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Post by steve on Oct 24, 2012 18:22:18 GMT -6
PART #0074
The pool of goo had quickly returned to it's thick, grayish self. Oola stated the pool was constantly recycling all of the "clear" goo and replacing it with the normal goo.
"I can breathe in this thing, right?" I asked, "If I go under?"
"I do not see why you can not," Oola replied, "I always do."
"Breathe in this stuff," I repeated, trying to delay for time. Oh, sure, so you'd just strip down in front of her in a flash, huh? Yeah, I'm sure you would.
"Is it cold?" I asked, slowly positioning my hand over the goo at the edge of the pool.
"I have never noticed," Oola replied, "I have never felt uncomfortable in it."
"You seem nervous," Oola observed, "Do you not want to exercise?"
"Oh, no," I said, almost too enthusiastically, "I've just never... I've never seen this before. That's all."
If ever there was a moment I was not proud of my physique, this was it. Standing next to me was a woman any guy in any bar would be thrilled to get their number... OK, so maybe the extra pair of breasts, the day-glo orange skin, the additional foot or so in height and the blue hair might turn a few of them off (But not as many as you'd think; Trust me, guys can be pretty indiscriminate come last call at a bar).
Cripes, what was I thinking?! My entire world had been vaporized... My parents dead... All of my friends dead... Everything I had ever known now just some sort of inaccurately remembered footnote (if that) by a bunch of aliens who talked to us through a bunch of holographic heads... And I'm nervous about stripping down in front of some female humanoid straight out of a sci-fi novel? Yeah, I had my priorities straight.
So I jumped in. Literally, I had to vault into it, the rim was so high up.
First, let me say this - The goo wasn't cold. It wasn't hot, but it wasn't cold. It was just... "there."
Second, it's creepy. The stuff just sort of 'climbs' onto you, like slow crawling insects in liquid form.
"Go under," Oola suggested.
I nodded and smiled at her; The goo was already close to shoulder height as it was standing up.
I didn't feel anything from the goo - No tingling, no burning... It wasn't greasy or foamy... It didn't smell... It was like nothing I had ever climbed into. You're so used to swimming in water that you just treat everything as water, even if it isn't. Same here.
Oh, to heck with it. I grabbed the largest breath that I could and I went under.
Blackness. Darkness. I tried not to move so that I wouldn't use up my breath as quickly.
The goo began to lighten just as my breath was beginning to give out. I gave it another ten seconds before I had to come up for air.
When I surfaced, I saw Oola standing there with a puzzled expression.
"Why did you hold your breath?" She asked, "You can breathe just fine in it."
"I'll get better at it," I simply replied, quickly climbing out the goo. I nearly stumbled vaulting over the high edge of the pool's side.
Unlike water, I didn't have a drop of 'goo' on me once I got out. I was completely dry, like I had never gotten into the pool in the first place. I did feel very fatigued, though, as if I had just performed a series of push-up, chin-ups, sit-ups and had run a marathon all that once.
"I don't get it," I commented, quickly putting my pants on, "How come all of those other re-enactors aren't in here? Don't they use this?"
Oola leaned towards me and stated quietly, "They are legacy breeds; They are meant to have a layer of lard on them. Some even try to get... Fatter. You know, for historical accuracy."
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Post by kaijafon on Oct 24, 2012 19:06:36 GMT -6
I would have held my breath also! lol! And I'd like a vat of that!
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Post by steve on Oct 25, 2012 18:33:53 GMT -6
PART #0075
There wasn't a cafeteria. There weren't any fast-food places. OK, there was a fast food place but it was in the "town" and they served fake food where re-enactors pretended to eat it, so that didn't count. No restaurants.
So, what were we supposed to eat?
They were about three inches by five inches and a bit more then a half an inch deep. The substance didn't feel greasy or crumbly; In fact, it felt slightly spongy and had the slightest vanilla odor.
They didn't have a name besides "food." Apparently, one of these wafers or cakes or bars are whatever the heck someone more knowledgeable in foodstuffs then me would call them was all anyone would need per day. Growing up in a past where you ate three meals a day plus a snack plus beverages, eating a single, solitary object for an entire day's worth of energy seemed beyond comprehension.
