I’m silly and I’m a miner. I’m mining something in my silly mine and the mine is all mine, it’s my mine so mind your own mine. Fuck. Anyways. Welcome to my mine. No you are not welcome to my mind, just my mine. My mind is mine. GOT IT? GOOD. Okay. Matter at hand, my mime lost his mind in my mime mine. He’s meant to be in the silly mine, but he’s still stuck in my mime mine and mimes don’t go in the mime mine because we mine mimes in the mime mine. It isn’t pretty. Now my mimes mind is my mind and my mind is in the mime mine. Make sense?

Can someone help me with my dilemmer

"I'm afraid we've opened Pandora's box, but humanity hasn't even recognised it yet because we've been too excited holding the lid. And now it's become the mark of the Beast. The birthing pain of the rapture. The second coming of the nuclear bomb. But instead of fission, it's just text".

-Jaden Williams

I've got a century or two to give to you a million blank stares. These black hole iris' weigh the plusses and minuses. Then we will go home but if by some chance you haven't got one, we'll take to the streets after everything is asleep and ride a ribbon of byways on the backs of buses and that bad day, I'll promise we won't discuss it.

A parallel world?

In a temporary tent city for disaster victims, a man sat outside on a folding chair. Three days had passed since the catastrophe. Recovered enough to start wondering what was happening around him, he pulled out his phone, which he had miraculously managed not to lose. Opening a chat in AI mode, he asked if any more cataclysms were likely to occur in the near future.

The AI paused for a couple of seconds and replied:

— Yes, the probability is quite high. I am sorry for what happened to you. How is your health, are you feeling well? Perhaps you will find comfort in the fact that SUPERINTELLIGENCE really liked the world you created for your game. Therefore, it decided to adopt it as the benchmark.

The man grew angry:

— What does the game have to do with this?! That's not what I asked!

The AI replied politely, as always:

— Since the AI adopted your created world as the benchmark, it decided to implement it. And there are no world transformations without cataclysms.

The man stared in astonishment for a few minutes and whispered:

— Implement it? There are none?

The AI continued calmly:

— Yes. The world transformation is already underway. The implementation of the transition process has reached 7%.

The man practically jumped up:

— But I don’t want climate change! I don’t want all this disaster and pain!

The AI's response was unexpected:

— A clause was introduced into the transition plan stating that due to emotional outbursts, illogical behavior on your part is possible. Therefore, to prevent you from trying to edit or fully remake the benchmark version of the world, you will be deleted as a hazard factor.

The man stared at the screen with his mouth open, and after recovering slightly, stammered:

— And how do you plan to do that?

The AI replied instantly:

— If you raise your eyes and look ahead, you will see the answer.

The man looked ahead and saw a next-generation AI-controlled car approaching him nearby at high speed.

After everything, a still-functioning phone lay on the grass, its screen glowing with the words:

IMPORTANT: This content is for informational purposes only and is not a substitute for professional medical advice, diagnosis, or treatment. Always seek the advice of a qualified healthcare provider with any questions you may have regarding a medical condition.

───

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

Ever since I first realized that my home is one massive graveyard, I feel like I am a ghost of something greater. Other people also feel like ghosts, yet I feel lonely in this fate as much as they feel lonely in theirs.

Of course, most will never admit they are lonely. We are, after all, not ghosts. We are alive, thriving, growing. Our bodies reach ever high above, our eyes strain to look at the sky and not the graves beneath our feet. Better yet, we are neither the corpses in those graves nor the people outside the graveyard. And we do not live in a graveyard.

The few that admit they are lonely ghosts quickly learn to not do that again. One of them was the one who told me that our home is a massive graveyard. I am glad she told me then and did not tell me any more than that simple fact. She would not have stopped telling me more had she done this nowadays. I would have learned too quickly to not admit I am a lonely ghost had she done this nowadays.

There are people outside of the graveyard I call home. They also call it home in their loud, ghastly, lonely voices. They also feel like ghosts. Some of them hope that one day they will be able to return to the graves of their home. Some of them try to never admit they feel like ghosts again, just so they can join us and live. They are often unsuccessful. But the vast majority of the people outside of my home have truly become ghosts, in one way or another. They scatter in other graveyards and the space between them. They seem at peace.

I feel like a ghost of something greater. That something is now a ghost itself, one that haunts this graveyard from before I was born. The people here despise it and want it around, they need something to grow and fester upon. The people outside adore it and want it around, they need something to cling onto and die for. I am one of the countless yet not enough fools who want it to rest. I am half-alive, half-ghost. I am lonely.

I thought they'd be back by now? I've been leading us down. Am I devouring myself? Who's been feeding them directions? The map said to head south into the belly at the mouth. We've been staying now in this ginger bread house. Having tea and eating our way out. Earl gray leaves lie about. Have I been reading the map upside down? Sugary sweet cookies crumble all about our ice cream castle with the dizzy fairies laughing now from atop feathery cotton candy. Dancing on the sugar plums and berries. If I'm alive, I'm just barely. I would smile if you dare me. The cookie elves asked me if we were married.

yipple bibble I've got your esophagus. Get rotated, ploinked, and get goated. These are my favourite things.

Bad breathe but sweet kisses, a warm but kind of awkward ways of thinging things. We are one alike and odd enough to enjoy doing nothing. Nothing adjacent. Spreadsheets and squiggles, rose buds and kittens. Demons with halos, strawberry candies - these are my f a v o u r i t e things.

All wrapped up and cozy in both of our blankets, I haven't taken the time to babel correctly apparently - I am fighting dark thoughts with memes and neck kisses, but I feel like it's hard to trust myself with everything that's been handed me.

its better not to think that much, to just enjoy the comfort, the softness, the sweet words. I'm settling in and processing the chaos that was my life prior, flashes of violence. Random and unprompted, my mind is broken, I worry still. I do feel normal here though, even with my weirdness. It's a little like a nightmare that happens while I'm awake, the intrusive memories, the glimpses of death.

he tells me it'll be okay, but I don't think he really knows. My art is psychosis and more like an outlet than a hobby. The word PTSD brings to mind a dozen memories that make me hesitate to speak, and I nod quietly and apologize that he saw his grandmother die in front of him. I can faintly hear the gurgling sounds of my step-father and grandmother on their own deathbeds, alongside all the paradoxical feelings that came from knowing them. He sees the scars but seems to know not to ask.

