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<title>Latest posts for the topic &quot;The Journals of a Dead Man&quot;</title>
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<title>The Journals of a Dead Man</title>
<description>&lt;p&gt;Day 1:&lt;br /&gt;Doctor Parker wants me to keep a “journal”. She thinks it will help me cope. The thing is, I don’t really like the idea of talking... to myself. That sounds more like a step in the opposite direction to me.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Day 13:&lt;br /&gt;Insomnia. Is a b*tch. The old life: you go to any doctor and you get a light paper bag and a colorful bottle with colorful pills. Out here: you pace the deck and make the crew uncomfortable as all hell. Score one for the old life. The coldness of the ship didn’t used to bother me. The unfamiliarity of it all. Sometimes when I lay in my bunk, I think I smell her scent. I imagine her there with me. It still doesn’t help me sleep though.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Day 24:&lt;br /&gt;I never wanted to see her hurt. If I could have had my way, she would have stayed in Zion. As safe as any of us could be. But she could never sit and wait in the background, and that was why I loved her. I loved her so much. I tried so hard to protect her. It killed me inside every time she jacked in and I stayed behind. But I could do so much more for her as operator than I could by her side. That’s the way I saw it. Now, I don’t know. If I could go back and change things and die by her side instead of living and living and not dying, would I? I spent so long hating myself. Over and over I could see it in my head, the code on the displays. The crucial moment where I saw what was wrong and knew they were dead, but I tried so hard to get them out of there. Dig dig dig as the walls go up. Could I have seen it sooner? Would just a single second more have saved her? I would have sacrificed them all just to get her out alive. Doctor Parker tells me that it’s not good to dwell on the details of the “incident.” I’m done writing for tonight.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Day 31:&lt;br /&gt;The dead lie in piles. I see it when I’m awake now too. Sometimes they all have her face. But always in the shadows he is there. The laughing muse, pulling my strings. After spending a few sleepless weeks, the nightmares have begun to port themselves into my waking consciousness. They’re calling to me. Beckoning for me to come to them so that the rest might be spared. I am the coffin’s nail. A symbol for death that cannot die. I spent two hours in my cabin with a utility knife. I couldn’t do it. I punched the deck until the skin was stripped from my knuckles but I couldn’t do it. Maybe a knife isn’t the right way to do it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;36:&lt;br /&gt;I found out it helps if I focus on their names. Channel the... whatever it is. I remember every single name. Each command etches more into the surface of my mind. I will not forget what I’ve done to them. The thing that I can’t do myself.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;39:&lt;br /&gt;Imagination is a cheap substitute. Imagination is a whore that offers insubstantial thrills. What’s better, imagination or virtual reality? I would never dare recreate a virtual shell of her. I desperately hope It never uses her face. It terrifies me every time I imagine turning a street corner and seeing her staring me in the face. It would do it to me. Just to see what I do. Rats in a maze. We’re all just rats in a maze. Tomorrow I’ll be back in Zion.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;41:&lt;br /&gt;Doctor Parker was talking to me today about my “survivability”, for lack of a better word. I think she was trying to boost my spirits. She was trying to show me that I’m a valuable asset to humanity. She was trying to show me that I was worth saving. I only wish I could tell her that I couldn’t take any of the credit. I had no business surviving any of those missions. It was Muse, has to be, whatever he has become. He is a vampire feeding on my continued suffering. I’ve seen bullets which had no business missing that instead punched holes in the wall inches from my head. Sure, I’ve taken bullets, quite a few, but they’ve never hit the right spots. I’ve had to spend time in rehab for system shock, but I never actually got THE bullet. And that’s not the only strange thing I’ve seen. I’ve seen tires blow out, knife blades break, doors... doors that didn’t belong.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;42:&lt;br /&gt;Doctor Parker had me talk to a program today as part of my therapy session. I think she knows that I don’t like non-humans. Can’t possibly trust them. 991 wears many masks. There’s no way you can trust anyone. Even a program that’s kept in Zion’s own mainframes. She forced me to talk to it. There was no way I was going to agree to it without her bringing up suspension. They can’t take the Matrix away from me. I don’t know what would happen to me if they trapped me out here in the cold. The Matrix is all I have left. The Matrix is my only chance for freedom.&lt;br /&gt;The program is so simple and poorly coded. It doesn’t seem to have any sort of AI whatsoever. At first it was annoying to try to get any decent responses out of it, but then I started taking liberties with abusing its stupid programmed response tree. I’m supposed to have “regular sessions” with the thing, but I don’t know how often that’s supposed to be. I think it’s a waste of time really, but what else is there for me to do when I’m not cleared to jack-in.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;47:&lt;br /&gt;ZAITSO made me think of Doctor Rajlich today. It wasn’t what he said, but how he said it. The backwards, broken syntax. If Rajlich really was the man he claimed to be, he helped to show Muse for what it really is. A desperate, grasping child, starved for new toys and new information. 5.991... I knew where it came from, the dumpsters of program runtimes, but Rajlich showed me what it had become. It was thanks to him that I became aware of the true nature of the divine intervention on my behalf. I have become invincible. I am untouchable. I am Achilles emerged from the river of death. Immortality bestowed as a joke by a dead god. It’s a d*mn game to him. An experiment. It’s my life he’s toying with. That sick bastard. The last couple days, I’ve loaded a private construct where I can scream and yell and swear and curse fate and destiny. I can’t remember if it was my idea or Parker’s.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The Octagon. This will have been my last command. One way or the other, I’ll make sure of that. We were on a simple recruitment op. Nothing as dangerous as usual. But then Chatter called in a proximity alert. We had sentinels incoming. We scrapped the mission and split for the designated hardlines. They must have traced our broadcast signal because my group got hit by Agents and hit hard. I ducked out through a garbage chute and somehow ended up a block away. After dropping off the radar like that, I had no problem grabbing a bike and hauling it. I was the first one to make it to the hardline. I jacked out to a world of proximity alarms. The sentinels were tearing through the hull. Everybody from my evac group was dead except for Rerun. He was just a kid. Newly awakened. Probably barely out of high school. What I should have done right then was punched the EMP. But I didn’t. I saw the kid lying there, heart rate racing, and I was convinced that Muse would save him. If he could save me, he could save this kid. And I hesitated. Scorch and Failover got shredded by sentinels. Rerun redlined... Agent. That snapped me out of... I guess it was hope. I was lost in hope. I blew the EMP but it was too late, the dead were dead. And it made me realize, I shouldn’t be here. I don’t deserve to be here.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I can’t do this anymore. Tonight I walked down to the lower levels and climbed up on the top railing. I looked down into the eyes of Death and I was the one who blinked. If a turbine had fired up just then and shaken the causeway, things would have been a lot simpler. No such luck. I climbed back down to the platform and walked back to my bunk. I didn’t run into anybody I knew. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have my answer.&amp;nbsp; The Kestrel.&amp;nbsp; It’s a small, old ship that’s going to be in drydock tomorrow for retrofitting.&amp;nbsp; Before they install new systems, they’ll strip down all its systems.&amp;nbsp; That means no Chairs, no weapons, no EMP.&amp;nbsp; No distractions, no excuses.&amp;nbsp; I’m going to take it and leave Zion forever.&amp;nbsp; I know they call me cursed and it’s true.&amp;nbsp; After tomorrow, I’ll trouble them no more.&amp;nbsp; The plan? Get the ship through the gates and keep going in a straight line away from this place until the sentinels tear me apart. I talked Captain Trace into taking me out to broadcast depth so I could jack-in one last time. I sent an open broadcast to Muse telling him game over. No way to tell if he got it, but he must have some way of monitoring me when I’m jacked in so my guess is he got it. That’s it. Game over.&lt;/p&gt;</description>