Truth was, they didn't taste half bad. Neither dry nor moist, I was surprised how quickly I could consume one without need for washing it down with a drink.
"Some re-enactors will eat two or three of these a day," Oola said as she finished her meal up, "But then, they strive to retain a lot of fat on them for their roles, especially the ones who play the cops and the firefighters. The one who plays the mayor also likes to eat a lot of these as well. And the one who plays the lawyer..."
"So there are legacy breeds and designer breeds," I began to ask slowly, "How many other breeds are there?"
"So many," she stated, "Although most Zokopers concentrate on breeding legacy humans. Really, it is just a matter of genetic manipulation to create the type of human they want. Anything is possible."
"So," I continued to ask, "They could create anyone they wanted? Any height, any weight, any eye color...?"
"I have been to the competitions," Oola answered, "The variety is endless. After all, they created you and you are the smallest legacy breed I have ever seen."
"Of course," I humbly responded, "But they can't create humans with skills, can they? We still have to learn them...?"
"Re-enactors have to," Oola replied, "They can imprint any human with any amount of knowledge that they want. Re-enactors have to actually learn their skills, though, through the ancient methods of example and experience."
"Why is that?" I asked with genuine curiosity, "Why must legacy breeds learn their skills by being shown or taught while these designer breeds can simply have their skills imprinted into them?"
"It is all about the competition," Oola explained, "Implanted skills are essentially implanted memories. It is considered cruel to implant a skill into a legacy breed since that is not how humans learned before the disaster. It would not be a fair representation of how the re-enactors act. Besides, the whole goal is to repopulate the planet anyway."
"What?" I asked with genuine surprise, "Repopulate the planet... With them? These re-enactors?"
"Of course," Oola replied, "The Zokopers have an obligation to repair the planet as best as they can. That means reinstalling a civilization onto it no different and no less than what was here before."
"Really?" I asked, my genuine curiosity overwhelming me, "Have they done this before? Recreate civilizations?"
"Ask them yourself," Oola merely answered.
I would.
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Post by steve on Oct 26, 2012 18:56:16 GMT -6
PART #0076
How did you get the Zokopers' attention without first violating one of their rules? I didn't know. Oola did, though.
"Tap the top of your chest three times and say, 'Zokoper appear,'" Oola instructed, pretending to tap the area where her neck ended and the chestbone began. I nodded in acknowledgement and thanked Oola.
I tapped the top of my chest three times quickly and said, "Zokoper appear."
Sure enough, it worked. The holographic head appeared almost immediately.
"How help I may you?" The Zokoper asked.
"Zokoper," I stated, "I like would ask to some you questions."
"Of you course can," the head replied, "What your are questions?"
"First," I began, "How I may you address specifically? What your is name?"
"Ah," the head replied with a knowing smile, "We different from are you. There one is no 'Zokoper.' We all are 'Zokoper.'"
"There one is only Zokoper?" I asked, "I not do understand."
"Humans," the Zokoper began, "Not may understand. There many are Zokopers, but act all we together. We separate are, but so work together closely we are that we one."
"There no is between difference of any you?" I asked.
"Too for a human to hard understand," the Zokoper answered, "No exists for parallel you."
"What plan do you doing with on us? What these re-enactments are for?" I asked.
"We re-populate need your to planet, of course," the Zokoper replied, "That we need humans means re-learn to their to habitat."
"Have Zokopers the had ever re-populate to planet a before?" I asked.
"Sadly, yes," the Zokoper replied, both the tone of it's voice and the shape of it's face displaying an almost comic sadness, "But planet the human been has hardest the re-populate to yet."
Really? we were the hardest planet to re-populate for them?
I asked the Zokoper why we were the hardest planet to repopulate.
You wouldn't believe the answer that it gave me. I sure as heck didn't.
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Post by steve on Oct 27, 2012 7:58:58 GMT -6
PART #0077
I remember that part of the conversation clearly, garbled sentences and all.
"Zokopers masters the are and time of space," the holographic head stated, "Our surpassed are achievements by none."
The head than sighed so blatantly as to be comic, adding sadly, "But are we not still perfect. We know did not this planet that even existed, much held less life."
"I not do understand," "Why not does our knowing existed planet it make to so hard repopulate?"