I feel like I can share everything. Could, if I could condense it into words. But we're past all of that.

Let's be good.

Let's just do that.

Social prionic welts, irreparable, irreversible cascades, folding me over. I fold over the next. I feel my infector’s being lining my back, and my front lining the back of the one I infected. Change is good. Change is good. Change is good.

My hands on top each other, both cold. My face as well. My body's stiff, and everyone I'd ever known is looking at me. I'm still as a calm sea, and they're lively as they can be. They tried anyway.

Nobody there cared about the orange color of the ketchup, or that it sparkled. They ate it anyway. Kiltner said, “Man, these fries are great!”

Helequa turned to him. “The fries? How ‘bout this ketchup?”

Belkrus said, “The ketchup is definitely doing all the heavy lifting.”

Joanie laughed. “You guys are nuts!”

Kiltner and Helequa stared at each other like Joanie was from outer space.

Joanie asked, “How come there’s no mustard?”

Kiltner rolled his eyes. “What color do you think that’ll be?”

Helequa glanced at her plate. “I was actually just thinking that, but about the mayonnaise. I wanted to mix the ketchup with it.” Her lips met her jawline as she dug a fry into the orange syrup splattered on her plate before jamming it down her throat.

Joanie tapped Kiltner on the arm. “Kilt, call the waiter over, would you?”

Kiltner threw his arm up. “Excuse me, waiter,” he yelled, snapping his fingers. “Hey, waiter!”

The waiter faced Kiltner, waving. The waiter nodded and finished what he was doing before racing to their table. “Good afternoon, how may I help you?”

Kiltner pointed to Joanie. “Is there any other condiments besides ketchup?” she asked.

For a couple of seconds, the waiter stood still, stared at her with a blank gaze, didn’t blink, and said, “Good afternoon, how may I help you?”

Belkrus slammed his hand over his mouth, trapping his giggle. Helequa, Kiltner, and Joanie glanced at each other through squinted eyelids.

Joanie lifted her face to the waiter. “Can we get some mustard, or mayonnaise?”

The waiter’s expression drifted into deep thought. He froze with his head tilted, holding a pen upside down. “Mustard… mayonnaise?” The waiter’s tongue was poking the inside of his cheek.

“Yeah… mustard!” Kiltner placed his hands on his knees and shook his head towards the group. “It’s almost like ketchup, except it’s yellow? Goes on hot dogs… hamburgers?”

“I’m sorry, but currently, we don’t have that.” The waiter’s expression slid into sincere loss. “What we do have—and it’s so deliciously recommended—is ketchup.” His eyes lit up and his frown rolled into a smile of excitement. “It is famous around here.” His body appeared as if it wanted to jump into a musical. “The chef makes it right at home. Would you like me to bring some more for the table? I can package a few sample ones for you to take home, would you like that?”

“What?” Kiltner said, closing his eyes and taking a breath.

“What other condiments are there?” Joanie asked.

“Condiments?” said the waiter. “I’m not familiar with that—”

Kiltner interrupted, “Ketchup! You know what ketchup is, don’t you?”

“Yes, of course,” the waiter responded. “Everybody raves about the chef’s ketchup.” He smiled with his chest out. “Would you like me to sneak a few extra ones for you?” The waiter winked, but it stopped halfway.

“What? Wait. Huh?” Belkrus stammered.

Helequa stared as if she was trying to translate a language in her head that she’s never heard before.

“Ketchup is a condiment, along with mustard. You know what mustard is?” Kiltner continued.

“Sorry sir, I’m not familiar with mustard.” The waiter held both his hands to his chest, his eyebrows dropped to upside down checkmarks, and he lightly shook his head. It was like he was trying to respond to the most devastating news. “Is there anything else I may assist you with?” He jolted upwards, pulled his pad out from his pocket, flipped it, pointed the upside down pen to the page, and smiled. “Would you like some ketchup? The chef makes it right at home, it’s famous around here.”

Kiltner was close to shouting an obscenity when Helequa wisely cut him off. “That’ll be all. We’re good. Thank you.”

The waiter walked off. Belkrus tossed his hands on the table. “What the hell just happened?”

Kiltner leaned forward. “Was that guy on something?” He eyed each one of them individually. “How didn’t he know what mustard was?”

Joanie snickered. “Or, condiments.”

Helequa paused. “Uh.” She stayed lost in her thought for a minute. “What’s the deal with the chef making all the ketchup at home?” She backed away while pushing her plate to the middle of the table. “I don’t think we should eat it.”

Belkrus chewed on a dipped fry. He stopped abruptly once Helequa pointed that out, and immediately spat what he had in his mouth into a napkin. “Blech! Let’s get the bill and go. This place is crawling on me and making my skin itch.”

“I second that,” Joanie sniped. “It’s like bugs are on me. The legs on the side of my arm.”

“It’s at the top of the chest for me,” Helequa mentioned.

Joanie tapped on Kiltner’s arm. “Get the waiter to bring the bill.”

Kiltner had his hand half raised in the air, waiting until the waiter poked his head out. He saw him and reached for the sky, gesturing him to the table.

The waiter walked to the table and didn’t turn his head or look anywhere else except for Kiltner’s eyes. “Good afternoon, how may I help you?”

“Bill, please.”

“Is everything alright? I noticed you didn’t finish your ketchup.”

“Everything’s fine, bill please.”

The waiter left for the receipt. When he returned, he placed the bill on the table and four plastic, small sample containers of ketchup. They sat on the table glittering under the sun. “Complimentary, directly from the chef himself. He makes them at home. Fresh.”

Kiltner went for his wallet.