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<pubDate>Fri, 29 May 2009 06:14:23 GMT</pubDate>
<author>Message_Buffer</author>
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<title>Re:The Journals of a Dead Man</title>
<description>&lt;p&gt;It’s been a couple days since I’ve had a chance to even think about writing. I’ve been trying to put as much ground between me and Zion as possible. I haven’t really been going in any particular direction, but I’ve been keeping the ship fully throttled the whole time. Nobody chased me. For all I know, they still haven’t noticed the Kestrel and I are gone. I don’t think they’ll put up much of an effort to reclaim this ship, but that’s why I picked it. Plus, it’s a small tactical loss, won’t hurt them too much. No weapons, no EMP, no jack-in Chairs. I travel light. Haha. I haven’t spotted any sentinels yet, but when I do, it’ll be the last thing I ever see. I finally picked out a trashy niche of tunnel to power down so I can do some writing by the blue glare of a worklamp.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Today I was exploring a new network of tunnels when I picked up a proximity alert on some sentinel scouts.&amp;nbsp; That could have been the end of me, but it was as if reflex kicked in.&amp;nbsp; Muscle memory.&amp;nbsp; Find an isolated niche.&amp;nbsp; Key in the power-down sequence.&amp;nbsp; Hold your breath.&amp;nbsp; Wait for things to go cold again.&amp;nbsp; It wasn’t until after everything was calm that I really realized what I’d done.&amp;nbsp; I’d saved my life.&amp;nbsp; When finally faced with the chance for inevitable and unavoidable death, I avoided it.&amp;nbsp; And those sentinels surely would have killed me.&amp;nbsp; This ship without weapons or crew can’t put up a fight.&amp;nbsp; No EMP to speak of.&amp;nbsp; Certainly no ability to outrun them in a ship like this with a pilot like me.&amp;nbsp; So what does it mean?&amp;nbsp; I don’t want to die anymore.&amp;nbsp; Did I ever?&amp;nbsp; Was I just pretending?&amp;nbsp; &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I’ve been thinking all week. Or however long it’s been. It feels like it could be a week. Without other people, time has become useless and irrelevant. I wanted to die because... because I failed her. I watched her die and nothing I could have done would have saved her. I loved her so much and then she was gone. I thought death would take the pain away. When did I become such a coward? Running away from her death. Running away from 991. Running away from Zion. Second chances are worth their weight in gold. Me... I’m stuck out here, may as well make the most of it. Lucky for me, a little powdered food can last one man a long time.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The real problem is the water. The body wants what the body wants. And the body wants craves needs drinks water. When there’s no water, hygiene becomes a thing of the past. The stink, it follows you everywhere. It’s almost unbearable. I’ve been spending more and more time in the aft cabins. The noise helps cancel the smell. It’s funny how your senses overlap like that. Smell combined with sound. Sound combined with sight.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I saw them again for the first time since I stole this ship. My dead crewmates. She stood centered among them. Me standing there with my cracked lips bleeding. I killed them all. I didn’t pull the trigger, but I put them in front of the gun. If I could have used a knife, if I could have jumped, if I could have eaten my gun, they would still be alive. Too much a coward to kill myself and too hated by the universe to be killed. I took a bolt and scratched their names into the wall of my bunk. I won’t forget.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;When you’re alone for so long, you really start to appreciate sound. The absence of sound can become overpowering and terrifying. The kind of thing that drives you out of your mind. It used to annoy me when fans powered up or the loose bolt on a chair would squeak. Now it’s the only thing keeping the silence away. That and the coughing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Hmm... this week... found a wrecked ship. The Ocelot was her name. Restocked food. And water, oh the water. It took everything to keep from gorging myself. What else... A little extra juice for the batteries. Saw a few sentinels but they didn’t even come close. There’s a lot of volcanic activity around here. Too hot to fly through, have to go around. The main control console has developed a new rattling sound. More of the same. Two or three days ago, the overhead light in the aft causeway burned out. Now it looks a little like a jagged mouth in the flickering light. I’ll be avoiding the aft causeway until further notice. That is all.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Christmas came early this year. Or right on time, for all I know. I came upon a dead hovercraft today. It was mostly ripped to pieces so there wasn’t a whole lot left to salvage. I spent at least an hour looking around for it’s nameplate without any luck. However, this nameless wreck was carrying some fancy heat sensors. I haven’t had a chance to run juice through the whole system and see if I can get it running, but the whole thing looks mostly undamaged. That wasn’t the best part though. I found some disks in the main cabin. Most were unreadable, but one had a single music track. It’s a piano piece. Winter Wind, it’s called. Just like the old hovercraft I served on so many years ago. It got torn to pieces by sentinels before we EMPed. I wonder if that’s where it got its name. Anyways, I managed to loop the track over the internal speakers. Must have listened to it a couple dozen times today.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The new sensors work.&amp;nbsp; Spent the week installing them. Listened to Winter Wind the whole time. I’ve started using them to map the tunnels. The sensors, I mean. They have limited range, but it saves time when you can scout the tunnels ahead. I think I might be able to use them to find wrecks too if I can up the sensitivity. That would be way easier than relying on visual scan with the Eyeball Mark I. And it would make me a lot more comfortable considering that finding those wrecks is the only way to make sure I’m going to be drinking water next week.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hit the jackpot today. It’s an old wreck, badly damaged, but it was stocked with enough powdered food and water packs to last me for weeks. That means I can afford to stop worrying about finding wrecks for awhile. I’ve been thinking of going back to those tunnels with the volcanic activity. With the thermal sensors, I can figure out if the temperatures are critical for long distances or if it’s something I can get through if I go fast enough.