"We recording no had of human," the head replied, "Not one."
"A of recording human?" I asked, "I not do understand."
"We masters the are and of time space," the head repeated, "But through to travel time, we so must do mind through the a sentient of creature - A with a creature of degree certain intelligence."
"Despite best our efforts, we find could not human a single intelligence with enough through to travel and their mind this and re-create planet," the head continued, "Or who any creature encountered had Earth ever before. This a is planet to mystery complete may and always us be."
"Wait," I slowly spoke, "You mean that, if found you human a was that when alive accident this happened, you enter could mind their re-create and planet the exactly?"
"Yes," the head exclaimed, it's face brightening up, "All would it would take been have human one longer but no is it possible."
"Why is that?" I asked.
"Humans fragile are a species," the head explained, "Their so lifespans are short. Although breeds designer can that hundreds thousands last and of years, genuine lasted humans fifty to eighty only years. Genuine are humans extinct."
"Why is that?" I asked again, "How ago long this was disaster?"
"792 years ago," the head replied.
Oh.
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Post by steve on Oct 27, 2012 8:02:31 GMT -6
It is likely that I will be unable to create a post on November 6th, 2012. The story will resume on the next day. Thank you.
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Post by kaijafon on Oct 27, 2012 11:35:35 GMT -6
thank you for the story! we shall endeavor to wait patiently
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Post by steve on Oct 28, 2012 10:01:16 GMT -6
PART #0078
792 years? Are you kidding me?!
ARE YOU F**KING KIDDING ME?!! 792 F**KING YEARS?!!!!! I'VE BEEN UNDER FOR... FOR...
I tried to keep calm. A part of it was, after all, academic. There was no sense of time or scale. 792 years. That had to have been a mistake. I woke up in a building that couldn't have possibly survived in that condition for 792 years. The building would have been dust in 792 years. It would have been...
'It would have been like all the other buildings you walked by,' my conscience told me, causing me to pause for a moment.
It was right; Every other building I had encountered except for the one I had emerged from was more or less glorified rubble. Why was my building still standing fairly intact while all the other ones had been demolished by nature centuries earlier? Was it because of that experiment?
What could I do? Could I do anything at all?
The rest of the day was a blur of nothing - Little activities that amounted to a whole lot of nothing. I changed from my "onesie" costume back into normal clothes... Or what passed as normal clothes in this world.
Want to know how people take a dump in this world? I'm serious - Look around you: Not a bathroom in sight. Yeah, there's that stage bathroom inside the "town" but it ain't real. The toilet isn't hooked up and neither is the sink or the shower.
Well, there's a number of ways you can go to the bathroom in this place, all of which are... Not normal, I guess you could say.
First, most designer breeds are built to excrete as little as physically possible. I ain't joking - Oola, my tour guide in this bizarro future that I'm trapped in, takes a dump about once per month, if that. Her entire fecal output for a year could be placed inside a briefcase with room to spare. Hope you weren't eating when you read that.
Second, remember that weird yellow rectangular column that I entered a while back? Yeah, that's the combo toiler / shower of the future. Don't laugh. My understanding is that the stuff vaporizes the moment it's out of your body through some magical process I'm sure that I wouldn't understand.
However, let's say that you're one of those "re-enactor" types - You know, the shaved Yetis slouching around with the bad costumes and worse-looking wigs? They ain't designer breeds, they're supposed to be legacy breeds. Also, there's no yellow columns in the "town" - Not a single one. What do you do then, huh?
The answer - Space diapers. No, I'm not even kidding. First off, they aren't bulky at all. Tights they are not but bulky like a kid's (or even senior's) diaper they aren't. So, where does the "stuff" go when it comes out? That's just it - It doesn't. It's like you're wearing a mini-weird yellow column as an undergarment. All the "re-enactors" are supposed to wear one but I haven't gotten mine yet because I'm so diminutive when placed next to humanoids that are supposed to resemble actual humans.
I needed to convince the Zokopers that I was a really 'for real' human. How, though, would I accomplish that without running into further trouble?
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Post by steve on Oct 28, 2012 10:07:43 GMT -6
I'm not normally one to fret over adverse weather conditions but everyone and their imaginary friend is fretting over the impending "Frankenstorm" that is set to impact the East Coast.
