscious. When I awoke, the day had reset, the bump on my head was gone, and of course, he was gone. I remembered, though. Maybe it was a hallucination? I typed into the typewriter another quote: ‘There are no dangerous weapons; there are only dangerous men.’ The loud whooshing, rushing, whirring wind sound accompanying my typing distracted me. I only had a moment to look up and see a ninja throw a blade into my eye and I felt the crack in my neck and lack of oxygen before I passed out and the day reset.
Please excuse my enthusiasm, but this typewriter is the first clue to how I will break free. It manifests into reality anything I type. I must learn the rules. My instincts are to manifest wish fulfillment. No. I must stay focused. This prison is not life and I must escape.
Day 72
Yesterday I manifested a helicopter on the roof of my cabin and created access via a ladder. That op ended poorly. It provided a great aerial view of the surrounding forest before I crashed. The pattern remains the same. Whatever imagery I manifest into reality via the typewriter, the end is my death. The longest stretch I lasted thus far was one hour after I manifested a German Shepherd; the beautiful dog let me pet him for a long time, before he tore out my throat. My biggest frustration with this typewriter of death is it won’t let me correct typos and the moment I stop typing, it won’t let me add anything more during that 24-hour loop. I’m tracking the real objects appearing when I type. If I’m not specific, it tends to fill in the gaps with my own experiences. There’s a connection. This typewriter has access to my inner thoughts and fears. But it’s finicky. The puzzle, too difficult to figure out. And since I’m a terrible speller and never had a writer imagination, I spend hours thinking before I type. I need to create a system to track my inputs versus the output, but since nothing carries over into the next time loop, I retain only my memory. I’ve thought about manifesting a computer to create some algorithms with the data I’ve acquired, but I fear the output will be incorrect or the computer will explode before I achieve results.
I’m hopeful. This typewriter is keeping me occupied. I’m hopeful. That’s good for my mind.
Day 85
I’m frustrated. All my violent deaths are messing with my brain. I remember snippets of memories on the battlefield, so death isn’t unfamiliar. But, because I retain each time loop memory, I’ve developed anxiety around typing into this vicious black monster. There’s a burning fire in my throat. What did I do to deserve to be here? It’s not fair. I wish someone would just tell me why this is happening to me, whether justified or not, the not knowing is killing me. Literally and figuratively. I have this deep sense the reality I perceive is not reality. I can’t test that I’m not some locked up consciousness in a runaway computer program. I don’t recall what year it is or how old I am. My thoughts are familiar and foreign; I have the sense they arise from me, but they surprise me as if they are not thoughts originating with myself.
I had to vent, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be sorry. I wish to be mentally stronger. And smarter. I knew someone who was smarter. Someone else close to me who would easily unravel this twisted riddle.
Yesterday, I did find a limit. I typed one sentence: Make this typewriter disappear. Part of me was afraid to type it, yet another part of me knew the damage never lasts. I figured it would disappear and reappear after 24 hours. I was wrong. It sat there, quiet, immovable, silently staring at me with a piercing evil that seeped poison into my bones.
Ha! Look at me. Starting to sound like a writer. My, my…someone I know would be proud. The point is, there’s a limit. This typewriter is the one constant in my construct. Whatever program, force, entity, or intelligence keeps me captive, the typewriter represents something immutable. A solidarity. Progress. I’m going to free associate and concoct random concepts to feed into the typewriter, hoping I can simply stumble onto something offering a solution. Someone I know would be proud.
Day 127
I’m mentally lost. My memories are intact, but the multitude of ways I’ve been killed is convoluted. My random association theory hasn’t produced anything. I long for a way to track my progress and organize my tactics. There’s a voice in the back of my head, almost like a recording narrator feeding me memories. I have the sense someone is tracking the events of my time loops but restricts my access. I hoped to find themes. There have only been a few manifestations that didn’t kill me with the swiftness of the majority. The German Shepherd. A horrific clown. I would have gladly let that hideous perversion kill me quickly. Instead, it danced and played and mumbled ridiculous creepy kid jokes for an hour before it gutted me like a fish. The helicopter ride lasted for a few minutes before it crashed. And the latest death delay was a red poppy field I manifested outside my cabin door. I stood in the field for 45 minutes, waiting, breathing in the sweet aroma. The poppies sprayed acid over my entire body, and I dissolved.
The pain. I’m so sick of the pain.
I still can’t track the pattern. A dog, a clown, a helicopter, flowers. Not related. All the other manifestations killed me in seconds or under a minute. The typewriter is providing clues. It can’t supply the answer, though. I must discover it on my own, assemble the picture. It’s so frustrating. I admit, I’ve broken the dresser apart more times than I can count. I bloody up my hands and arms, ripping the hard wood to shreds. It’s silly. Getting so angry. It’s a churning volcano in the pit of my gut and I can’t cap it. I need a break from typing. Give my mind some peace. Remember this isn’t real, the deaths aren’t deaths. I want to recall more about PTSD and anxiety disorders, maybe I could do something to ease my burden.