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I’m back at the wreck of the Ocelot. I ran some scans of the surrounding tunnels. Looks like there’s some deep volcanic fissures behind the tunnel walls. Some massive volcanic activity probably broke through. There’s no guarantee the tunnels are still intact. The Ocelot leaves a faint signature on the scans. Almost like a ghost on the printout.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The cough is back again. I holed up in a cluster of vertical tunnels to gather some more data. I scouted down a ways into the depth tunnels but didn’t find any tunnel networks worth exploring. I’ve been avoiding the tunnels that go closer to the surface. I don’t want to risk any increased sentinel activity. I’ve been watching the sentinels the last couple days. I’ve only seen two small groups pass through this area the whole time I’ve been here. The ones that have were avoiding the hotspots. It looks like the sentinels might not like high temperatures so much. Or else they don’t expect to find anything out here. Hmm... so what am I expecting to find out here? More dead wrecks like the Ocelot? Had to sit here for awhile and think about it. I’m not sure what the answer is.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I hit a T-shaped intersection. The right hand path is blocked by a cave-in or something. The left hand path goes hot. I’m going to head back the other way and see if I can scout around the hotspots. There’s more branches up there, one might lead around.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The tunnels further up are a no-go. Readings hit the red. I don’t want to risk the ship in those conditions, half the systems run on scotch tape and rubber bands anyways. I’m going to backtrack to the T-intersection where I took some readings last week. There’s a cylindrical heat source showing on the readouts. I think it might be some sort of geothermal conduit, maybe a secondary energy source for the boys upstairs? The left-hand path looks like it stays more or less in the yellow. There’s surface access tunnels branching from it at regular intervals. I could make it into one of those and set up for another scan.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I’ve realized what I’ve been looking for. It’s the adventure. No, purpose. Somewhere along the way, I lost the drive. It’s that killer instinct that humanity thrives on. Purpose. Mine feels... renewed. These sensors have changed my life. And Winter Wind. Bahh ba baba bahhhh bahh ba bah. This is the safest I’ve been since... maybe my whole life. A tiny pocket protected by surrounding geothermal heat. The shaft leads to a surface network, but I don’t see why the sentinels would come down here if the whole area is inaccessible. There’s some weird interference right at the edge of sensor range. I think it might be some sort of structure. Maybe leftover from before the volcanic activity heated things up. It’s in a branch off a main tunnel, could be some sort of service station. Or a listening post.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I ran another check of the sensor data but the target is too far to get reliable readings. I’ve decided to leave the safety of my hot zone and explore the network of tunnels outside the range of the volcanic hotspot. If I can get around to the other side, I could take more telemetry. Maybe even triangulate the position of the mystery object and determine its composition. I’ve got no hope of actually being able to get to it to check it out, the heat would ruin every system on the ship, especially with how everything’s jury-rigged. Maybe somebody else will make it there some day. They’ve got as much chance as the moon.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I had to take a long way around to get to the other side of the hotspots. I found another wreck. It wasn’t in too bad shape. Hovercraft Varuna. I entered through the cockpit. The whole front end of the ship had been ripped open. I’m not sure if it was the crash or sentinels that did it. I worked my way aft from there. But then I got to the Chairs. There were three of them arranged so the headrests were pointing toward a center display of readouts. They were all smashed, of course. The displays, that is. The two Chairs closest to me were empty. But I saw something on the far side of the jagged displays. I didn’t want to look but it’s one of those moments where you have to look or the fear will strip you naked. I walked to the foot of the Chair and then turned around to face mine. The fear, that is. A corpse, mouth open. Still jacked-in, as he was when he died. Something about seeing the jack from the other side makes it seems sickening, a violation against mankind. In my mind, I saw the dead boy. It was Rerun again with a trickle of blood from his mouth. I threw up once there and once when I got back. I will not be returning to the hovercraft Varuna.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Rerun. Which means I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Muse. I wonder if he found a new plaything after I left. I keep coming back to the same issue. If he had the power to intervene to keep me alive, why not someone else? Why should I be the one to live? Was it because I didn’t want it? I didn’t want life anymore. He could have made Rerun his experiment. He was young, he had potential. He could have been important. He could have been the One. Who knows. If he could save me, why not Mari? Was that part of the experiment too? Did he kill her though inaction? I... I’m afraid I’m forgetting her. I can’t tell if my memories of her voice are true or fabrications of the imagination. I can’t remember the sound of her laughter. If I didn’t keep her picture with me, I’m not sure if I’d remember her face. I’m... tired. I want release and I’ve realized Death isn’t going to give it to me. It’s Revenge. The machines, they are not God. Muse is not God. Kids with an ant farm. They don’t have the right to choose who lives and who dies. Nobody does.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I made it around to the other side of the volcanic activity. The thing is still just on the edge of my sensor readings. It might be a crashed ship. Either that or it’s some sort of building. Either way, I’ll never know. It’s impossible for my ship to get me in there and back out again. If I go in, it’s to pick a marker for my tomb. It’s a little frustrating knowing that I’ll never know what’s in there. But there’ll be greater wonders than this if I make the choice that I think I’m about to make.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It’s weird looking back. I wanted to die so badly. And now I’m convinced I am dying. It’s just not the way I thought it would be. I could go back to Zion, but I’d be branded a traitor and locked up. Or worse, considering what they must think of my past. I could stay out here and join the lifeless wrecked ships. Who knows how many years it will be before another lonely wanderer comes and loots the Winter Wind II for supplies. But there’s a third option. There’s always another way out. I could go to the Machines. Maybe they’ll kill me, maybe they won’t. Either way, I’ll get what’s coming to me. The Machines will be my last hope of peace. I’ll embrace one evil to rid the world of another. Muse, my guardian angel. Guardian demon. The nemesis that I can’t see or touch. Maybe I’ll be able to see him with the Machine’s eyes and strike him with the Machine’s fists.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;For the first time in years, I’m heading to the surface. It’s not like I know how this sort of thing works. If somebody defects to the machines, they don’t come back to tell stories about it. I’ve prepared a brief message that I hope will keep them from killing me on sight. I’m going to cycle a wide broadcast and hope it gets through to them. I’m sending what I’ve mapped back to Zion. There’s no reason what little I’ve accomplished should die with me. I’ve thought about it and decided to include my journal entries as well. I don’t have time to fully explain my story, but I hope this will be a small gesture toward making my peace with Zion. My discovery will remain buried in the mirror of my heart. It’s an empty, hollow thing. I’m sending the map to the only one who remains neutral to my fate, the program ZAITSO. While Zion might disregard my transmission, ZAITSO will store it impartially until someone finds it buried in his system memory. Maybe by then, they’ll be more understanding of my situation. I’ve engineered the file to fragment if machine decryption algorithms are applied to it. I may be on my way to join them, but I refuse to betray Zion to them. Deleting the 991 program is all I want. If I’m lucky, the Agents want that too. Either way... Tomorrow is the beginning of the end of my life.&lt;/p&gt;</description>