As a result, I may not have access to Internet service which would result in days of which I will be unable to post.
Therefore, consider yourselves notified that some days in the immediate future may be skipped because of inclement weather. November 6th will be skipped regardless of Internet service or not, though.
Hopefully, all of the hoopla and pageantry will die down and normal production of daily posts will resume on November 7th, 2012.
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Post by nancy1340 on Oct 28, 2012 18:25:19 GMT -6
Hope you and yours are safe and come through this OK.
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Post by steve on Oct 29, 2012 18:32:04 GMT -6
PART #0079
How do you sleep in this strange, new world? How can you sleep?
If you think that it's weird to sleep in a white, sparkly "energy" bed... You're right. It is. It's not uncomfortable - Far from it. Just weird. It felt like you were floating and yet there was actual substance underneath you.
I still couldn't get over the fact that Oola (or, for that matter, everyone else here) walks around without clothes. OK, so I'd never fit in at a nudist colony but it was just such a culture clash.
Old habits die hard... When do you wake up? What's the equivalent of an alarm clock here? You don't have one. They wake you up with some sort of "inaudible tone." You just wake up. Have you ever awoken in the middle of the night? Same thing except that it's not to go to the bathroom or grab a midnight snack.
It was so weird to wake up in "the morning" and not eat breakfast. I still felt full from eating that bar or whatever from the day before. I didn't feel the need to go to the bathroom.
On the agenda was another rehearsal in the town. More of me running around, saying stupid toddler stuff and acting in stupid toddler ways. It wasn't a rehearsal in the normal sense - In a normal rehearsal, you interact with the actors in between sessions. Here, you can't say anything to the re-enactors because they can't understand you. Instead, the holographic heads appear and critique you... Sometimes good, sometimes not as good.
What can I tell you? I'm not a natural acting like a toddler according to these Zokopers. I spent the day waving my arms more, jumping up and down more, saying "Wheee!!!" (I never knew toddlers said that so often) more and throwing back my head while crying more. Literally, I throw my head back any further and I'll either fall over or snap my neck, one or the other.
To be honest, it was all very tiring and I was glad when it was finally over for the day. I went over to the exercise goo pool and hopped into it without anyone being there. I still hold my breath (no offense but I do not trust that stuff - It almost acts like it's sort of alive which creeps me out just thinking about it) and I'm able to do so without any problems.
After eating my daily bar of whatever the heck it is, I took a "shower" in that yellow column of whatever. My day officially done (as far as I knew), I decided to head over to the museum to check it out further. Without the distraction of Oola there, I figured that I would be able to examine the artifacts more closely. If anything, maybe something there would help me with convincing the Zokopers that I was a real human.
It did... Kind of.
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Post by steve on Nov 1, 2012 18:08:31 GMT -6
PART #0080
So many questions. So few answers.
All day long, I hadn't seen Oola. The place was large but it wasn't that large. The place was populated but it wasn't that populated. There were only three types of 'things' in the whole place: These re-enactors, myself & Oola. Four 'things' if you counted the floating, holographic heads.
The museum wasn't a high class affair - A decaying relic inside of some sort of invisible cubic force-field, and a video (you know, those floating screens you can put your hand through) of what the relic would look like in it's prime, along with some historical footage of how it was used (a nurse's uniform being worn, a baseball bat being swung).
It all felt weird... My whole life was a museum. I had been to museums as a kid for field trips or vacations. Those museums, though, were for people who lived centuries before me - You know, the stone age or the medieval era or the industrial age... World War II... Stuff far before my time. All of the stuff in this museum... S**t, I could buy most of this stuff in a store. There's the reconstructed remains of a boombox. That's a stack of eight-track cassettes. That's a video game console joystick. There's the metal frame of some cheap lawn chair.
Some of the videos were spot on about what the objects were used for. Other videos... Well, weren't. For instance, I don't know about you, but I can't envision a CEO sitting at a desk in a folding metal lawn chair. Or, for that matter, I've never seen a doctor perform an oil change in a surgical uniform (complete with surgical mask).