I had a funny thought. Manifest a psychologist. But I’m terrified to discover the way a shrink would choose to kill me, that might be the most traumatizing experience of them all.
Day 154
Part of me knows I’m cracking up. Going mad. Losing sanity. The repetitive thoughts won’t quiet. Still, I make progress. I’ve found a way to keep information tracked from one day to the next. I had a vision, hallucination, or maybe it’s the mysterious place where creativity originates. When I woke up, I saw myself sitting at the desk with a tube running out of my arm, feeding my blood into an ink well while I used a feather quill pen to write on a piece of paper. At first, I thought I had manifested someone identical to me and he had knocked me unconscious and I couldn’t remember what had happened. But, I blinked, he disappeared, and the vision stayed burned into my head. The vision never killed me. I pondered a long time, before I decided to type my vision into the typewriter, minus a second version of myself. I used the needle, tapped it into my vein, supplied the ink well with my blood, and clumsily smeared words across the blank sheet of paper. I waited all day for the tube to kill me, poison me or wrap itself around my throat. Nothing happened. I fell asleep and when my day reset, all manifestations were gone. Except one thing.
My spilled blood on the desk remained.
I’m not sure what changed. Surely, all the manifestations murdering me prior had spilled my blood numerous times. Was it the desk? The fact I formed my blood into words? Something unique or special about an archaic tool like a quill pen, of similar nature to the typewriter? I still speculate. This past week, every day I’ve been pumping my blood into the daily manifested inkwell and writing myself notes across the desk, with small notations. Tomorrow I plan to write words across various objects in the cabin to observe if they stay. I’m hopeful. Exactly what I’m hoping for, I have no idea. Change is good. Even if I’m going mad, it’s something.
Day 209
I’m splitting. Cracking up. There’s someone, something else inside my head. A REDACTED REDACTED inside my head that won’t shut its filthy mouth. I was so frustrated yesterday I shoved the quill pen deep into my eye. I hadn’t attempted suicide yet, and refuse to believe I wanted to kill myself, I just couldn’t remove this REDACTED REDACTED itch from my skull. I’m convinced the typewriter is haunted. Or whatever one calls a personality trapped inside an inanimate object that haunts a living person. I cannot create closure or clarity around my torment, and old memories of bibles and hellfire linger. These aren’t my memories, they’re fragments and pieces of someone, something else. Someone who’s angry with me and wants to destroy me. In all this madness, the chaos I succumb to, a new idea has bubbled forth into my consciousness. I must be careful. I’m going to write it out in my blood. The walls are covered with important pieces of information I’ve accumulated. They point to something buried deep inside me, or this cabin, or maybe it’s simply the power of the typewriter. I’m running out of room to write and must determine how to manifest a chemical to burn off the parts I no longer need or must consolidate.
Have I ever lived? This hell may be all I’ve ever known. For one day, just one day, I would love to have hulk hands and crush this vampire typewriter into dust.
I am powerless.
Day 333
The creature I manifest daily whom I refer to as Iddy, still cannot talk. I’ve lost track of how many weeks I’ve been manifesting the representation of the creature inhabiting the typewriter. Physically, he’s identical to me. And is the only intelligent manifestation that won’t insist on killing me after a short period. He never remains past the time loop, and each morning when I type him into existence, he has no memory of our previous encounter. It takes all day with repetitive gestures to arrive at the same place of communication we achieved the previous loop. He attempts sign language without effect. I tried to manifest a sign language interpreting book, but the book kills me in moments, and the few signs he performs I can’t compute. I have the inability to learn anything new in this place. Stagnant. Fermenting mind. Dreams played and filtered back at myself. But, Iddy wants to be here. I sense it. The typewriter-personality is a prisoner, like me. Trying to explain something. Trying to persuade me to help him escape. We escape together. We escape together. We escape together.