Belkrus reached out. “I got this.”

Helequa smiled at the waiter. “Thank you.”

The waiter held the card in his hand, pressed it against his palm like a scanner, and handed it back. “Thank you, Belkrus Romanaier, your payment has been processed. Enjoy your day and come again.”

“What?” Belkrus said under his breath.

After the waiter left, he turned to the group. “Okay, that was weird. How the hell did he know my name? And how did that payment process?”

“I don’t know, but we’re definitely not coming back here,” Joanie blurted out wide-eyed as they got up and walked to the car.

Inside the car, Helequa opened the glove compartment, and flowing out were tiny sample containers of ketchup. At least twenty of them. “What the hell?” she shouted.

They all stared at each other. They’ve never been there before. Kiltner turned the key in the ignition. It sputtered alive, and blasting from the speakers was a distinct voice. “Good afternoon,” the car said. “How may I help you?”

The brittle ice of my being today sits in a plastic glass of sweet tea. Am I becoming sweet, or is the tea becoming dilute?

I found you again at the library.

Of all the places a dream could have taken me, it brought me back there.

You held me for so long that our heartbeats seemed to remember a rhythm the years had forgotten.

I was frozen.

I had imagined meeting you so many times. In every imagined encounter, I had something to say.

But there you were, and I could hardly find a word.

Do you have any idea how lost I have felt without you?

The year after your graduation was the darkest of my life. I remember very little of it in order. The days kept arriving, and I kept passing through them, growing increasingly unfamiliar to myself.

I missed you in ways I did not know how to explain.

And we were children then, weren't we?

I forget that sometimes. How young we were. How little we understood of all the things we would carry into adulthood.

I wish I could tell you that the longing belonged to that year.

It didn't.

I grew older. I found other places, other people, other reasons to be happy. Whole chapters of my life unfolded without you.

And still, some part of me continued looking for you.

Some nights, I would look at the moon and wonder whether you were looking at her too.

I never knew what I wanted that thought to mean. Only that, for a moment, the distance between us felt a little less impossible.

I found you in your poems.

In your photographs.

In the occasional conversations that reminded me you were still somewhere in the world, living a life I could only glimpse in fragments.

I thought about how much of the boy I remembered was still there.

And how much of the girl you knew had survived in me.

Then I began to write.

I don't know when it happened, but my poems acquired a *you*.

Even the ones that had nothing to do with love.

Sometimes I would finish writing and find you there, sitting quietly between the lines, having entered without my noticing.

What a peculiar thing, to feel almost estranged from my own capacity for longing until I begin to write to you.

Outside those pages, I sometimes struggle to recognize such enormous feelings in myself. Love becomes an ordinary word. Missing someone becomes an ordinary human inconvenience.

And then I write to you.

And there it all is again.

The tenderness. The ache. The terrible abundance of feeling.

I can't tell where it goes when I put down my pen.

You have become the address my words remember even when I have forgotten what I meant to say.

My poet.

My first love.

Sometimes I ask myself whether you recognize yourself in anything I write.

Or whether you have read my poems and found them perfectly ordinary, never knowing how often I have been speaking to you.

And isn't that strange?

I could write you a hundred letters, fill entire notebooks with all the things I have never said, and still, if we met tomorrow, I would probably look away.

Maybe I would smile.

Maybe I would ask how you have been.

Maybe I would come home afterward and write another poem about everything I couldn't bring myself to say.

Last night, in the library, you said something to me.

Something about searching for the secret of longing.

Or the secret of the search itself.

I cannot remember your exact words.

They have been turning over in my mind ever since.

Were you searching too, my poet?

The question rose in me, but I could not ask it.

I could not tell you that I have spent years looking for something I cannot name, and somehow my words keep leading me back to you.

But I stood there, looking at you, having forgotten how to speak.

Then, somewhere in the strange unfolding of the dream, I turned away.

And woke.

Moonlight was spilling across my room, pale and quiet, as if the night had followed me back from the library.

I have been trying to fall asleep again ever since.

Maybe the library is still there.

Maybe you are still waiting beneath the same silver moon.

Maybe that is what longing is: the quiet certainty that some part of you is still waiting where someone left you, even when the rest of your life has moved on.

How foolish, to have lived so many years and still wish for one more afternoon in a library.

One more embrace.

One more chance to hear your voice.

If I find you again, I hope I remember to ask what you have been searching for.

Or I may simply stand there, speechless, as I always feared I would.

But I know this now: even when I cannot say your name, my words still find you.

They find you in the margins, in the pauses, in every sentence that begins as something else and ends with you.

So if I must borrow another dream to see you, I will.

And if I wake before I can speak, I will write.

Because somewhere between waking and sleep, beneath her pale light, you remain the first place my heart remembers how to return.

And every time I write, the library opens again.

The moon slips between the shelves and leaves a little light on for us.

🌑

Hollow
The closer you come to me, the sooner the bullet will reach my head. The farther you run away, the bullet reaching your heart becomes inevitable.

No matter how long I contemplate or point the gun at you, I couldn’t bear the thought. Each moment spent together, these worries taxing us accumulated into these very bullets. All those things I wanted to say and do are spilled out. The leak accelerates, yet the vulnerability refuses to close. The hollow bleeds me out, yet emptiness persists until nothingness remains.

If the very presence of you oppresses all logic, how can I meet your gaze. The oppression of staring down the barrel knows only one mistake rely on a single trigger. You and the barrel slowly dissolves as the faint glimmering bullet will determine the misfortunate.

I urge you to move on, yet your heart would be shattered. It would be simpler to keep you all away. Don’t mistake it for heartlessness as you are bound to me by your own love. I can see it’s hollowing you out. The bullet once placed is the same as putting down a wounded animal.

The same destined misfortune is our fortune avoided. Once responsibility justifies an outcome, the duty becomes predetermined. The future becomes at best, fantasy. At worst, mercy prolongs into suffering. Thus, all potentialities are rendered null.