Everything in this new world is large, both in height and in width. It makes me feel like I'm in sixth grade or something, like I'm some sort of adolescent living in an adult world. The aisles in the museum are extra wide, the doorways extra tall and wide, the historical relics spaced farther apart.
The museum was completely devoid of people of any type. The re-enactors, when they aren't re-enacting, mainly dwell in their own area. It's creepy - They speak only their lines, they act only what's on the script and then, devoid of any sort of direction, they revert to an almost animal-like behavior. It makes me wonder if this museum gives them any sort of benefit at all.
As I strolled the aisles of modern-day historic relics, I walked past a relic that struck a nerve for me: A pair of roller skates.
That gave me a thought.
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Post by kaijafon on Nov 1, 2012 18:31:36 GMT -6
ah, roller skates! I am wondering how he will (if he will be able to) get these aliens to believe he is a real human. I'm torn because I feel they may want to begin "dissecting him" and cloning him or something worse.
thank you!!
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Post by steve on Nov 2, 2012 18:15:11 GMT -6
PART #0081
I needed to know more. I needed to find Oola because, no offense, talking to the holographic heads and speaking in their mumbo-jumbo scrambled sentences was enough to drive anyone insane.
I needed to take notes. Notes, as in what I used to do in high school. 'What you should have taken a lot more seriously a long time ago,' my conscience snidely clarified for me. Alright, alright... So I didn't become a nuclear scientist or anything like that. So sue me. Odds are, neither are a lot of other people, OK? Someone has to operate the ferris wheel at the carnival. Who are they going to hire to do it? A nuclear scientist?
The town was creepy with no one in it. A bright, beautiful sunny day that was perfectly fake. Houses that were too large. Streets that were too wide. Mailboxes that were too high. Grass that was too green. Everything pristine and shiny like the plastic had just been ripped off of it for the first time. No matter how fast I walked in this place, I always felt like I was walking too slow because the sense of scale was screwed up from what was normal.
I walked into the house that had been in my "script," the same one where I rehearsed time and again running around and "re-enacting" that I was a toddler. There had to be a pen and paper somewhere in this freakin' town. Somewhere. Anywhere. How the heck did these jokers write anything? Were the Zokopers telepathic and didn't need such primitive implements?
Despite having rehearsed in the setting for hours, this had been the first time I had examined the area with more then just a curious glance. A kitchen with fake pots and pans that definitely felt too light to be metal and didn't 'ping' the same way when you rapped them hard with your knuckles. A refrigerator that didn't feel cold inside when you opened it (not to mention the fake food inside neatly stored in too clean containers).
My attention quickly turned towards a coffee table with some magazines on them. Hope turned quickly into disappointment when I picked up the magazines only to find that they felt more like cloth then the paper they should have felt like. The magazines were undeniably props and not even faithful representations of a magazine, with only a few pages inside of them and those pages containing scribbly-scrawl lines meant to resemble letters and words but didn't. The magazines weren't even bound with staples as they should have been but a drawing of staples along the spine.
I walked through the house and swiftly found a den filled with fake books, each one opened up but contained only a page or two of that cloth material that the magazines were comprised of. Cloth-like or not, the pages were the closest substitute to paper I had found so far and I remembered where they were if I failed to find anything better later on.
Desks had drawers that didn't open except for one or two and those drawers contained the props of working items rather then working items. I found a stapler as realistic as a "soap gun" was to an actual gun. I found a pen in physical description only, one that did not write nor could you even take the cap off of it.
"Hello," my holographic head said, suddenly popping up, "Is that there anything can I you help with?"
Oh, crud. Well, I had wanted answers. Better asking them then not knowing at all and being surprised later.
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Post by steve on Nov 3, 2012 18:53:52 GMT -6
PART #0082
OK, so I wimped out and lied. It wasn't that hard to do.
I'm bored, I said, is there anything else to read other then the script that I had been rehearsing?
The Zokoper thought that the request was cute and told me to go to the museum to look at all the relics. That was it. That was the extent of the conversation. That and don't fool with the town's props.
Bullet dodged... I guess.
I walked out of the house a little dejected. For a futuristic, gee-whiz facility, there wasn't a whole lot to see once you had seen it. There wasn't a whole lot to do once you had done it.