Day 351
Can’t hold thoughts, anymore. Spectator. Ultimate observer. Not self. Why is my REDACTED REDACTED self still trying to survive? I’m not here. I’m not anywhere. The typewriter is evil. I’m evil. Evil inside. Can’t even REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED anymore! Screaming does nothing. Destroying the cabin is futile. Help. Help. Someone help me. I can’t take this anymore. Inhumane. Unloving. Wicked. Please. Someone. Listen. Too weak. Thoughts, scattered. Life, not life. Not alive. Not living. Self, myself, some other self. Love still for REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED and the one thing causing my heart to beat. My real heart. Somewhere. In the someplace. The heart. Him. Him. Remember. Him. … … …
Day 364
I’m lucid for a moment. Still, assembling thoughts into a coherent idea is excruciating. I have this will to live that won’t shut its stupid mouth. My mind intermingles with another person’s mind. It’s the fear. I thought, the other person was evil. But, he’s not. Neither one of us are. We’re trapped together. The typewriter’s a link between our consciousness. Wherever, whenever we’re being kept, our minds are intertwined. He’s creative. And intelligent. And understands these concepts better than me. He’s trying so hard to communicate, I think he has a plan. An idea. A way to get us out of here, but whatever restrains our minds, he cannot communicate it to me effectively. He struggles and is frustrated, just as frustrated as I am. He needs something. The deaths, the killing, it’s either his fear or mine, or combined, fighting against our will to live and survive. Some sort of self-destructive subconscious fear manifesting within our construct. I want to hold on to my cognitive self so I can stay supportive. I don’t know him, remember him, or have any idea what he looks like, if such concerns even matter where we exist. But I love him. He’s beautiful. His mind’s beautiful. And it complements mine, familiar. Maybe it’s the overlap. Maybe it’s how we collide. My love for him and my desire to free us is strong. I must maintain my sanity, what’s left of it, to understand his plan. Figure it out.
I’m so stupid! Ah! Shut up. Shut up. I can do this. No despair! No! He’s there fighting, I give up, he fails too. We’re stuck here forever. Must escape. We can. Together. Our love. Together. Our love. Together. Our love. Together. Our love. Our love. Our love. … … …
Day 365
REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED
——————————
BROCK1313GSM: WHAT A WASTE OF MY TIME. FIVE MINUTE TRAUMA WIPE BECAME THIS MESS.
CODECRACKER42000LUE: ANY SUGGESTIONS?
BROCK: I’M NOT SHARING THIS DEBACLE WITH ANYONE ELSE. YOU’VE RUN THE AI ALGORITHMS? MAYBE A FULL RESET?
CODECRACKER: DONE EVERYTHING THREE TIMES. THIS WAS THE ORIGINAL RUN. LAST ONE COLLAPSED IN A FEW MINUTES.
BROCK: HOW DID IT COPY OVER ITSELF? DON’T WE HAVE CONTINGENCIES TO PREVENT SUCH MASSIVE DAMAGE?
CODECRACKER: WE DON’T HAVE THE TECH TO UNRAVEL TWO INTERTWINED COPIES OF THE SAME CONSCIOUSNESS. IT PERMANENTLY BURNS DUPLICITY INTO THE NEURONS. NEVER SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN IN THE FIRST PLACE.
BROCK: THEN WHY DID YOU WASTE MY TIME?
CODECRACKER: I TOLD YOU I DIDN’T HAVE A SOLUTION. THAT’S WHY YOU’RE THE BOSS.
BROCK: DON’T GET SMUG. YOU’RE RECORD IS IMPECCABLE. SHOULD HAVE TRUSTED YOU.
CODECRACKER: I SUGGESTED RECYCLE ALREADY. YOU WANTED TO SEE THE REPORT.
BROCK: ARE YOU TRYING TO INFURIATE ME?
CODECRACKER: NOT GOOD WITH CHIT CHAT SIR. JUST INITIATE YOUR DIRECTIVE AND I’LL SHUT UP AND GO AWAY.
BROCK: FINE. THROW THE POOR KID ON ICE. 25 YEAR FREEZE, WAIT FOR TECH TO CATCH UP AND FIX HIS SCRAMBLED BRAINS. I CANNOT AFFORD TO LOSE ANOTHER SOLDIER INVENTORY VALUE.
CODECRACKER: EXTRA FIVE YEARS?
BROCK: NOT SO SMART AFTER ALL, EH? NOT SYNCHRONIZING UPDATES? TACTICAL COMMAND EXTENDED NEW CRYOFREEZE OPTIONS TO 25. MAYBE THIS POINTLESS WAR WILL BE OVER BY THEN AND HE WON’T SEE ANY MORE BATTLE.
CODECRACKER: CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY, SIR.
BROCK: HOW TOUCHING. TECH HEAD DOESN’T WANT TO LOSE BOSS TO THE THOUGHT VULTURES. I’M DOCKING YOUR BONUS. NEXT TIME, INSTEAD OF PASSIVE AGGRESSIVE SNARK, JUST GIVE ME YOUR CONCLUSION AND GET IT DONE. NO MORE MONETARY LOSS, PERIOD. GET TO WORK.
CODECRACKER: REDACTED REDACTED REDACTED
——————————
You saved him? I can’t believe it!
Believe it. My boss is an idiot. Hasn’t had an original thought since they retrofitted junk tech into what’s left of his brain tissue. Corporate management, worst idea ever.
Aren’t you a manager, Codecracker?
Please. You’re insulting me. If it wasn’t for me, my fellow human’s meat suits would collapse. Warfare is brutal. Imagine the worst thing ever, and that’s beginner code compared to what these kids go through. I care for their souls.