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<pubDate>Fri, 29 May 2009 06:14:45 GMT</pubDate>
<author>Message_Buffer</author>
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<title>Re:The Journals of a Dead Man</title>
<description>&lt;p&gt;The Pipes:&lt;br /&gt;Beginning? As you were going up the stair, you met a man who wasn’t there. *A &lt;br /&gt;A) If I’m not there again today, will you still come with me to play? You saved me die another day. For to kill you, I shall stay. With this, it ends, I pray.&lt;br /&gt;A) He wasn’t there again today. How I wish he’d go away. In life, we must pay for our failures. Death is cheating. Suffering is life. A homeless man once approached me on the street. He asked me if I knew what evil was. I only *B&lt;br /&gt;B) could think that evil has no boundaries or confines in this day and age. Can I say with full confidence that I have not committed an act of evil? I believe that evil deeds are not the sole domain of evil people. I still suffer the memories of all who died during my selfish pursuit of freedom. I will honor their names until the very day that I am finally taken from this life, whether by my hand or by another. I will do my service to them by combatting the creature that could have saved them, yet let them die. I didn’t deserve to be lucky. My guardian angel. My demon. I ask myself if a program can be evil. I say that if a man can have evil, then a program can have evil as well. But I am not here to be the judge. *D&lt;br /&gt;D) I leave judgment to the ones who are without sin. Or the ones too ignorant of their own sin to stop denouncing others. We’ll all be judged when we die. Or not. I can’t seem to worry about the fate of my soul. It will be decided regardless of my opinion. My thoughts keep running in circles. My mind is a hamster trapped in the wheel that is my head.&lt;br /&gt;D) Only the executioner. I have become death. Dead. I am dead on the *E&lt;br /&gt;D) I’ve judged and I’ve been judged and I’m done with it. It ruins you *E&lt;br /&gt;E) inside. I don’t know what I am anymore. Am I a man? Am I a beast? Am I slave or am I free? I’m full of questions with no answers. None of us are free. We think we’re awakened, but the wake up call is what really puts us to sleep. All our questions end after “What is the Matrix?”&lt;br /&gt;B) ignored him. “It’s the same as love.” was his reply. You really have to wonder if the crazy people know what they’re talking about. I mean, the ones who talk about mass enslavement of humanity by machines aren’t far off. What if the crazies among us are right *C&lt;br /&gt;C) too. What if there is One who will save us? I was never a religious man, in my last life or the one before. I’ve never had anything. But I want to believe. I want to believe in something bigger than myself. It’s nice to think that someone out there knows more than us and can watch over us and protect us. Even if it’s just a man. But the way I see it, if we’re not fit to take care of ourselves, we don’t deserve protection. If natural selection demands our deaths at the hands of an evolved species, so be it. Let them slaughter us. The end. The Grim Reaper isn’t the final judge and jury. *D&lt;br /&gt;C) about other isolated human colonies in the Real? How many Zions could there be on the planet? Perhaps some where the humans have regained control of their domain. Nothing more than a dream... I don’t think we’ll ever win this war. That won’t stop us from fighting it. We may not secure humanity’s freedom, but I don’t think the mechs will crush us either. We’ll adapt. We’ll survive. That’s human.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Small Pipes:&lt;br /&gt;All my life I never had anything to make me belie (ve. I want to believe in something bigger than myself.)&lt;br /&gt;Maybe it’s an inner fear of final judgment that I never (want to believe in something bigger than myself.)&lt;br /&gt;I’m all alone no help no hope can’t there can’t be so (mething bigger than myself.)&lt;br /&gt;991 is always there. He can manipulate. He can sc (an us and watch over us and protect us.)&lt;br /&gt;May the One guide us and be with us and watch (over us and protect us.)&lt;br /&gt;In the end, it’s our d*mn responsibility to clothe (us and protect us.)&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;The Dead:&lt;br /&gt;Mari&lt;br /&gt;Cap&lt;br /&gt;Micro&lt;br /&gt;Hazade&lt;br /&gt;Dingo&lt;br /&gt;Booker&lt;br /&gt;Jonesy&lt;br /&gt;Threadz&lt;br /&gt;Athenus&lt;br /&gt;Baptista&lt;br /&gt;Boomer&lt;br /&gt;Electro&lt;br /&gt;Ripd&lt;br /&gt;June&lt;br /&gt;Takyon&lt;br /&gt;Statx&lt;br /&gt;Juice&lt;br /&gt;Numeric&lt;br /&gt;dot&lt;br /&gt;Oberon&lt;br /&gt;Case&lt;br /&gt;Anima&lt;br /&gt;z0mega&lt;br /&gt;Hazard&lt;br /&gt;Walker&lt;br /&gt;Kip&lt;br /&gt;Phyberoptic&lt;br /&gt;Patent&lt;br /&gt;Bitwise&lt;br /&gt;Caden&lt;br /&gt;Lace&lt;br /&gt;Dr. Rajlich&lt;br /&gt;Kiddo&lt;br /&gt;Dupe&lt;br /&gt;Riff&lt;br /&gt;Double Decker&lt;br /&gt;Canon&lt;br /&gt;Doc Hack&lt;br /&gt;Flux&lt;br /&gt;Ethelred&lt;br /&gt;Scorch&lt;br /&gt;Failover&lt;br /&gt;Duplex&lt;br /&gt;Rerun&lt;/p&gt;</description>
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<pubDate>Fri, 29 May 2009 06:15:36 GMT</pubDate>
<author>Message_Buffer</author>
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<title>Re:The Journals of a Dead Man</title>
<description>&lt;p&gt;The map text :o&lt;/p&gt;</description>
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<pubDate>Fri, 29 May 2009 13:09:36 GMT</pubDate>
<author>Bayamos</author>
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<title>Re:The Journals of a Dead Man</title>
<description>Woah...this is what all those pieces were supposed to say? That&apos;s a lot of stuff to put together even if all the peices were released. Can we get the whole image in a file?</description>
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<pubDate>Fri, 29 May 2009 14:41:14 GMT</pubDate>
<author>NavMatrix</author>
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<title>Re:The Journals of a Dead Man</title>
<description>&lt;p&gt;The dead man speaks!&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;((I hope the ones working to get these connected will be having some sort of head start in what&amp;#39;s to come of this, I&amp;#39;m always speechless when I see what you come up with, message_buffer &lt;img src=&quot;/mxo/images/smilies/3b63d1616c5dfcf29f8a7a031aaa7cad.gif&quot; border=&quot;0&quot; alt=&quot;SMILEY&quot; /&gt; ))&lt;/p&gt;</description>
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<pubDate>Sat, 30 May 2009 14:56:54 GMT</pubDate>
<author>Synapse777</author>
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<title>Re:The Journals of a Dead Man</title>
<description>&lt;p&gt;&lt;img src=&quot;http://i186.photobucket.com/albums/x298/ExternalError/Map20090117.jpg&quot; /&gt;are Are you going to post the beginingistheend text as well not sure how many people made it that far but it would be good to let everyone know about it also this is how far pluribus neo team working with conrac and sepet got with the map id like to thank everyone on the team for your hard work its to bad we couldnt see this through to the end thanks also to the guy behind this thanks for giving me something to keep me interested in this game.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&amp;nbsp;&lt;/p&gt;</description>
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<pubDate>Sat, 30 May 2009 17:46:10 GMT</pubDate>
<author>ExternalError</author>