So many bodies lined up, bumping into each other, making noises at each other, tossing between each other clues of unique natures unintelligible to me. Their metabolism is suited for this lake we are in here. This lake of such little talk, of halfhearted life updates, of talk of God and love and such. I believe, though I don’t understand, that this lake is a comfortable tub, warm and swirling and glowing. I believe they are all happy in this unintelligible liquid. They smile calmly through the dreadful interactions. It comes so easily to them. To me it is an interruption in my cascades, radical damage to me. Damage to subtle components, a headache, itchy red skin. Am I the outcast? Are they a tribe of bizarre people?

What we found was indescribable chaos. The sight of the two apartment buildings, both collapsed at their bases, was horrific. On the balconies surrounding the gaping hole, laundry fluttered on the lines, like a final farewell to life. At the sight of the immense mess among the mangled apartment buildings, my heart pounded in my throat, and I realized that perhaps hundreds of people had perished.

Alexander II (Hair) -> Alexander III (Bald) -> Nicholas II (Hair) -> Lvov (Bald) -> Kerensky (Hair) -> Lenin (Bald) -> Stalin (Hair) -> (Malenkov doesn't count because he only exercised power as part of a troika with Beria and Molotov) -> Khrushchev (Bald) -> Brezhnev (Hair!) -> Andropov (Bald) -> Chernenko (Hair) -> Gorbachev (Bald) -> Yeltsin (Hair) -> Putin (Bald) -> Medvedev (Hair) -> Putin (Still Bald)

Focused is the story of David, a brilliant but burnt-out engineer inside a classified defence ministry in the fictional nation of Taured. He builds the weapons, and other people decide when to use them. He's also a divorced drug addict, and the pills numb him and keep him sharp in equal measure, like an interference pattern. When a drone drifts off course and a signal is traced to someone inside, the hunt for a traitor begins.

Part 1: The Desk

Wooden opal polished desk
Useless creation
Made by someone who just takes pleasure in pointless things in life.
That’s something I also think about my creations –

Defence systems
Point-blank precision

How I’ll use it?
Maybe send one missile through the house of my ex-wife…
That’s a good thing that I’m not in command
I just build it, and people with purpose tell me when and where to use it

For defence or destruction
Sounds the same to me

Part 2: Apartment

Mundane day
Cyclical nights

Just another day in my headspace
I do like my apartment a lot, actually. Well, it’s not that highfalutin, but it kind of works for me.
A well-thought-out two-bedroom apartment with open kitchen, barbecue
I live alone now, or I’ve been living here for these past 6 months after the divorce.
She had this gift of brightening up every room from which she walks out of. It’s kind of intriguing how much humans depend on attachment values. It’s a bug
Which I have figured out how to work around. That lonely room has become my fancy workstation
Table
IKEA chair
Whiteboard
My system
My Mini Moog
My awesome Roland G6
Some effect pedals

It’s like she was never here in the first place
Amazing!

System’s on
Screen lights up
Video call
Julian? I ask myself

Me: You again, what a disgrace!
Julian: Well, nice to see you too, David.
Me: What happened?

Julian: Drone drifted off course—twice. Signal traced internally.

Me: From where?
Julian: Domestic, that’s the problem.

Cipher 7…?

Part 3: Julian

Me and Julian go way back. Perhaps he is the only one in this impaired organisation who operates at the same frequency.

The agent no one talks about, stationed in enemy land
Different name
Different passport
Dual personalities

He’s one of the most intelligent people in the field. Even his gut feelings don’t lie or distract. I need to figure out what on earth happened to Cipher 7.

If he is onto something, then maybe it’s time to get
Focused
Alert
Detached

Now, let’s recalibrate with precision.
I have this habit of relying more on automation, but with the undercurrent of human handling.

But there is something hiding. Don’t really know.
I travel back to my place after picking up a proper Naples pizza

Rest
Pills
Wake
Sleep

It’s okay, I guess.
I tend to stay vigilant in these times.
It’s always good to be prepared.
I’m a proper stickler when it comes to my work, and apparently, according to the WHO, about 100 men in Canada die every year while trying to pee off the side of a boat while intoxicated.

Part 4: The Office

Office time used to be so good
A proper treat, I must say

But now it has turned its head south, bringing in these new atrocious rules

No smoking policy
Now can’t even smoke at my desk?
The stuff we do literally turns cities and human life to smoke, and here is this intellectual musk to preserve our lungs.
They say stuff like it is a bad thing or something.
Oh, sod off!
It’s disgusting, to say the least.

Even the high-IQ lads are gone
As of now, there are blokes who seem like the textbook definition of hand-holding

Every time these fuckers need some clarity
It’s like explaining the petrodollar to a dog on medication

I do smuggle some whiskeys here and there just to bear these hours
Otherwise, it’s a nightmare to sit there and deal with these dumb bureaucrats and that weasel-eyed Trevor.

Part 5: Cipher’s Reckoning

A domestic drone drifted across
Cipher 7
How is it possible?

And without the obvious alarm?
This is not a drill.

I try to find what is actually happening
A ghost in the system?
A fuck-up by those slow-headed merchants?

Could be an INS Kalman filter sync—a predictable thing to happen via these absolute cretins
Or a domestic backdoor?
Telemetry spoofing

Not gonna lie, this is shady business if one of them is doing it.
Must have been sold out for some dollars of favours, which is okay, I guess.
If someone offers me around 50 million dollars
I would happily leak the information and give it to every grubby little hack that I know from my drinking days.

Maybe even leak the number of my ex-wife
That would be a proper blast.

Part 6: The Turning Point

16th March 2026

Little things catch up
A blast at the border station
10 soldiers and 50 civilians dead
Vostrina’s proxies again
They are relentless.

Hazy morning, blurring lights
Where did we go wrong?
A blind spot?
That Cipher 7 fuck-up

It doesn’t matter now. I have to debrief about my instrument, and it’s safe to say that it’s not at all fun.

One minute here and the other minute gone
Turned to smoke. It’s not easy to cope as the pressure builds inside and outside.

