Annals of the Homestarmy - Hacking Existence

Revisions

nospam@example.com (Johnny Elbows) — Thu, 03 Nov 2005 09:09:53 -0700

I've finished the first round of revisions, and hopefully, I've addressed all of your concerns. This is what I've tried to do:

Clarify the aims of the "controllers"

Clarify who/what Rocio is

Clarify why they can't remember their first lives

Give Howell a powerful final episode

Develop a stronger sense of time passage

Clean up inconsistencies

I would appreciate your input on the revisions. You can find them here. Please let me know what you like, don't like, and/or don't understand.

Thanks

William Harres

nospam@example.com (Johnny Elbows) — Tue, 11 Oct 2005 08:38:26 -0600

My name is William Harres. I don't remember much about my first life; she reassures me that with time, my memories will return. As for my second life, those memories are all too clear. It was, like every real life, full of joy and sadness, pain and gladness. My third life began when a beautiful woman leaned over me and said, "Wake up. Here, you don't have to call me Rocio. All water flows to the sea. My name is Marea." And mine, is William Harres.

Yes, I know. It's not a very satisfying ending. There are still too many unanswered questions. But that's the beauty of this story. Even though this IS the last episode, the story IS NOT finished. So, tell me what the dangling threads are. Let me know what the inconsistencies are. And when the story IS finished, hopefully, they'll all be taken care of

Keb Jones

nospam@example.com (Johnny Elbows) — Fri, 02 Sep 2005 09:40:00 -0600

I thought I had seen the last of him, but just like a bad penny, he came back. His trademark single knock, the knock that had bothered me so many times when we were roommates, announced his arrival. I was tempted to ignore it. I was in the middle of an important homework assignment, and he would interrupt me. I turned back to my paper, but for some reason, I felt bad, leaving him standing at the door.

I opened the door and stood there, waiting for him to say something. He looked at me, waiting, I suppose, for me to say something. He glanced around nervously. Finally, he extended his hand. "Hi."

I returned the handshake coolly. "Hi."

Once again, we stood in silence, waiting for the other to speak. Howell kept looking around like he was nervous. "Umm, I was wondering, could you do a favor for me?"

"What?"

"I . . . well, see here's the thing . . . umm . .. I need to get into the Black Quarter, and I was wondering . . . "

"You were wondering if I'd get you in. Hmm, let me think about this, NO! Why would I vouch for you?"

His face fell. He turned to walk away, but before I could close the door, he turned back. "Please? You don't understand. See, the feds are after me, and I've got to meet someone, and . . . well, never mind. I shouldn't talk about it probably. I just. You're the only black friend I have."

Continue reading "Keb Jones"

Howell Clarke

nospam@example.com (Johnny Elbows) — Thu, 01 Sep 2005 15:01:37 -0600

Brain_Stem[19:07]: I thought I could trust you.

This already sounds bad. First Lala, now Brain_Stem. What's going on?

Night_Watcher[19:08]: Huh? That's not much of a way to open a conversation. How about "Hi" or "How are you?" By the way, Hi, I'm doing fine.

Brain_Stem[19:08]: You saw my life. You lived in my house. You saw how the guilt was destroying me, and you still said nothing.

Brain_Stem[19:08]: I let you in. I let you disrupt my schedule, my plans, everything. And you didn't even have the courtesy to tell me.

Ok, this is starting to sound like a soap opera breakup. What is he talking about?

Night_Watcher[19:09]: Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt your rant, but what are you talking about? What did I not tell you?

Brain_Stem[19:09]: That she's alive. That I didn't kill her. That I'm not a murderer.

She? Oh. Not good. Very not good. I thought he knew. How could he not know? Doesn't he ever talk to Fair_Weather? That's all he ever talks about, all he ever thinks about.

Night_Watcher[19:12]: I thought you knew.