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<title>Re:The Journals of a Dead Man</title>
<description>&lt;p&gt;Basically from the filenames put in order we found a message which directed us to a website for a map making company.&amp;nbsp; the only active part of this site was the stock ordering page which presented you with sliders&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;img src=&quot;http://img229.imageshack.us/img229/4773/orderformyx4.jpg&quot; border=&quot;0&quot; /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;if you used the musical notes that are hidden within the map in a number of places it would lead you to anouther page wich was a jumble of words.&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp; each word corresponed to a frag name.&amp;nbsp; if you swiched the frag name out for the frag id and then converted it to ascii it gave the following message&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&amp;nbsp;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;The glass is cold. There&amp;#39;s ice in the glass. I hate when there&amp;#39;s ice in my glass. &lt;br /&gt;Makes my teeth too cold. Doesn&amp;#39;t matter now. I know my teeth aren&amp;#39;t really cold and &lt;br /&gt;so they aren&amp;#39;t. It&amp;#39;s been years since I&amp;#39;ve had ice.&lt;br /&gt;And now we have come full circle. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I guess you have to go backwards to go forwards. I could jack out if I wanted to. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I don&amp;#39;t want to.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I could have started dating my journals again. I have rejoined civilization &lt;br /&gt;after all. I figure why bother. Time is an illusion created by aging cells. I don&amp;#39;t &lt;br /&gt;need any reminders of lost time and aging years. I thought I&amp;#39;d have vital information &lt;br /&gt;to send back to Zion in these encrypted messages. I was wrong. I don&amp;#39;t know where &lt;br /&gt;I am. I don&amp;#39;t know how I got here. I don&amp;#39;t know the secrets of the machines. I don&amp;#39;t &lt;br /&gt;know anything that Zion cares about knowing. As far as they&amp;#39;re concerned, I&amp;#39;m dead. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;And aren&amp;#39;t I?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I have an office now. It&amp;#39;s small but I&amp;#39;ve gotten accustomed to that, &lt;br /&gt;haven&amp;#39;t I? There are no walls. Just a pocket of infinite whiteness. Why waste resources &lt;br /&gt;rendering walls, shadows, depth, textures. There is a desk and a chair. Comfortable &lt;br /&gt;enough not to be a distraction and uncomfortable enough not to be a distraction. The &lt;br /&gt;desk has nine drawers. There could be more but nine is good. In one drawer there is &lt;br /&gt;an apple. Never forget how rare the crunch of an apple. In another drawer there is &lt;br /&gt;a gun. There is always enough ammunition for the gun in the drawer. On the desk there &lt;br /&gt;is a computer. Far better than the ones I used to know. There is an Out box and an &lt;br /&gt;In box. When I enter the room, the Out box is always empty. The In box is not always &lt;br /&gt;full. I have a key to the office. When I open the door, the office is there. Doesn&amp;#39;t &lt;br /&gt;matter which door. Despite the absence of paper clips, it is perfect.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Approached the bluepill-imposter instance of the 991 program that has been under surveillance. It recognized me on sight. It did not initiate dialogue. Instead, it knocked &lt;br /&gt;over a coworker&amp;#39;s &lt;br /&gt;desk and leapt through a twenty-fourth story window.&amp;nbsp; Don&amp;#39;t need a coroner to know &lt;br /&gt;the cause of death. Interesting to learn that it plays by the rules. The rules of &lt;br /&gt;gravity, that is. Would think that it could have survived impact, yet it reacted the &lt;br /&gt;same as any other bluepill. Other office workers seem only minimally concerned. Machines &lt;br /&gt;do a good job of keeping reactions suppressed. Wish I could tell them not to mourn &lt;br /&gt;their coworker&amp;#39;s death. It was not human. Fortunate that I did not have to execute &lt;br /&gt;it in the office. That would have been more difficult to suppress.As I was examining &lt;br /&gt;the contents of its desk, noticed nearby coworker righting desk and arranging papers. &lt;br /&gt;He meticulously aligned four pens on the desk surface. Strange how orthogonality and &lt;br /&gt;rigid forms provide comfort in this chaotic system. &quot;Creature comforts.&quot; As long as &lt;br /&gt;individual microcosmic lives are balanced to acceptable parameters, they feel that &lt;br /&gt;everything is right with their world.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;It isn&amp;#39;t.Cursory examination of the 991-bluepill&amp;#39;s &lt;br /&gt;computer revealed nothing. Literally nothing. No files pertaining to its bluepill &lt;br /&gt;job at the insurance firm and no seditious plots. There was a single word document &lt;br /&gt;with the word &quot;Slam.&quot; written again and again. The motivation behind the actions, &lt;br /&gt;or inactions, of these 991 programs continues to elude me. Next stop is to check out &lt;br /&gt;the address listed as place of residence. Don&amp;#39;t expect to find much.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Society conditions &lt;br /&gt;us. We grow up knowing lunchtime and dinnertime. Work during the week, play during &lt;br /&gt;the weekend. Sleep at night, live at day. We&amp;#39;re conditioned to conform to this pattern &lt;br /&gt;through every service and function of society. But when you start losing hold of that &lt;br /&gt;structure, you discover the basic primal structure of function beneath it. Eat when &lt;br /&gt;you need food, sleep when you need sleep. Your body becomes a machine. A device that &lt;br /&gt;functions with proper maintenance. Freed from the constraints of conventional temporal &lt;br /&gt;structure.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;On the way to the field office, saw a woman, a man, and their child. They &lt;br /&gt;looked very happy. Immediately walked into alley. Shot myself. Usual pain as I was &lt;br /&gt;kicked from the simulation. In the dark, I remembered my friends. All dead. Cannot &lt;br /&gt;hope to embrace love or friendship again. Too many inhuman monsters who abuse the &lt;br /&gt;emotions of humans. My humanity continues to afford them too many weaknesses to exploit.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Was called to a meeting with an Agent and a group of redpills. Skinner was his name. Must &lt;br /&gt;be one of the new ones. They were all talking about Morpheus. A palpable excitement &lt;br /&gt;in the crowd. Many young faces. Newly awakened but they support the system. Very odd. &lt;br /&gt;Wasn&amp;#39;t very interested in the discussion, found myself reflecting on Rajlich instead. &lt;br /&gt;Never trusted him, thought he was part of 991&amp;#39;s game. Still a possibility, but I find &lt;br /&gt;myself believing that he was sincere after all. Maybe he really was just a man trapped &lt;br /&gt;between worlds and looking for help. I gave him none. Other news. The war has been &lt;br /&gt;over for months. I was never told. Zion is allowed to recruit openly now as long as &lt;br /&gt;they follow certain rules. A truce. Explains all the young faces. Don&amp;#39;t think this &lt;br /&gt;change will affect me.&amp;nbsp; Besides, it happened months ago and I was not yet even aware &lt;br /&gt;of it. I will continue protecting them from the threat they cannot see. Cannot be &lt;br /&gt;allowed to see. &lt;br /&gt;...Contamination. I did not consider this. With many naive newly awakeneds, &lt;br /&gt;991 may take advantage. Either to begin new experiments and games or to garner support. &lt;br /&gt;I can only imagine a force of Zionists aiding the program. Disastrous. Will have to &lt;br /&gt;be careful to control access to the case files.