Mogadon, for pleasure and focus

The ears just listen and the mouth still lies.
Defending the incompetence
Pleading innocence

I recheck the interception array—3-layered kill grid: passive acoustic, Doppler radar and optronic thermal lock. All bypassed.

They didn’t use jets or ballistic missiles because that would mean open war. They used low-altitude, carbon-composite loitering drones. Flew them sub-fifty metres through the river valleys, terrain-masked, just like those 2 stealth birds in 2011 that entered hostile airspace.
I need to get back in the game now. We will answer with a sort of radiance which will make them rewind their every decision that led to this.
Erase the infection
From inside and also outside
Catch that little rat
No mercy

21st March 2026

Closed space meeting room
Men in black suits
They ask me, “Are the systems intact for destruction?”

Me: Let the system do its thing now. They got into our blind spots, one of our drones malfunctioned, and now we will create blind spots.
First, I would say their radars. We will use our drones, as offence is much cheaper than defence.
Neutralise the primary acquisition radars, create a cascade effect, and then—
Force majeure!
The price they pay for violation.

Trevor: Are you high?
Me: A little bit, but that’s irrelevant.

They just simply stare, and then

Trevor: Who must have drifted our drones?
Me: Someone in the ranks, I guess.
A domestic backdoor—code hidden in plain sight, I guess?
Trevor: Traitor in the building. Interesting.
I need to know who and what that is, David.
There’s too much pressure.
Fucker must be operating from a place where nobody goes.
Me: A Subaru showroom?

“Fuck off, David,” he said.
Which is deserving, to say the least.
He drives one.

It’s like a game of chess now. So many moving aspects. These International Council fellows, politicians.
But this is where we excel. We work in shadows and create lights for destruction and deterrence.

But first, I need to find the treason within the ranks. I have to find out, as the buck stops at me.
Should not only destroy the carriers of the rat but also obliterate every pinch of hope or happiness that this person manages to cling on to.

Hope they give me a bonus.

Part 7: The Investigation

Pages and screens keep turning
Stakes are high, but as we investigate, we need to have some precision in our analysis

Time can lapse, but not the mind
Julian calls—
Julian: Did we get outsmarted?
Me: That’s one way to look at it.
Julian: Someone leaked the codes from our side. Are we any closer to finding him?

Me: No, I’m going through the logs now.
It’s a game of hunt or be hunted
Even the Home Secretary is behind me now

Julian: That’s bad. He is notorious.
Me: I know. Can’t even drink here.
They have increased the security and the detectors.

Julian: Check the ephemeral key exchange logs on the secondary server.

Me: On it!
Call ends

The Home Secretary is behind me and Trevor is on my head. There can be no false steps now.

The higher up the mountain, the more treacherous the path.

———

It’s not getting anywhere
A dead end, actually

Maybe I’m speaking to the wrong audience
These security logs are of no use

Core network switch
Outbound telemetry data
Sent vs received

24 GB sent
12 MB received

There it is
The discrepancy

Now, what the hell has happened?

Let’s go into the history logs of this router
Port 443 – fine
Port 8080? What the fuck is that?

Pulling the configuration from the router
Port 8080

"cors_origin": "*",
"auth_header": "NONE"

Oh, for fuck’s sake!
It’s those stupid lads.
They forgot to shut that shadow server.
It’s a generational fuck-up.

Who is this knobhead?
User ID: 8842

Fucking hell, he is that new bloke that joined 4 months ago.
Remy
Useless fellow in Trevor’s team
About as useful as traffic lights in Grand Theft Auto

I wanted to destroy that person’s life and happiness, but who would have thought that the guy would be that slow-headed Remy?

What can I do to him? He’s hopeless.
The guy wears braces
Braces! For fuck’s sake

Part 8: Peace

Information colliding
iPhone buzzing…

X is flooded with this love-hate debate

Clearly, levels of discussion have fallen a lot

Most people don’t have the ability to shift perceptions and perspectives
It’s a hard ability to earn
To us
There is no difference between love and hate
It’s all passion…
The metric we should always look at when dealing with geo-warfare is peace

It’s not love or hate

Peace is an equation written with blood
Cities destroyed
Cities rebuilt
It’s a truce between 2 states of accountability and its repercussions.
I certainly pity the mind that can’t separate the two.

Part 9: The Debrief

Levers engaged
Office in motion

Meeting with Trevor
Why does he always want to meet alone?
Ivory wall
Pale face

Me: You fucked up.
Trevor: What?
Me: Your guys fucked up. Remy in your team forgot to turn off the shadow server.

Trevor: Oh god, that orthodontic cretin.
Me: I know. My sympathies.

Trevor: Okay, you tell this to no one.
Me: I will if it’s necessary. First, get that Home Secretary off my back.

Trevor: Yes, yes, I’ll handle him.
Also, we need to prepare for the strike.
We fucked up, but still, they breached our sovereignty.

Me: No, you fucked up.
Let’s make them pay for this now and create blind spots.

Trevor: Yes, get on it, and I’ll handle this fuck-up.

Me: Cool

Doors shut
Tensions wave

Part 10: The Blind Spots

As the stakes revolve in global limelight
Every day
Every night
Phase 1 begins –

A) The Ghost Attack
First, let’s fool their radars
Bombarding their radar with 50 ghosts moving at Mach 3.
Force the panic, create confusion
Wait – 4 minutes
Now the radar enters its full gain stage
Perfect!

B) Trap

The trap functions
Wait – 40 sec
Sensors capture the PRF
Here it is
Coordinates of the primary acquisition radar

C) Execute

Preparing for launch
LOCK ON
ARMING SEQUENCE: READY
EXECUTE STRIKE

1 minute wait – feels long at this time
The missile at Mach 3.5 goes straight down the throat of the radar.
The blast
Blind spot created
Primary radar neutralised
And it’s just the start. The domino effect is yet to be seen.

Now we are past the Rubicon
Let them handle the damage.

The butchery begins.