Continue reading "Howell Clarke"

Macon Craig

nospam@example.com (Johnny Elbows) — Wed, 31 Aug 2005 16:41:20 -0600

It's rather odd when you think about it. Sometimes, the very smallest of things can trigger world changing events. I'm not talking about the whole butterfly in China thing. I'm talking about something rather closer to home.

It seemed to be a day like any other. Well, actually, if you want to be technical about it, it was night time in the real world. I've been keeping track of it now, and, with one exception, my graduation, I've never seen Rocio during daylight hours. She's only here at night. I asked her about it once. She never gave me an answer.

But anyway, that's all beside the point. We were together, just like we always were. For some reason, Tommy asked me to create a cowboys and Indians type environment, and I had just finished it, so Rocio and I were checking out the new digs. We were sitting on a rock outcropping overlooking a mountain meadow. Below us, cattle fed on the rich green grass, lowing lazily in the bright sun.

I don't know what she was thinking about. I was watching her think, watching as she breathed, and blinked, and made those tiny movements that we all make when we're pensive. And that's when it happened.

"Let's go up to the lake. These cattle stink."

"What?" My incredulity must have been obvious, because she looked puzzled.

"Is something wrong?"

"The cattle stink. You said that they stink."

"So?"

Continue reading "Macon Craig"

Tommy Xiang

nospam@example.com (Johnny Elbows) — Wed, 31 Aug 2005 09:09:06 -0600

Thrashing wildly, Tommy sat up, wide-eyed in the dark. No lights shone in the bedroom; for a moment, he thought that he was in the staging area for the environments. He forced himself to breathe deeply. Slowly, his pounding pulse slowed, and once again he drifted off. The dream started again.

He saw hands, small, clean hands, pulling on surgical gloves. They smeared Lidocaine gel over the back of a patient's neck. Tommy waited for the three small incisions, but they didn't come. Instead, the hands clenched around the scalpel handle, and buried it with all their strength in the side of patient's neck. The patient thrashed, and turned over. Tommy found himself looking down at himself--the stainless steel scalpel still protruding from the side of his neck.

Then, his point-of-view shifted. He found himself lying on the table, a terrible pain in his neck, fear in his nostrils. He looked up to see his attacker, and saw the girl, still riddled with bullet holes, and the blank stare of death in her eyes. She jerked the scalpel out, and raised it again. Tommy screamed, scrabbled to get off of the table, and thrashing wildly, sat up, wide-eyed in the dark.

This time, the faint light of dawn shone around the edges of the blinds. Tired, aching, Tommy rose, and shambled to the bathroom. Clothes lay scattered on the floor. Tommy kicked them out of the way irritably as he made his way to the shower. Couldn't she understand that he was trying to redeem himself? Couldn't she leave him alone?

His hands shook slightly as he looked down and saw the stainless steel scalpel, the surgical gloves, and the patient's exposed neck. Forcing himself to remain calm, he cut through the skin with steady strokes. A few minutes later, it was over. He reassured the patient, explained the healing process, and escorted her out of the abandoned hospital.

Continue reading "Tommy Xiang"

Hacking Existence: A Conversation in the Dark

nospam@example.com (Johnny Elbows) — Tue, 30 Aug 2005 12:13:48 -0600

"Yes, I've been watching. I haven't been very impressed."

"Then you haven't been watching closely enough. He's doing things now that we can't duplicate, and we've been researching this for . . . well, for a long time. I'm not even sure how long it's been."

"What's he doing that's so impressive?"

"It's not just one thing. You see, the thing that's most impressive is the way that he inspires cooperation. So often, they don't. So often, they know that they will die soon, so they have to spend their short lives striving for immortality. They have to outdo those who came before them. They have to outdo their colleagues. It becomes such a competition that no one shares anything, and their progress slows. That's why they've never fulfilled their potential."

"Oh now you're diagnosing the problems in the system. What is it that you want?"

"I don't want anything. I'm just trying to make a point. This one's different."

"You want to make an exception?"

"Yes. I think we have to. If we give him extra time, just think what he could accomplish."

"Is it really him that's accomplishing things?"