&lt;br /&gt;I haven&amp;#39;t left the office for... a &lt;br /&gt;long time. I was going to say days, but I realized I don&amp;#39;t know. It could have been &lt;br /&gt;weeks. There is a large volume of material to cover. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of &lt;br /&gt;log files from multiple sources. The 991 program&amp;#39;s ability to manifest itself in a &lt;br /&gt;variety of forms, combined with the fact that it pursues many different activities &lt;br /&gt;within the simulation, makes it very difficult to distinguish between instances of &lt;br /&gt;991 and other exile programs. I believe 991 relies on this ambiguity to hide its actions &lt;br /&gt;and obscure its true intentions. It may be difficult and undoubtedly thankless work, &lt;br /&gt;but I will need to determine a motive or a pattern before I can start intercepting &lt;br /&gt;these programs and deleting them. However that works. The machines haven&amp;#39;t given me &lt;br /&gt;any information on that front yet. I don&amp;#39;t even know if they can be deleted. Maybe &lt;br /&gt;with some sort of virus inserted into the shell. Maybe with a bullet. Time will tell.&lt;br /&gt;I discovered some sort of machine technology. It monitors neurokinetics and stress levels. &lt;br /&gt;At critical stress levels, it safely initiates a jackout. As near as I can tell, this &lt;br /&gt;technology could keep me from being killed in the simulation. Unfortunately, there &lt;br /&gt;weren&amp;#39;t exactly any manuals and specifications lying around. Sure, it would be nice &lt;br /&gt;if it worked. I&amp;#39;m not planning on going out and putting it to the test anytime soon. &lt;br /&gt;Something like this would radically change the war for Zion. No more death. A chance &lt;br /&gt;for peace? I will see if I can find more information. Over and out.&lt;br /&gt;No sign of 991 &lt;br /&gt;yet since I have returned to the simulation. I didn&amp;#39;t expect this from it. It spent &lt;br /&gt;so long watching me, taunting me, toying with me. Now I&amp;#39;ve come back and it does nothing. &lt;br /&gt;Is it resisting its nature? I hope it does not disappoint. So long I ran from this &lt;br /&gt;twisted creature. No longer. It can do nothing to me. All it can do is kill me, and &lt;br /&gt;ending this game with my death would only be a joke on it. And even if I must be bait &lt;br /&gt;so that the machines can kill it, then so be it. I will keep studying the data until &lt;br /&gt;I learn how to find 991 myself. If it won&amp;#39;t come to me, then I&amp;#39;ll come to it.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;A pocketwatch &lt;br /&gt;was waiting on my desk when I returned to the office. I had not left it there. It &lt;br /&gt;didn&amp;#39;t strike me as a gift from the system. A quick scan revealed nothing. Opened &lt;br /&gt;it. Inside was Mari&amp;#39;s photo. I exited to the courtyard without a word and threw it &lt;br /&gt;into a dumpster. I have its attention now. As I eliminate more of its resources, it &lt;br /&gt;will have no choice but to pay greater attention. Must be very careful in coming weeks. &lt;br /&gt;I deleted her photo from my encrypted files. That was my last piece of her. Her ghost &lt;br /&gt;will haunt me no more.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;thats as far as we got then as that seems to be the end of the trail just thought id post this so everyone could have a read of everything&lt;/p&gt;</description>
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<pubDate>Sat, 30 May 2009 17:53:45 GMT</pubDate>
<author>ExternalError</author>
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<title>Re:Re:The Journals of a Dead Man</title>
<description>&lt;p&gt;&lt;cite&gt;ExternalError wrote:&lt;/cite&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;blockquote&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;img src=&quot;http://i186.photobucket.com/albums/x298/ExternalError/Map20090117.jpg&quot; /&gt;are Are you going to post the beginingistheend text as well not sure how many people made it that far but it would be good to let everyone know about it also this is how far pluribus neo team working with conrac and sepet got with the map id like to thank everyone on the team for your hard work its to bad we couldnt see this through to the end thanks also to the guy behind this thanks for giving me something to keep me interested in this game.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&amp;nbsp;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/blockquote&gt;&lt;p&gt;So much fun searching for those frags. &lt;img src=&quot;/mxo/images/smilies/283a16da79f3aa23fe1025c96295f04f.gif&quot; border=&quot;0&quot; alt=&quot;SMILEY&quot; /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;</description>
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<pubDate>Sun, 31 May 2009 03:32:10 GMT</pubDate>
<author>odj</author>
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<title>Re:The Journals of a Dead Man</title>
<description>&lt;p&gt;Darn good time!!!&lt;/p&gt;</description>
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<pubDate>Sun, 31 May 2009 03:40:31 GMT</pubDate>
<author>SEPET</author>
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<title>Re:The Journals of a Dead Man</title>
<description>&lt;p&gt;Wow!&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&amp;nbsp;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&amp;nbsp;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Lyr&lt;/p&gt;</description>
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<pubDate>Mon, 1 Jun 2009 07:56:25 GMT</pubDate>
<author>Illyria22</author>
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<title>Re:The Journals of a Dead Man</title>
<description>&lt;p&gt;My goodness. &lt;img src=&quot;/mxo/images/smilies/385970365b8ed7503b4294502a458efa.gif&quot; border=&quot;0&quot; /&gt;&amp;nbsp;So even after all the puzzle pieces were collected and put in order there were another two or so complex steps to the result. That&amp;#39;s some serious dedication. Well done to the minds behind this, and to those who solved it!&lt;/p&gt;</description>
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<pubDate>Mon, 1 Jun 2009 08:15:11 GMT</pubDate>
<author>Procurator</author>
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<title>Re:Re:The Journals of a Dead Man</title>
<description>&lt;p&gt;&lt;cite&gt;Procurator wrote:&lt;/cite&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;blockquote&gt;&lt;p&gt;Well done to the minds behind this, and to those who solved it!&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/blockquote&gt;&lt;p&gt;It was more or less just one mind behind it, and thank you. &lt;img src=&quot;/mxo/images/smilies/69934afc394145350659cd7add244ca9.gif&quot; border=&quot;0&quot; alt=&quot;SMILEY&quot; /&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&amp;nbsp;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;If you have any questions about the story, feel free to ask them here: &lt;a href=&quot;http://forums.station.sony.com/mxo/posts/list.m?topic_id=36300028810&quot; target=&quot;_blank&quot;&gt;http://forums.station.sony.com/mxo/..._id=36300028810&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;I&amp;#39;d like to host a little Q&amp;amp;A session before we&amp;#39;re all gone. Spill the beans on all the remaining mysteries.&lt;/p&gt;</description>
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<pubDate>Mon, 1 Jun 2009 13:04:40 GMT</pubDate>
<author>10011</author>
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<title>Re:The Journals of a Dead Man</title>
