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Description
Chapter 10: Endgame

Richard picked up the note that lay before him. The soft feel of cracked paper, like moth’s wings, caressed his awakening fingers. It seemed an eternity since he had held anything real in his hands. He ran his fingers over the ink, feeling the depressions in the page where the pen had made the writer’s mark. Somehow, it was like Richard could feel the man who wrote those words. For a brief second, he’d fancied that he was that very piece of paper, and that Zero had transcribed his thoughts onto his soul. But it was not an empty, dead space like the computer anymore. Those words made him feel alive, and his name at the top of the page validated his existence.

Dear Richard Thorndyke,

If you are reading this letter, then you have followed the correct path. I now realise why Cerberus contacted you, and why it sent me to undo the work upon you. You discovered something that no man should ever have to deal with, a path, that however dark, no man should choose to tread. If you had persisted, you would never have awoken from your dream. I would have killed you in your sleep. Humans have choices to make and desires to fulfil, but when those desires are self-destructive, The Altruists cannot stand by and watch. For you see, encoded within your very genes are the tools to destroy not only each other, but also yourselves. If it were not our crusade to protect the human race from itself, then you would be a shadow of a memory, and all the achievements and writings of your great thinkers would turn to forgotten dust.

Can the word still exist in the human mind, even after the page it appears on has been lost? With a humble heart, I will let you choose.

Secret Agent Zero.

Richard looked at the page once more. But this time, he didn’t focus on the letters that were spread out all over it. No, he looked closer, at the papery tomb that they lay upon. Yes, that was how words were created. Broken and lonely letters, cast through the oceans of human thought, each one part of a crew chosen by human logic, their voyage ending through death by human hands, to an unwelcoming white grave. There were so many words on the ocean of the collective conscience. So many people and so many voices. How did anything last? Perhaps it was human nature, the instinct to survive through the creation of a controlled perception. That was cyberspace in theory. Perhaps Richard would keep this letter to cheat the system that had once enslaved him. He turned the page and looked at the other side.

"How To Hack, Lesson Nine: Death cannot survive without the written word. Even the unmarked grave tells a story. It just has to be found."

“I am Richard Thorndyke. You know, a lot of strange things have happened to my life over the last week, things which I should be able to explain. I should have found out about the Anti Cerberus League and why they attacked my old office, but I didn’t. I should have found out what it was that Cerberus was trying to keep from me, but I didn’t. Last night, I should have killed myself, but I didn’t. And do you know why I didn’t do all these things? Because I chose not to.”

Richard smiled to himself as he filled out the application form. He was offered a job at one of the Inner City Hospitals, helping the sick and wounded who’d suffered far more than he had. As his words filled the page, he couldn’t help but think that he too, was filling a gap that made a difference. It felt good to write. This time tomorrow, he would be on his way back to the city. There wouldn’t be much to miss about this place.

He put down the form and began to pack, wondering what traces he’d leave behind for the next tenant. What signs of his existence would mark his presence in the room, what words would be used to describe it? He looked over at the broken pile of machinery that was his portal into madness. Somehow, it had always been there, a possession Richard couldn’t imagine living without. The computer, the dark path to narcissism, invited him over to its grave on the floor.

The scalpel lay amongst the wreckage, like a broken tooth at an archaeological dig site. He bent down and picked it up. Approaching the furthermost wall of the room, Richard scrawled a few words on its surface for the next person.

“How To Hack, Lesson Ten: To read is to prove to yourself that you are alive. To write is prove it to others.”

He turned to the broken computer, and clipped two of the microchips back into the circuit board that they had been torn out of.

“Now, where does this bit go again?”

The End?

Description
Chapter 10: Endgame

Richard picked up the note that lay before him. The soft feel of cracked paper, like moth’s wings, caressed his awakening fingers. It seemed an eternity since he had held anything real in his hands. He ran his fingers over the ink, feeling the depressions in the page where the pen had made the writer’s mark. Somehow, it was like Richard could feel the man who wrote those words. For a brief second, he’d fancied that he was that very piece of paper, and that Zero had transcribed his thoughts onto his soul. But it was not an empty, dead space like the computer anymore. Those words made him feel alive, and his name at the top of the page validated his existence.

Dear Richard Thorndyke,

If you are reading this letter, then you have followed the correct path. I now realise why Cerberus contacted you, and why it sent me to undo the work upon you. You discovered something that no man should ever have to deal with, a path, that however dark, no man should choose to tread. If you had persisted, you would never have awoken from your dream. I would have killed you in your sleep. Humans have choices to make and desires to fulfil, but when those desires are self-destructive, The Altruists cannot stand by and watch. For you see, encoded within your very genes are the tools to destroy not only each other, but also yourselves. If it were not our crusade to protect the human race from itself, then you would be a shadow of a memory, and all the achievements and writings of your great thinkers would turn to forgotten dust.

Can the word still exist in the human mind, even after the page it appears on has been lost? With a humble heart, I will let you choose.

Secret Agent Zero.

Richard looked at the page once more. But this time, he didn’t focus on the letters that were spread out all over it. No, he looked closer, at the papery tomb that they lay upon. Yes, that was how words were created. Broken and lonely letters, cast through the oceans of human thought, each one part of a crew chosen by human logic, their voyage ending through death by human hands, to an unwelcoming white grave. There were so many words on the ocean of the collective conscience. So many people and so many voices. How did anything last? Perhaps it was human nature, the instinct to survive through the creation of a controlled perception. That was cyberspace in theory. Perhaps Richard would keep this letter to cheat the system that had once enslaved him. He turned the page and looked at the other side.

"How To Hack, Lesson Nine: Death cannot survive without the written word. Even the unmarked grave tells a story. It just has to be found."

“I am Richard Thorndyke. You know, a lot of strange things have happened to my life over the last week, things which I should be able to explain. I should have found out about the Anti Cerberus League and why they attacked my old office, but I didn’t. I should have found out what it was that Cerberus was trying to keep from me, but I didn’t. Last night, I should have killed myself, but I didn’t. And do you know why I didn’t do all these things? Because I chose not to.”

Richard smiled to himself as he filled out the application form. He was offered a job at one of the Inner City Hospitals, helping the sick and wounded who’d suffered far more than he had. As his words filled the page, he couldn’t help but think that he too, was filling a gap that made a difference. It felt good to write. This time tomorrow, he would be on his way back to the city. There wouldn’t be much to miss about this place.

He put down the form and began to pack, wondering what traces he’d leave behind for the next tenant. What signs of his existence would mark his presence in the room, what words would be used to describe it? He looked over at the broken pile of machinery that was his portal into madness. Somehow, it had always been there, a possession Richard couldn’t imagine living without. The computer, the dark path to narcissism, invited him over to its grave on the floor.

The scalpel lay amongst the wreckage, like a broken tooth at an archaeological dig site. He bent down and picked it up. Approaching the furthermost wall of the room, Richard scrawled a few words on its surface for the next person.

“How To Hack, Lesson Ten: To read is to prove to yourself that you are alive. To write is prove it to others.”

He turned to the broken computer, and clipped two of the microchips back into the circuit board that they had been torn out of.

“Now, where does this bit go again?”

The End?