Continue reading "Hacking Existence: A Conversation in the Dark"

Macon Craig

nospam@example.com (Johnny Elbows) — Mon, 29 Aug 2005 08:30:06 -0600

It's just too late to change some things. You've heard me talk about how much I hate my parents. I suppose that you think I'm sociopathic or something, but I'm really not. My antipathy is a direct result of their apathy. I was an accident. They thought that they had all of the bases covered, but I guess that 99 percent effective is 99 percent effective because in one out of every hundred cases, there's a failure. So, in their eyes, I started out life as a failure.

Don't get me wrong. My parents aren't cruel to me, never have been. They give me anything I want, as long as I don't want their time. My father is always off on a business trip, and my mother, well I'm not sure where she goes, but she's usually gone, too. I think she's a buyer for a jewelry importer, but I'm not sure whether or not she owns the company. Either way, she's gone a lot.

So, I got used to being on my own. I had nannies, but none of them lasted long, and sometimes we'd go weeks between the time when one quit and the time when my parents hired a new one, so I'm sure I knew how to cook a microwaveable dinner before I knew how to read the directions on the dinner.

Anyway, for some strange reason, on the way home from my graduation, my father decided that it was a good time for some quality father/son time. We dropped my mother off for a business meeting, and my father asked me where I wanted to eat dinner. He recommended that I choose a place "Where we can discuss your future."

My future. In the end, we went to a little Middle-Eastern restaurant downtown. Between bites of pita bread, my father asked, "So, where do you plan to continue your education?"

I shrugged. "Haven't really thought about it much."

"What! You know that if you fail to plan, you plan to fail, right?"

Continue reading "Macon Craig"

Howell Clarke

nospam@example.com (Johnny Elbows) — Fri, 26 Aug 2005 13:02:52 -0600

Lovely_Lips[21:10]: Yeah, I got the money. How many implants were you able to make?

Twenty, but you don't need to know about all of them. Never know when some extras might come in handy.

Night_Watcher[21:10]: 15. I'm working on getting some Lidocaine right now. I thought it would be easy to get, but it's actually easier to get the stronger stuff.

Lovely_Lips[21:11]: Well, with those implants, we're nearly ready to start. We're going to have to meet in real life.

Night_Watcher[21:11]: I'm not sure that's a good idea right now.

Lovely_Lips[21:11]: For months you've been telling me you wanted to meet me. Now, when I say it's ok, you get all nervous. Are you going to pull a "typical idiot guy" on me?

Oh crap. I knew this was going to cause problems.

Night_Watcher[21:12]: No, it's not that. It's just that the feds are watching me.

Lovely_Lips[21:12]: The feds? How do you know?

Be careful Howell! Be very very careful

Continue reading "Howell Clarke"

Tommy Xiang

nospam@example.com (Johnny Elbows) — Fri, 26 Aug 2005 11:47:17 -0600

With careful, practiced hands, Tommy probed the edges of the seam between the SudaSkin and Andy Swenson's new implant. "Do you feel any strange sensations when I do this?" he asked, as he pushed on the implant.

"No."

"No tingling or numbness or anything like that?"

"None that I don't usually feel."

"And you haven't noticed any new symptoms since the operation?"

"Nope."

"Good, very good. Well, I think everything's ready. If you want to try going in now, we can."

"Are you going to go in with me?"

"Yes. This time I'm going to go in with you. There are some things that you will need to learn, and some things that I need to test."

"Good." The boy bit his lip. "I'm a little scared. What's it going to be like?"

Continue reading "Tommy Xiang"

Macon Craig

nospam@example.com (Johnny Elbows) — Wed, 24 Aug 2005 18:07:29 -0600

If I could have, I would have stayed away. I hate listening to those speakers who try to excite me by telling me over and over again how great the future's going to be. I hate Pomp and Circumstance. But most of all, I hate satin robes and those ridiculous mortarboard hats. So why was I there? Well, every now and then, my parents do show up, and my mother had rather strong feelings about my desire to miss my own graduation. So, under threat of death and/or permanent injury, I went to my own graduation.