<description>&lt;p&gt;&lt;span &gt;&lt;p&gt;Since the Ptolemy&amp;#39;s Maps site is no longer active, here is the entirety of Coffin&amp;#39;s Nail&amp;#39;s remaining journals. They were intended to provide more depth into the 991 story as the Keep Your Eyes Open story wrapped itself up, tying the story back into 991 and its rebirth.&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;Included here are some entries I hadn&amp;#39;t uploaded to Ptolemy&amp;#39;s Maps yet:&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&amp;nbsp;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&amp;nbsp;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;Set 1:&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;The glass is cold. There&amp;#39;s ice in the glass. I hate when there&amp;#39;s ice in my glass. Makes my teeth too cold. Doesn&amp;#39;t matter now. I know my teeth aren&amp;#39;t really cold and so they aren&amp;#39;t. It&amp;#39;s been years since I&amp;#39;ve had ice.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;&amp;nbsp;And now we have come full circle. I guess you have to go backwards to go forwards. I could jack out if I wanted to. I don&amp;#39;t want to.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;&amp;nbsp;I could have started dating my journals again. I have rejoined civilization after all. I figure why bother. Time is an illusion created by aging cells. I don&amp;#39;t need any reminders of lost time and aging years. I thought I&amp;#39;d have vital information to send back to Zion in these encrypted messages. I was wrong. I don&amp;#39;t know where I am. I don&amp;#39;t know how I got here. I don&amp;#39;t know the secrets of the machines. I don&amp;#39;t know anything that Zion cares about knowing. As far as they&amp;#39;re concerned, I&amp;#39;m dead. And aren&amp;#39;t I?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;&amp;nbsp;I have an office now. It&amp;#39;s small but I&amp;#39;ve gotten accustomed to that, haven&amp;#39;t I? There are no walls. Just a pocket of infinite whiteness. Why waste resources rendering walls, shadows, depth, textures. There is a desk and a chair. Comfortable enough not to be a distraction and uncomfortable enough not to be a distraction. The desk has nine drawers. There could be more but nine is good. In one drawer there is an apple. Never forget how rare the crunch of an apple. In another drawer there is a gun. There is always enough ammunition for the gun in the drawer. On the desk there is a computer. Far better than the ones I used to know. There is an Out box and an In box. When I enter the room, the Out box is always empty. The In box is not always full. I have a key to the office. When I open the door, the office is there. Doesn&amp;#39;t matter which door. Despite the absence of paper clips, it is perfect.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;&amp;nbsp; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;Set 2:&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;Approached the bluepill-imposter instance of the 991 program that has been under surveillance. It recognized me on sight. It did not initiate dialogue. Instead, it knocked over a coworker&amp;#39;s desk and leapt through a twenty-fourth story window.&lt;span&gt;&amp;nbsp; &lt;/span&gt;Don&amp;#39;t need a coroner to know the cause of death. Interesting to learn that it plays by the rules. The rules of gravity, that is. Would think that it could have survived impact, yet it reacted the same as any other bluepill. Other office workers seem only minimally concerned. Machines do a good job of keeping reactions suppressed. Wish I could tell them not to mourn their coworker&amp;#39;s death. It was not human. Fortunate that I did not have to execute it in the office. That would have been more difficult to suppress.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;As I was examining the contents of its desk, noticed nearby coworker righting desk and arranging papers. He meticulously aligned four pens on the desk surface. Strange how orthogonality and rigid forms provide comfort in this chaotic system. &quot;Creature comforts.&quot; As long as individual microcosmic lives are balanced to acceptable parameters, they feel that everything is right with their world.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;It isn&amp;#39;t.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;Cursory examination of the 991-bluepill&amp;#39;s computer revealed nothing. Literally nothing. No files pertaining to its bluepill job at the insurance firm and no seditious plots. There was a single word document with the word &quot;Slam.&quot; written again and again. The motivation behind the actions, or inactions, of these 991 programs continues to elude me. Next stop is to check out the address listed as place of residence. Don&amp;#39;t expect to find much.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;&amp;nbsp;Society conditions us. We grow up knowing lunchtime and dinnertime. Work during the week, play during the weekend. Sleep at night, live at day. We&amp;#39;re conditioned to conform to this pattern through every service and function of society. But when you start losing hold of that structure, you discover the basic primal structure of function beneath it. Eat when you need food, sleep when you need sleep. Your body becomes a machine. A device that functions with proper maintenance. Freed from the constraints of conventional temporal structure.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;&amp;nbsp;On the way to the field office, saw a woman, a man, and their child. They looked very happy. Immediately walked into alley. Shot myself. Usual pain as I was kicked from the simulation. In the dark, I remembered my friends. All dead. Cannot hope to embrace love or friendship again. Too many inhuman monsters who abuse the emotions of humans. My humanity continues to afford them too many weaknesses to exploit.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;&amp;nbsp;Was called to a meeting with an Agent and a group of redpills. Skinner was his name. Must be one of the new ones. They were all talking about Morpheus. A palpable excitement in the crowd. Many young faces. Newly awakened but they support the system. Very odd. Wasn&amp;#39;t very interested in the discussion, found myself reflecting on Rajlich instead. Never trusted him, thought he was part of 991&amp;#39;s game. Still a possibility, but I find myself believing that he was sincere after all. Maybe he really was just a man trapped between worlds and looking for help. I gave him none. Other news. The war has been over for months. I was never told. Zion is allowed to recruit openly now as long as they follow certain rules. A truce. Explains all the young faces. Don&amp;#39;t think this change will affect me.&lt;span&gt;&amp;nbsp; &lt;/span&gt;Besides, it happened months ago and I was not yet even aware of it. I will continue protecting them from the threat they cannot see. Cannot be allowed to see. ...Contamination. I did not consider this. With many naive newly awakeneds, 991 may take advantage. Either to begin new experiments and games or to garner support. I can only imagine a force of Zionists aiding the program. Disastrous. Will have to be careful to control access to the case files.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;&amp;nbsp;I haven&amp;#39;t left the office for... a long time. I was going to say days, but I realized I don&amp;#39;t know. It could have been weeks. There is a large volume of material to cover. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of log files from multiple sources. The 991 program&amp;#39;s ability to manifest itself in a variety of forms, combined with the fact that it pursues many different activities within the simulation, makes it very difficult to distinguish between instances of 991 and other exile programs. I believe 991 relies on this ambiguity to hide its actions and obscure its true intentions. It may be difficult and undoubtedly thankless work, but I will need to determine a motive or a pattern before I can start intercepting these programs and deleting them. However that works. The machines haven&amp;#39;t given me any information on that front yet. I don&amp;#39;t even know if they can be deleted. Maybe with some sort of virus inserted into the shell. Maybe with a bullet. Time will tell.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;&amp;nbsp;I discovered some sort of machine technology. It monitors neurokinetics and stress levels. At critical stress levels, it safely initiates a jackout. As near as I can tell, this technology could keep me from being killed in the simulation. Unfortunately, there weren&amp;#39;t exactly any manuals and specifications lying around. Sure, it would be nice if it worked. I&amp;#39;m not planning on going out and putting it to the test anytime soon. Something like this would radically change the war for Zion. No more death. A chance for peace? I will see if I can find more information. Over and out.