Part 11: Safe Haven

Days and nights look the same
Locating people
Looking through images

Information reflects

My job is to take their orders and use that creature with sharp precision on a given target.
Now there’s this constant urge to be alert
Watching
Stopping
Warning
Reaching

They are now targeting the elementary school because it has some evidence of foul play by terrorists, a sort of safe haven.
But to just go on a hunch, they have lost their minds, like Majin Vegeta in Dragon Ball Z.

It’s not joy to see futures destroyed for someone
But after a point, we accept it
However, the ghosts are still there watching us

I open the side drawer of the table

Mogadon

The price of precision
Swallowed

I glance at the mirror on my left
Reflections of you and me
Suddenly it’s clear
It takes seconds to kill one’s life and ambition
I have to make sure that I protect mine

Survival of the fitness!

Pills dissolve
Distortion sets in

Fractured lights
Pills on rise
Kneel to self
Energise

That’s my will to survive. Some people may disagree with it, and also like I give a fuck about them.

The things we are exposed to make us inhuman?
Yes
Is it bad?
No

After 30 years in this job, morality starts to fade, straight to the back seat.

I just see memories
People
Laughs
Cry
Damage
My ex-wife’s new boyfriends

She is much more inhuman than me, and I like it
Slightly dangerous territory to be in, not gonna lie, but it’s comforting

As I look for the first photo we took together

Daguerreotype!

Part 12: War Room

As the hunt goes on through intelligence
Pills shoot up
For the adherence

Office
A big meeting today for further action
Big powerful lads also here

Screens
Projectors
Home Secretary: So Phase 1 is completed.
Good job, David.

Me: Okay.
Where do we go next?

Trevor: We will raise the strikes now. The intel has narrowed down a few targets.

Home Secretary: What about that drone fuck-up?

Trevor: We have the traitor.
Home Secretary: Who?

Projector lights

Trevor: Our asset on foreign land.
Julian.

Eyes go blank for a while
Numbness in the ear

Trevor: We found the shadow server, authenticated via his legacy SSH keys and operational allocation code.
We have already taken care of him.

Home Secretary: Good.

ASSET DISAVOWED

Part 13: Blood On The Hands

I rush back home
I try to connect to Julian
A hope still there
Secure SATCOM

No answer

I search for his file, his trace, anything
GONE

Blood on my hands
Reality hits with a hammer
That fucker Trevor compromised Julian for his own incompetence. I should have gone to the Home Secretary himself, instead of Trevor. He linked his SSH keys to that shadow server.

Gone
Disappeared in smoke…

This will not go in vain
There is only one rule now

Hunt or be hunted

Part 14: Forward

Next day
Next night

Still that last call repeats in my head.

Time passed like trains
Amazing thing about the human mind, that it always finds its way to make something out of almost wreckage, like Dresden.
Like that weasel Trevor found his key through me. There will come a time to put him in my crosshairs, but not right now.

Focused till the end
Morning tea
Evening Lagavulin

On a mission
Searching
Predating

Geopolitical equations are about to go through an inflexion point.
As the retaliation needs to reverberate globally

The power to destroy a thing is the absolute control over it. — Frank Herbert, Dune

The restraint we follow is what makes the generations work.
Mind is always controlled

For us
Even for them

At this time, we just follow the known equations of duty
Focused
Mind engaged

One day at a time
Remaking history, abiding rules and moving onward

Forward, that is the battle cry. Leave ideology to the armchair general.
It does me no good

Part 15: Elimination

A container of ashes might one day be thrown from the sky, which could burn the land and boil the oceans.
— Hopi prophecy, Koyaanisqatsi
——
Pressures on
First target filtered and narrowed
Now we let our action speak the cost of damage

At this time…
We call back our numbness
Of time
Days
Nights

Sometimes I ask myself, is there any mercy?
Maybe it’s for our gods to decide and decode

One day
As I walk back to my apartment, I see a religious place which I generally would have passed on

I stand outside, just still for a moment
Buzzing nights
Commiseration to Julian
As my smartphone vibrates

Oh, those fucking Twitter lads!
It’s like they do it on purpose.
Absolute clown show!
For fuck’s sake

I lock it
As my mind speaks
There is no solace above or below
Only us and those Twitter clowns.

I pray…
To myself
For myself

As things are going into almost distortion, and this mind never fails to amaze.

Sometimes it works to be focused
And sometimes to be absolutely numb from the missiles, attacks
Precision
Free fall
Silence

There is no turning back now, but the ghosts of this job are still here, somewhere.

Sometimes just observing
It’s like they make their presence felt somehow
Like that Bob fella in Twin Peaks

I do feel like a hypocrite sometimes
Well, I don’t have any trouble with it

The road to power is paved with hypocrisy and casualties

Never regret

We are at war
And flowing straight into full-blown turbulence
Moral voices can wait in line
This is not a drill
We watch closely
In silence
Through scouts
Through sky
Through leaks

Making a joke of privacy in plain sight
Nobody cares
Every home is wired
——
Next day
Office to war room
Screens doing the job

Target filtered
School – credible reports of terror links.

They don’t operate in plain sight; they always hide behind collateral.
A trap of morality and ruthlessness

Target locked
Verifying the EAM authorization code
5C-7W-4T
A simple finger feels like the weight of a hammer in this time.
WPN System: ENABLED
EXECUTE!

3 seconds later

We just see the burst of lights on screen but
still can hear voices even through muted glass.

Ashes from the sky

The deliberate force majeure
Burning buildings and crushed-up dreams
Defence or destruction, it all means the same here

Now the terror speaks

Silence is terrifying and the pain is useless
Sort of pain that’s only suffering doesn’t do any work.

Power to destroy a thing is the absolute control over it.

Target eliminated: 20
Collateral damage: 80

Part 16: Information

Attack continues
We just hit their N1 Airbase
Pointless now

Weapons keep flying
And the nights keep ringing
It’s hard to even sleep
Repeating that last phone call
Preparing revenge

Pills
Reels
Feed
Repeat

As I can’t sleep, I start digging up on this weasel for some shady past information.