Here I was, a conformist celebrating my conformity, so of course, I had to rebel. No shirt for me. Shorts and a pair of flip flops under my robes was plenty. I sat in the back seat of my father's car, thinking about Rocio and nodding at appropriate intervals while my parents droned on about how proud of me they were, how they were sure that I would be a great success at the university, and so forth. They almost caught me when they asked what I wanted for a graduation present. For a moment after my mother asked the question, I just sat there smiling and nodding. When I realized that they actually expected some other reply, I blurted out something that seemed like it would be appropriate in most situations. "I'll have to think about it." At that, they resumed their conversation, and I went back to nodding at appropriate intervals.

We separated at the door to the auditorium. Like a mouse in the maze, I followed the arrows and signs that led me to a room where the graduates gathered to receive their last dose of free public education. "Right now, you represent the future. Your friends and family have gathered to see that future. Please don't give them reason to doubt you. This is a ceremony, a dignified passage from childhood into adulthood. Keep it that way."

He droned on. I had to smile to myself. This "ceremony" was as much about them as it was about us. It was their time to show that they had successfully prepared us for a "dignified passage from childhood into adulthood." Yet they still doubted whether or not they had done so. I started when everyone stood up and started shuffling around.
Continue reading "Macon Craig"

Howell Clarke

nospam@example.com (Johnny Elbows) — Wed, 24 Aug 2005 09:21:12 -0600

I can't believe I'm doing this. Why am I doing this? Both of us know better. He should just do his community service and get it over with. You don't owe him anything, you know. Yeah, he's done a lot of great work recently, but all of his stuff depends on your stuff. Why are you risking the trouble? Listen to me, talking to myself like there's two of us. Pretty soon they're going to come and put me in a soft white room, and give me a new jacket.

Please enter your access code:

He got this access code. Why didn't he do this himself? Never mind. I shouldn't have asked. I remember. I had to write step by step instructions for him that explained how to run the check program. Even then, it took him a long time. How can someone who's so good with . . . You can't draw to save your life, remember? Yeah, yeah. OK, let's see. Craig, Macon. There he is. Attendance Records. Hah! He hasn't missed school at all for two weeks. Before that, though, he went, let's see, like ten times in five weeks. He must have realized that doomsday was coming. We gotta make it believable.

Night_Watcher[22:33]: Hey, how many absences can you have and still graduate?

Fair_Weather_Friend[22:34]: I think we're allowed 6.

Six, huh? Should I group them all together, so it looks like he was really sick once, or should I space them out? Let's just kind of randomly get rid of them--there we go. Somebody's going to notice. I mean, aren't his teachers going to see him, and think that something is up? They never saw him in class, but now they're seeing him graduate? Isn't that going to ring some bells?

Night_Watcher[22:35]: Aren't your teachers going to think something is up?

Continue reading "Howell Clarke"

Tommy Xiang

nospam@example.com (Johnny Elbows) — Tue, 23 Aug 2005 13:57:35 -0600

It played like a scene from a black and white movie. Two figures dressed in black stepped out of a taxi cab. Looking furtively about, they hurried across the deserted street. In the distance, a siren wailed. Every now and then, a heap of trash moved as the street people adjusted their bedding. The men paused in front of a high chain-link fence. While one kept watch, the other extracted a key from the pocket of his coat. A heavy padlock snicked open, and the men hurried through the gate, closing it carefully, but leaving it unlocked. Behind the fence, a dilapidated building stood, silent in the night. Stones had broken most of the windows on the lower floors. The ghostly marks of a long-removed sign still proclaimed, Newton City Medical Center. A mangy dog raised his voice to the night sky, and everything fell silent.

