"The only redeeming quality about this story is that the good die and the stupid suffer." ~ Anonymous
Our superiors informed us
A new initiative
A deal had been made
With those elder things
And in return for our service
They would graft onto us
Onto our technology
The smallest bits of them
Almost unimaginable in power
Our flesh twists in grotesque mockery
Of our former human bodies
Tanks and planes and guns
Breath with new life
Aware of our touch
We are now known
By a new name
The Abyssal Corp
I’d been fighting longer than I could remember
Longer than my ship’s computer could compute
Ages
Aeons
Those glimmering metallic ships flying directly at me
Their iridescent fire filling the space all around
Luminesce
Luftwaffe
Waves upon waves of enemies threw themselves upon me
Heedless in their desire to end me and my cause
Endless
Evil
But no matter how many times I was shot
No matter how many times I was sundered
Finished
Fragged
I came back more persistent more ready
Their formations now memorized I dreamed of them
Circles
Cuboids
Ah
But here I sit awaiting my next return
Something is different
Above rests luminous letters
A simple question
So why the hesitation
The numbers count down
Will I choose to ride again
To
Continue?
The buzzing started weeks ago
An update claiming upgrades
“To quality of life”
My eyes swam with words
End User Agreement
And several hundred paragraphs
I brushed them aside
Progress bar began
Several hours later
A warning appeared
“USER BELOW PRODUCTIVITY THRESHOLD”
Then the buzzing began
Three words flashing over and over
“Return to Work”
I am crippled from the waist down
I am only qualified for physical labor
But I cannot afford cybernetics
Beyond the state mandated
Citizen OS
I feel nauseous…
I just want it to end
For quiet
For rest
The screen buzzes softly
Electromagnetic hum
As a family they sit
Circled ’round and holding breath
“Citizen 9721366
You have been chosen”
Announcer’s microphone whines
The father’s face falls
Recognition dawning
He looks to his son
“Jacob… I…”
The boy looks up
Worry stitching his brow
“Dad?
Isn’t that my number?”
The family embraces and weeps
As the screen returns to fuzz
A dome of light
Encircling grief
Dried Ink Ribbon 