It wasn't a question of whether it ever was. Or that it might be. Rather, of what is. That's what he thought. That's what he thought and he was standing by it.
"D--"
"I am sorry but you are not authorised in this area. Please evacuate it, immediately."
"--amn it, if those gangsters manage to --"
"Immediately. Force is used, only as a last resort."
The breathe with which she replied was as scathing as the sharpened blade which the Special Agent would have been left to resort, had it not carried the following words. "Fine. I'm going."
A city built on foundations they had said. Ones which had been set in stone aeons ago. Held in place by... well, something.
The evening called for an entirely different approach. Internal communications responded that the Intelligence Division had been working on a project involving Exiles. Seemingly, they had been accumulating a mass of wealth: wealth in all it's forms: antiques, paintings, stocks, bonds, shares and bank accounts. What was suspicious about this particular case was their drive for doing such a thing. The further investigation that was required; based on why those who are aware of the true nature of the Simulation would have need for commodities often associated with bluepill culture. The conclusion which was commonly drawn, that, concordantly, they would only serve a use for the unawakened and unenlightened.
An abandoned warehouse on the furthest side of Westview was their palace. Odd how a structure so populated and animated could be considered abandoned. Ordinarily, an agent of the System would be the single most terrifying omen of foreboding to a programme who had previously served it. Second only to the chess piece who had become almost legendary in legend; he whom they called the Red King. Another common misconception:
"You are not our priority. We require further information on the assets."
"What assets might tha' be'en?"
"Let us begin with the account codes."
Perhaps not as illusive and objective after all. Perhaps not as difficult a successful mission as it should have been.
"One more thing..."
It was not that they had chosen to no longer serve the System, nor that they had stolen. The floating feast more than provided for that hunger. Some had even speculated, it was left in place for such a purpose. The purpose of their existence, even. A certain chaotic element necessary to balance the otherwise perfect equation. But then can something which is, in itself, imperfect, really strive in a perfect environment, he asked.
"Humans or machines?" was the playful reply from the Operator. He imagined a smile on the other end of the tightly wound, compact ear piece.
It wasn't even that they had chosen to keep their treasure from the board of the game.
It was that they had, to themselves, the squares which comprised it. Black and white. And as was known, an element of grey was what was needed.
That was why, the following morning, a burnt out abandoned warehouse which had once stirred with animation was now the crime scene of MCPD's investigation's lab. That was why the "government" agent involved had been given the tip off by a strange man with a fluently flowing, extensive vocabulary and condescending tone to his voice.
It was upon those foundations upon which the city was built. It is because of them, that they are held in place.