Tommy and Howell stood quietly in the shadows of a small building near the gate, waiting. The dial of Tommy's watch flared briefly in the night. The Swensons were late. The glare of headlights swung across the hospital's facade; a large van stopped in front of the gate. The driver's door opened. Headlights seemed to flicker as a man crossed in front of the van. Tommy and Howell heard the whine of electric motors and the soft hiss of a hydraulic lift. The van shut off, and two ghostly figures approached the gate with the sound of jingling keys and more electric motors.

"Dr. Xiang?" The driver called in a hoarse whisper that sounded loud against the stillness of the night. "Dr. Xiang," more urgently.

Tommy stepped from the shadows and pulled the gate open. "Ssh. Let's go." Howell joined the procession up toward the old hospital. Their shoes and the tires of the electric wheelchair crunched over bits of gravel and shards of broken glass as they neared the entrance. Everything seemed slow to Tommy. He glanced at his watch again.

At the front door, he fumbled with the keys for a moment, then forced the old sliding doors open. The building seemed to exhale. Musty smells and clouds of dust swirled around them as they hurried into the building's core. Far from any windows, in what seemed to be total darkness, Tommy flicked a switch, flooding a small room with light.

Continue reading "Tommy Xiang"

Macon Craig

nospam@example.com (Johnny Elbows) — Mon, 22 Aug 2005 16:16:33 -0600

Sometimes, it seems so much easier to run away. I knew I shouldn't but . . .

I didn't want to believe Night_Watcher. When you know that people don't like you, it doesn't hurt you to disappoint them. Who cares what they think, anyway? They're just a bunch of idiots. But when those people admire you? Then it's a different story. It's hard to disappoint someone who thinks that you're worth something, especially when they think you're worth more than you are.

I jumped. This is the freedom that the environments offer. No lines at a bungie jumping tower. No worries about preparing a parachute for a BASE jump. Just load an environment, add the parachute or the bungie to your equipment, and then jump. Between my art and Night_Watcher's incredible physics engine, we're quite a team. Yes, I know. We wouldn't be anything without Brain_Stem's implants, these little creatures that squirm into our nerves, our brains, and finally, our lives. I just want to forget about him for a while.

Something tickled my ear. I didn't mean to go to sleep, but the hot sun, and the cool sand, and the gurgling river . . . I jerked awake, slapping at my ear. I shook my head to clear the ringing; I hadn't meant to hit myself that hard. I laid there, listening to the rush of the river, and waiting for the mosquito to come back. This time, I'd get it. Something blotted out the sun, and I found myself looking up at Rocio's face. She brushed a dark curl out of my eyes. "I like this one," she said, a mischievous grin on her face, "You should be him more often. He's kind of cute."

I rolled my eyes. "Here," I extended my hand. "Help me up." She pulled me to my feet, and for a moment, we fumbled with the buckles to my parachute.

"Where did you jump from?" We both squinted up into the sun as I pointed upward toward a protuding point at the top of the canyon wall. "That doesn't quite look natural," she said.

"Yeah well, when I'm in charge, sometimes I make things the way I want them, instead of the way they should be."

Continue reading "Macon Craig"

Howell Clarke

nospam@example.com (Johnny Elbows) — Mon, 22 Aug 2005 12:37:00 -0600

Wow. This guy's loaded. The apartment's not huge, but it's, it looks like it belongs in a magazine. But it's not comfortable. It's like a museum. I'm afraid to touch anything or look at anything, or . . . How does he expect me to shower and clean up? Where are his towels and stuff?

You know what makes this house feel weird? There aren't any pictures. No family. No kids. Just art on the walls. I wonder . . . What's this?

How did I know he wouldn't be at school? That kid NEVER goes to school

Night_Watcher[13:37]: Hey, guess where I am.

Fair_Weather_Friend[13:38]: No idea.

Night_Watcher[13:38]: I'm sitting in Brain_Stem's apartment.

Fair_Weather_Friend[13:38]: What for?

Night_Watcher[13:38]: I came to watch him put in an implant.

Fair_Weather_Friend[13:39]: Who's he implanting?

Night_Watcher[13:39]: I don't know.

Continue reading "Howell Clarke"