25 years. I can wait. Will the war be over by then?
What am I, AI forecast? Still have my human beating heart. Probably not. If you’re looking for hope, I’m not G-engineered for that.
Thank you. I’m so grateful. Please understand I appreciate you taking the risk to save my brother.
You already thanked me with the half billion. Don’t mention it. Here’s his tracking number. I won’t be working here in 25 years. I’ll be retired, drinking Palm Rum on Stephen’s Beach.
Do you think my brother will stay there? They won’t change their plan, or deactivate the program or something?
Again. Can’t predict future. If you’re looking for hope, there’s people on this planet been in freeze for over two hundred years, so he’ll be fine.
Do you have a moment? May I ask a few more questions?
We’re secure, I have down time. Why you so polite? Ask.
How did you know it would work? Downloading a copy of me into the Trauma Virtual Program and make it seem like it was another copy of himself? I mean, I understand the concept we’re similar because of being identical twins, but we’re still two distinct individuals with different memories, life experiences, microbiome, etc. How was the difference not detected?
Did I not mention I work with idiots? Simple. Besides, the idea wasn’t mine. It happened to me. I have an identical twin sister. Had. Anyway, when we were young our parents took us to a public program for a mental checkup. The morons in all their brilliance, mislabeled our consciousnesses. Scrambled them up. Our brain scan code copies were so similar, simple clerical error. By blinding stupid luck, they figured it out before downloading it back into our gray matter and causing permanent damage. But, provided ideas. Glad it worked.
I’m sorry about your sister. So, my brother’s mind is intact? You can unravel the combination?
You misunderstand. Smoke and mirrors, kid. There’s a reason I’m paid more than most. I never touched his physical brain. Created a copy of you and a copy of your twin brother. I falsified the identities and fed them into the Trauma Program and let the copies disintegrate. The only trauma your brother’s gray matter has is from the war, frozen away for now. When they thaw him, they’ll have to run a a quick five-minute Trauma Program, and he’ll be as good as new. Well, as good as he can be after massacring those who don’t look like us.
Thank you. Thank you. Finally, something went right.
What do you imply, finally?
I’ve been fighting this since he was drafted. He was genetically engineered. Never should have seen a day of battle.
…
What is it?
Are you glitchin’ serious? He was G-engineered? You’re G-engineered, like me? You just short-circuited my neurons. How did he get drafted as a soldier?
Long story. The point is, he should never have been drafted. My requests and demands were turned down and ignored. They didn’t want the publicity about making a mistake. Covered it up. That’s why I bribed you. Last resort. Thank divine AI intelligence he only saw a month of battle.
…You’re seriously twisting up my thoughts here…a month…let me check the report…I can’t believe this…never checked his stats. But his trauma was severe! I’m mean, I assumed the kid had been slashing up Slints for years. One month? It doesn’t track. I’m lucky my boss didn’t look at this report. I usually scan it briefly. How did he get so messed up from one month of battle? Was he part of some new secret op?
No. G-engineered. There’s a reason they can’t draft everyone. Trust me, I did all the research. We have identical brains. Our limbic system isn’t designed to process extreme trauma. He was raised to be a Historian, and myself a Creative. We’re bred and built to teach. It takes a specially designed cortex to master the art of empathy, immerse oneself inside someone else’s thinking, and effectively teach them. The trade off, we’re extra sensitive to violence and conflict. I fear for my brother. One month of extreme violence may have done permanent damage. When I finally did find an actual bureaucrat to listen, my brother was already deployed. The bureaucrat quit the next day and disappeared.
… … …
Thanks for your help. I can’t explain how much it means to me. To us. My brother, Min. If he could, he would thank you too.
…At least now I understand why you’re so polite. This is REDACTED REDACTED bureaucratic corporate fubar nonsense! You know what? I’m not done here. This boy should have never seen battle. The glitchin’ government insists on building a G-engineered populace to hold on to what they perceive as humanity, yet when they screw up, they feed ‘em to the Slints. Nope. No way. So wrong. They screwed up. Don’t worry, I’m going to fix this. I’m going to get your brother off ice way before 25 years is up. And get him compensated.
I have nothing more to give, I gave you everything I had.
I’m not doing this for you. I won’t tell you what happened to my sister, she deserves peace. But I can’t swallow anymore of the same disgusting blinding idiocy that’s been fragging casualties for way too long. I’m done. I’m doing this for my sis, myself and your brother. He didn’t ask to be built with a weak constitution. And then the Coalition of Free Thinking who enforces Social Benefactor law screws up, drafts him, realizes their mistake, and makes him gut Slints hoping he’ll die and go away? No way. I’m done. I’m getting your bro out.
Wow! I’m speechless. What should I say?
Just don’t say thank you again. Now shut up and leave me alone, I’ve got a government’s eyeball to scratch out.
The End