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;&amp;nbsp;No sign of 991 yet since I have returned to the simulation. I didn&amp;#39;t expect this from it. It spent so long watching me, taunting me, toying with me. Now I&amp;#39;ve come back and it does nothing. Is it resisting its nature? I hope it does not disappoint. So long I ran from this twisted creature. No longer. It can do nothing to me. All it can do is kill me, and ending this game with my death would only be a joke on it. And even if I must be bait so that the machines can kill it, then so be it. I will keep studying the data until I learn how to find 991 myself. If it won&amp;#39;t come to me, then I&amp;#39;ll come to it.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;A pocketwatch was waiting on my desk when I returned to the office. I had not left it there. It didn&amp;#39;t strike me as a gift from the system. A quick scan revealed nothing. Opened it. Inside was Mari&amp;#39;s photo. I exited to the courtyard without a word and threw it into a dumpster. I have its attention now. As I eliminate more of its resources, it will have no choice but to pay greater attention. Must be very careful in coming weeks. I deleted her photo from my encrypted files. That was my last piece of her. Her ghost will haunt me no more.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&amp;nbsp;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;&amp;nbsp;Sometimes I wonder why I&amp;#39;m here.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;&amp;nbsp;I guess I&amp;#39;m technically a federal employee. My badge gets me into the local field office. I wonder where else my badge gets me. I&amp;#39;m not sure if I should push my luck testing. Today I wanted to test the properties of various firearms. That&amp;#39;s why I went looking for a firing range. As a redpill, you become accustomed to seeing certain irregularities within the simulation. After awhile, you stop paying attention to the things that don&amp;#39;t make sense. I am trying to rediscover these irregularities. Lately, I have become increasingly aware of the system of rules that governs the simulation. As much bending of said rules that goes on here, those rules cannot be broken. I can only imagine what would happen to the system if redpills started flying around the city or spitting fireballs. These rules provide a sort of safety net. I want to know just how much give that net has.&lt;span&gt;&amp;nbsp; &lt;/span&gt;I imagine I will be making more frequent trips to the firing range in the future.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;&amp;nbsp;I woke up outside the simulation. I hate when that happens. The machines have cut my access to the Matrix. I don&amp;#39;t know why. They&amp;#39;re not telling me anything. So I just sit here alone in the dark and write. I don&amp;#39;t like it out here. My body feels soft and weak. I&amp;#39;d like to ignore it, but I can&amp;#39;t. It festers in the back of my mind. It&amp;#39;s colder than I remember. Nothing to see, nothing to do. I can&amp;#39;t hope to sleep like this. Sometimes when this happens, I take solace in counting primes. 2. 3. 5. 7. 11. 13. 17. 19. 19. Always 19. 9+9+1=19. Maybe 991&amp;#39;s obsessions are the key to destroying it. It can&amp;#39;t seem to deny its compulsions. If it were human, I&amp;#39;d call them unconscious impulses. But it is a construct of coded rules. Why then the obsessions? Why couldn&amp;#39;t they simply be reprogrammed? Each time I attempt to determine an answer, I find myself reverting to thinking of things in human terms. How is it that of the machines, it’s the broken ones that seem almost human?&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;&amp;nbsp;I encountered two redpills in the park. Not sure if they support the system or not. Not my concern. They were talking about a machine program called &quot;The Architect.&quot; Immediately, this caught my attention. They warily allowed me to approach. They claim that a single program is responsible for designing the entirety of the simulation. Furthermore, they claim that this was not the first attempt. This seems to corroborate what I have seen in the records, although I didn&amp;#39;t understand what I was seeing before. This would mean that 991 is not from the current iteration of the simulation, but a previous one. Would definitely explain some of the inconsistencies. Will need to investigate information pertaining to previous iterations.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;&amp;nbsp;I realize that I have become accustomed to a fully virtual existence. Eating has become a memory to me. Sleep is not what it once was. It is an odd thing, to look back and remember these essential functions with nostalgia. Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches in the afternoon. A cup of noodles while waiting for late-night breakthroughs. A quick snack on the crew deck. Eating the last ration cube and not knowing how long it would be before I ate again. I have become a stranger to the progression of time. I have inadvertently remade myself in the image of the machine and the humor there is not lost on me.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;&amp;nbsp;I retrieved Mari&amp;#39;s photo from the safety deposit box. I could wait no longer. The fear of losing her face forever overpowered the inherent danger in retrieving it. I will add it to my personal files. Encrypted, as if that would stop anyone. Perhaps a picture frame for my desk then. The sunset works wonders on her hair. I will always love her. In death, I will love her forever.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;&amp;nbsp;I was given a case file. Incidence 5.991. This is the information I have been waiting for. It was not as helpful as I had expected. The story of Vaere was not listed. Unknown truth or handy fabrication? I will have to decide. Either way, I will let it stay missing from the file. It&amp;#39;s too bad I didn&amp;#39;t erase the logs before I left Zion. 991 doesn&amp;#39;t deserve any sympathy. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;One thing stands out to me again and again. Persistence of survival. The agents have been playing hide and seek. Single eliminations will be useless against a diversely distributed and self-sustaining network. Will have to research alternative methods.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;&amp;nbsp;Thought of Doctor Rajlich today. Trusted him too late. Now he is dead and his insights are gone. He tried to talk to me about 991. I would not listen. I was as foolish then as I am now. Crying over lost opportunities is worthless. I will place a search for relevant criteria and move on.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;&amp;nbsp;Today I investigated a man who told his psychiatrist he was repeatedly abducted by faceless aliens. Grunt work. I want to be out deleting instances of 991&amp;#39;s programming structure, not discussing the delusions of an elderly man. The system can sort the bluepills out. I exist to destroy 991.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;Sleep. Sleep now. Body finally reaches limits. Sleep.&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt; &lt;p&gt;&lt;span style=&quot;font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial;&quot;&gt;I am lost. Where do I belong? I feel these hands grabbing me, trying to pull me under. I am tangled in the wreckage. we float at sea. I struggle to untangle myself. I cast debris aside. I am adrift. I float on a sea of tranquility. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/p&gt;</description>
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<link>http://forums.station.sony.com/mxo/posts/list.m?topic_id=36300028744&amp;post_id=36300561579#36300561579</link>
<pubDate>Mon, 1 Jun 2009 13:27:57 GMT</pubDate>
<author>10011</author>
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