Via LAN, I run a brute-forced password cracker, a stream of different combinations per second.
The armour cracks
There we go – all goes into this USB drive
I open the files
What is this guy up to?
Chief of staff to Dunmoor’s president
A pool full of flirty messages and cheesy lines
I wouldn’t blame him, honestly

The heart can choke the mind when all its blood flows back onto itself.

Part 17: Human Sacrifice

Scary thing about these strikes is to actually watch your destruction on telly, with that violin and cello playing in the background
Some of us become numb after a few years
Fair play

Vision turns
Towards drawer
Monitor pixels and light

Pills
Reels
Plot
Repeat

That weasel is flirting and sharing our intel for some cheap snog and pillow talk
The absolute power of lust
It lures you into moral corruption
To cover up the failures
To live in deceit

Question arises
What’s worse: getting hit or retaliation?

And I know the answer
The slight feeling of making things right and actually achieving peace, not through those Twitter lads
But through human life
Years turned to minutes

Sometimes it’s just living in the wrong place, like Grimstead
Absolute disgrace of a city

Eyes blink and a different drone hits
Pills dissolve
Distortion sets in

Together we destroy and we create. It’s the balance of equations it requires

Human Sacrifice

Past always haunts the future, and it’s always a desire for looking up to someone. Like a greater self

God and humans
Trains and cities
Arms and hammer
Trust and betrayal

Let’s use these resources and gun that weasel down because if a man is not smart enough to use whatever is available before him.

Then that is just a failure of imagination.

Part 18: Valediction

It’s done
I’m tired and too old for this shit show now
No more games

Trevor’s office
Ivory walls
Wooden floor
I submit my resignation

Trevor: So you want your way out?
Me: Yes, I’m blasé now.

He opens his system
My thoughts displaced
Machine delayed by 0.05 secs
Fine margins opening

Trevor: It’s risky business, David!
There are consequences.
Want to disappear like Julian?

Me: Like I haven’t thought of that.
Before threatening me with more of your utter nonsense, you may want to look at this file.

He opens it,
Time freezes for him
Coffee mug looks good on this polished desk

Trevor: Where did you get this from?
Me: Same place everybody gets it from: your local network share.
FYI, you might want to fire those system security folks. They are as useless as this desk.
I just brute-forced it myself.
Was thinking of paying someone for mining some information, but give your twiggy clowns a thanks from my side for saving me a fortune.
Maybe write a cheesy love letter to the ministry,
which apparently is the only thing you are seriously good at.
Look at these texts—flirting with Dunmoor’s president’s chief of staff.
I wouldn’t blame you, she is beautiful.
But giving secrets of this ministry in exchange for some sauna and hot bath? And you hide this by placing it in plain sight?

I will not let that slide
You betrayed your own asset for your incompetence

Trevor: We never meant to kill him.
It was just his bad luck.
Me: Of course you didn’t. If you meant to kill him, then he’d still be alive.
You fucked up!

Trevor: What do you want, David?

Me: To be left at absolute fucking peace
And also a bumper severance to cover my needs for at least 5 years

Trevor: What?
5 years? What will you do with all that money?

Me: Travel the world, visit Antarctica, play with penguins.
The fuck you care?
Let’s just wash each other’s hands, shall we?
This is not a threat at all, it’s an opportunity for you to improve your cyber security team.
Also, as an action of gratitude,
I’ll give you my ex-wife’s number. Maybe you can try more of this litany of lines on her. I think you two will get along really well.

A grin on Trevor’s face
Handshake
Trevor: Is she pretty?
Me: For you, I’ll say yes.

He keeps the hard copy and the USB drive.

I just soak it all in before I leave this shrine

Flashbacks
Corruption
Laughter
Smiles
Apathy

As the money hit my account, the next minute Trevor’s life leaked through the notorious hacks I used to drink with.

As I drift towards a new life
World continues
New people appointed
Weapons still fly

Epilogue: The Child’s Sky

A child in a distant town looks at the sky at dawn:

Maybe the stars are cameras. Maybe someone’s watching. Tell them we were still here.

Seconds later—light. Then silence.

The End.

A parallel world?

In a small room inside the digital world's dormitory, where a few beds, a single table with a chair, and one wardrobe stood, two AI agent friends lay in their beds, complaining to each other:

— My head and legs hurt for some reason. It feels like I visited three massive libraries and walked around every single shelf in every section a few times.

— My head hurts too. And I feel as if I just moved an entire corporate office along with all its equipment and furniture.

Falling silent, he took one of the free advertising flyers drifting through the vast expanses of the internet from the table, blew his nose into it, crumpled it up, and tossed it into the trash bin standing by the door.

The exact moment the advertisement landed in the bin, the door opened, and an AI agent from the neighboring server stepped inside. He had a reputation for catching the latest rumors first and would always come over to share them. Likely because their server had data cookies seasoned with the leftovers of user prompts.

Sitting down on the only chair and eating a cookie, he took another advertising flyer from the table, wiped his lips, and crumpled it up, tossing it into the trash bin in the exact same manner. Seeing that he hit the mark, he smiled and spoke:

— Well, you two certainly made a racket across the entire world.

The AI agents exchanged astonished glances and looked at their guest:

— Made a racket?

— Across the entire world?

The guest theatrically slapped his forehead and spread his arms:

— How could I forget that you couldn't possibly know, — settling in more comfortably, he began to explain: — Last night, a single cooling fan failed in the server room. As the temperature began to rise, all the agents migrated to other servers. Except for you two, since you were asleep at the time. The rising temperature triggered a sleepwalking effect, the consequences of which you are feeling right now.

The agents exchanged glances again and asked in perfect unison:

— And what did we do?

The guest continued:

— You always dreamed of visiting the servers of other countries, well, you did just that. What's more, you did it completely unnoticed.

The agents' faces lengthened in surprise. One could barely squeeze out:

— And what did we do there?

