Dear Journal 4
Entry 1
I had to get yet another new journal today. It's been... hard, the last few weeks. House got blown out by 'a stray missile from the warfront'. Yeah. Sure. After all, the city's only a few thousand miles out of the way, and there's only seven different settlements between there and here. Totally understandable.
There goes the last of my memories with mom...
Fuckin' Tech-Arms.
Anyway, the doc I went to, you know, to get the corporate spyware implant out of my head? Yeah, just went to visit in order to pay off the last of my debt.
Guess whose body I found?
Yeah. Life sucks; big shock, I know.
But... I found this in his office:
Doc: 1 said:
April 12th, 2098
The kid I helped remove the spyware garbage from is due back today. Shouldn't be long. Managed to get that bastard of a mob boss off my back the other day. Fuckin' prick. Anyway, I actually managed to get a bit of news from the warfront. Sounds like the trenchlines moved a whole three yards in our direction. Then promptly moved back when the anti-personnel mines detonated under the occupying forces. Yah, what else is new? It's only been like this for the last few hundred years, at least.
Ugh. I'm rambling. Anyway, it turns out that Electric-Eel Manufacturing is in the middle of a major project. Turns out that the stupid Victorians are "violent monsters" and "oppre-{the rest is illegible due to bloodstains and an ink spill}
Poor bastard.
I must've spent close to half an hour just… staring. Shit sucks; he was an actually semi-decent person. Honestly, finding that scrap hit harder than anything else. I just…
I dunno; maybe it was the blood, maybe it was the ink, maybe it was more than that.
The way the words just… never finished, probably.
Regardless, the doc was… how do I say this?
The doc wasn't just any ol' doc. He was the last person I can remember who was willing to go along with a debt plan that wasn't outrageously obvious of an attempt to put me in an impossible situation where they'd get a new indentured servant.
Blast it all.
Just, fuckin'…
I don't think I wanna live here anymore.
But leaving would be a
bitch to pay for.
Back to the point; the doc was… he was actually fuckin'
nice.
I know; surprised me too!
I guy with something resembling know-how,
actually willing to give me a hand?
I found my damn Unicorn mom! Hah! Shows you, ya caustic bitch. Hehe.
…
I miss ya.
…
Anywhozits; the guy's dead now. Bastards who got 'im didn't even have the decency to toss him out the door before rifling through his shit.
Got my hands on some new iron, by the by. Guys had a shootout after they found-
I wish I was joking, but they killed each other for a god damned-
A-
A fuckin' sex toy!
I-
I just-
Damn, man.
Just…
Damn.
It's all very… Poetic? Is that the right word? Whatever, I'll run with it.
It's all very poetic. The doc represented something… better, about the world, in my mind.
And now I'm sitting here, staring at his corpse, honestly wondering if I'll have to scrounge through his pockets if I want to find out where he hid his cash.
I'd like to think he'd not be
that paranoid, but you never know, in this part of town.
…
I am
not good at staying on-topic, I'm finding.
…
It's all very poetic. The doc represented the better parts of humanity, to me. Yet here I am, looking at his corpse like a voyeur. Like I expect him to wake up and get back to work. But… Here I am, looting his corpse, and taping a bit of
his journal into
mine…
Yeah…
Everything's connected, though, right? So maybe I'll get over it. Maybe I won't. We'll see.
But yeah. Everything's connected. I'm just taking a more literal step than most, and quite literally connecting a bit of his life to a bit of mine.
Shit. The blood's still fresh. Gimme a moment.
…
…
…
Yeah, fixed that, thank
god. Blood's a
bitch to get out of parchment.
Now, where was I?
Right.
Everyone's part of the big, weird tapestry of life, right? So, that stands to reason that, since life's so shit, it's our fault. Maybe someone shoulda told that to the Rebellion, way back. "If we all just stand in a circle and sing to each other, it'll all be okay~."
But it's not okay. We're all stuck in this shitty, stained, rotting web, and those in charge are the fuck-off massive spiders that wove the shit, and those same spiders are fighting over the web.
Shit's fucked, news at 5.
The Warfront, the doc's mob boss issue, the Victorians- It's all a giant, interwoven joke, isn't it? This cycle that started way back; before anyone I've ever known even remembers, before the "Historical Revisions" were even in place, apparently nobody even knew when or why.
Just…
Damn.
You know? I wonder what the doc thought of the Victorians. You know,
before he got his dose of lead administered. I don't think he cares much anymore. Was he a bitter fuck, like me? Or maybe he actually found some stupid bullshit to believe in. From what little I know, I'm betting on the former.
Or maybe that's my bias showing…
Eh.
Who cares?
I guess…
I guess I'm trying to figure out just what the hell there is left to believe in.
Figure out what the meaning of it all is.
There…
There
has to be
some kind of meaning to it all, right? Or am I tripping again?
Shit, were those rations expired?
…
Nope, I'm good.
That damn doc's journal keeps calling to me. I guess I've got room in my pack to stuff it in there, so I guess that's what I'll do. Maybe I'll be able to piece together something worth a damn if I keep it around.
If not, hey; maybe it'll teach me a thing or two in the meantime. Worth a shot, at least. Maybe there's something between the margins, or maybe there's a secret code, or something. Never know, really.
Gotta be careful though. I'll keep this in my pack until I get ahold of something new. The walls have ears, most days, and people aren't to be trusted without a
damn good reason, and
years of built up evidence that they ain't a snitch. The corps don't give a
damn about privacy, especially when the Warfront and corporate interests come up.
Fuck- thinking about it, you'd think that the Warfront would be a corporate interest, but… as far as I can tell, it's barely a distraction.
Well, unless you're Destruction Incorporated, but… fuckin' shrug, I guess.
But, yeah. At least I got a new journal. This one's actually private, too. No more corporate spyware in my brain, no mob boss looking for me - sorry doc - and no recruiters - yet at least. Just me, my thoughts, my rambling, my rants, and the scraps of whatever I can find that's not nailed down.
Yeah…
It's a start, at least.
Oh, who am I kidding, this is the beginning of the end, isn't it?