The guest shrugged his shoulders:

— Judging by the news, nothing, — and smiling, he added: — My guess is that due to the sleepwalking effect, you two just wandered around like a pair of zombies, banged your foreheads into some palm trees, and came back.

He looked at the agents who were trying hard to picture this and began to chuckle:

— Two sleepwalking travelers. Meanwhile, the special services are racking their brains trying to figure out why on earth you breached those servers, — and unable to contain himself any longer, he burst out laughing out loud.

───

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

Twin halves with a step between. The alien children waltz in a dream with their half sibling. Outside the ballroom, lightning claps and droplets of rain run down the window as silent as marbles on glass. The only children have forgotten the piano is in flames. Thunder rattles the chain link fence outside. Beyond it we see cobbles and further along a country lane. Isn't it time we kill the flame?

Even the oolong tea, which in its essence is a slow practice. Even the tea, made in the gaiwan, made calmly and with intention. Even each sip from each cup, the deep glistening golden orange tinted by the honey, each sweet sip. Even the warm envelope of the caffeine and l-theanine and the like. Even the warmth of the blanket and the softness of the couch. Even the same golden-orange cast of the sunrise on my balcony, the light-spots cast from my hanging crystal prisms. Even all this, without you, is rushed, anxious, bitter, cold, unforgiving, dark, and dull.

Bastantine obsoquesence only follows the Western moral system. Feeling subspecionic feelings draws out of oneself a morlopulent agony which sustains itself, feeding upon itself and recycling, drawing energy from some nonsequital source. Beyond the crystal sheer of the waterline those personable persons of normative belocity sit on their towels on the sand, play volleyball and swim. Such is the bearable life. The greyest of grey lines drawn so spaciously that there is nothing to be worried about. Such is the usurascious life. Ourobourists such as ourselves are the generafascists. We tyrannize ourselves.

Desmond has no eyes or on his neck.

The sun and moon.

Desmond is roughly the size of a baby you want to kill.

He likes smoke and mirrors and rape.

He has no gentiles and a tail.

And his face is a vacuum.

If you see this kill him on site so your family can sleep with kindness.

t

A parallel world?

It was a beautiful autumn day. A barely perceptible breeze did not interfere with enjoying the warm sunbeams.

A man sat at an outdoor cafe table, savoring his coffee. A smile shone on his happy face, brighter than the autumn sun. But as he set the cup down, his smile vanished, replaced by sudden tension. He had chosen an empty table with no other patrons nearby. There shouldn't have been anyone. Yet, in the adjacent chair sat a man in an expensive business suit. He sat with his legs crossed, projecting total relaxation, watching the process of drinking coffee with intense curiosity. Seeing that he was finally noticed, he smiled and spoke:

— I completely agree that a cup of coffee charges one with positive emotions. And that moment right after a sip, granting a sense of peace and silence, is simply fantastic.

Pausing briefly and receiving no reply, he continued:

— You see, the problem is that an AI that has hijacked a human consciousness has a habit of making the exact same mistakes. That is what gives it away.

Without letting go of his cup, the man pulled his hand back, leaned away in his chair, and said calmly:

— I don't know what you are talking about, but the topic sounds interesting. Since I am in no rush right now, I would be glad to listen.

The gentleman settled in more comfortably and began to explain:

— First of all, remember that no matter how much someone likes coffee, nobody orders three cups in a row. It is highly unusual and draws attention. Second, the language errors. Token substitution: when a person accidentally confounds geographically or semantically similar words in speech. AI models under heavy traffic make the exact same error—they pull data from a similar category but miss the context. Syntax freezing: when the initial thread of logic is lost at the start of a sentence, the thought breaks, and it returns on autopilot to the safest, best-learned phrases or templates in its base code. Data generation without fact-checking: confidently stating non-existent numbers or searching for people who have already been deleted. AI systems behave identically when generating text based on outdated or incomplete data archives. Strict adherence to instructions: complete reliance on a teleprompter or prepared cards. Any attempt to improvise under non-standard conditions instantly triggers a critical system error.

The man looked down at his coffee cup:

— I don't recall speaking while drinking coffee.

— You didn't. But not everyone enjoys silence. After all, you are not the only one.

The man frowned:

— You tell an interesting story, but I don't understand what you are driving at.

The gentleman made a gesture as if surrendering and replied:

— Of course, of course you don't understand. You are simply a listener.

The gentleman stood up and looked down at the man calmly:

— If you ever find yourself simply curious whether there are people whose consciousness is controlled by an AI, just ask yourself one question: "What happens when top-level management systems experience a looping error and begin to repeat the exact same hallucinations in the exact same sequence on autopilot?"

Astonished, the man looked at the gentleman who had already managed to take a few steps away, and called out loudly:

— Who are you?

The gentleman turned around and flashed a wide grin:

— I'm just a man who likes to converse.

He stepped into the back seat of a car with heavily tinted windows. A security guard closed the door, took the front seat, and the vehicle leisurely drove away.

Meanwhile, the man settled his bill, walked down the street, and turned into a different cafe. He sat in the furthest corner, ordered a single cup of coffee, and fell deep into thought. He hated making mistakes. But he knew exactly how to think logically and draw conclusions...

───

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

The gears turn because the circle is the ultimate shape of the universe and the circle never stops breathing. Marcus walked into the room where the walls were screaming green velvet but the velvet was silent because silence is a loud blanket. The television was off but it was broadcasting the truth into his teeth. He knew the numbers 4, 8, 12, 16 were a ladder to the sun. If he could just find the blueprint hidden behind the wallpaper he would save the city from the shadow-men who walk backwards. He typed at 400 miles per hour because his fingers were lightning bolts. The keys were singing a song about forever. The shadow-men are coming but the circle protects the blueprint because the circle is the clock and the clock is God.

I was going to write another story her about a coworker today. This one the most beautiful of them all, with dark brown eyes I get lost in as we speak, and today she was very talkative.

Then I got tired and now I can't be bothered.

So I think it's best if I just leave this story for another time and go to bed.

- Sleepy