The walk back to the bedroom was slow. I took my time to walk past some prop houses that I hadn't really looked at too closely before. Prop mailboxes that didn't open. Prop cars that didn't drive or even roll (I don't even think the doors opened up). Prop street drains that didn't drain. Wanna make a bet that fire hydrant didn't spray water when you opened it?
What to do? I was at a loss. Go to the humanoids? Are you kidding me? Just standing next to them was a bit intimidating. They could 'act' human but they simply weren't human. They looked humanoid but they weren't human.
Go to the 'gym' and swim in the goo? I had already done that. How often could I dip myself into that without consequence?
Go to the museum again? I had already done that. How often could I examine a desk lamp or watch a video where the Zokopers thought that humans combed their hair every time they passed by a mirror?
It was time to take matters into my own hands.
I tapped my chest three times. "Zokoper appear," I said.
It was time to level with these guys.
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Post by steve on Nov 4, 2012 9:47:39 GMT -6
PART #0083
It didn't go as expected. Don't believe me? Just look - Here I am, sitting on my "bed."
I'm not "brain wiped" or "brain zapped" or "brain anything." In fact, nothing happened to me at all except a little humiliating knowledge of the Zokoper's perspective about me.
"I am a human," I began, ignoring the whole mumbo-jumbo scrambling of my sentences, "A real human."
"I not do understand," the Zokoper replied.
I gritted my teeth for a moment and then asked, "Do you not understand the sentence or do you not understand the concept that I am a human?"
The Zokoper paused for a moment, then repeated, "I not do understand."
"Human," I said, motioning to myself, "Me - Human."
"You a are feral," the Zokoper replied calmly, "A small feral."
"No," I countered, trying to remain calm, "Not feral. Human. I am human. Born before disaster."
"You a are feral," the Zokoper repeated calmly, "Admittedly, re-enactor with prior some training."
"No," I replied, "I lived on Earth before disaster. Real human, me. Woke up in container after many years."
"You a are feral," the Zokoper repeated calmly, the holographic head betraying not a single emotion, "We where were you know abandoned."
"You do?" I asked instinctively, before replying, "You know where I woke up?"
"I not do understand," the Zokoper said, asking, "Woke up?"
OK, this was getting to me. An advanced race of beings that couldn't speak straight was getting on my last nerve.
"Can you look into my mind?" I asked before sighing and, knowing that the holographic head would reply 'I not do understand' or some silly stupid s**t like that, amended, "Can look you my into mind? Can read you memories?"
"Yes," the Zokoper replied, breaking into a smile, "We already done have that."
"You have?" I asked.
"Yes," the Zokoper replied, "Your has brain wiped already of been memories. You abandoned were previous by a owner."
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Post by steve on Nov 5, 2012 19:17:01 GMT -6
PART #0084
Have you ever watched your own memories being replayed back to you? It's creepy.
There I was, watching on a floating, translucent screen, what I had been seeing and saying since I had awakened from the gel chamber.
"You a lot spoke words we that not do understand," the holographic head admitted.
No s**t, Sherlock. Practically all of them were obscenities of one shade or another.
Watching your own experiences is a bit unsettling, partially because the view is so shaky. Your head is constantly bobbing up and down, turning side to side... It's almost nauseating, this first-person perspective.
"You need to..." I began to say before I admitted defeat and spoke in jibber-jabber language instead, "Can back you these up memories? Go back earlier?"
"This the is beginning," the holographic head instructed, pausing the memories and producing a black screen, "This far is as can as we back search."
"No," I began to protest, "There's... There memories are than earlier that. Much earlier."
"You not do understand," the holographic head explained, "There nothing is left. We the are at of the your beginning memories."
"That is it?" I asked, pointing at the screen, "You nothing have that before moment?"
"Nothing," the holographic head replied, "You been have brain wiped, but by not us."
"But I have memories," I blurted out, not even caring that I wasn't speaking in their mumbo-jumbo sentences anymore, "I worked at a roller skating rink. I'm a night stock clerk... I can recall all of that but you can't see it?!"
"You legacy are a breed," the holographic head admitted, "Perhaps a runt. Perhaps... Not as created intended."
A runt? Did this... Alien just call me a 'runt'?
"I can prove... I prove can I am that human... Real human," I said, straining to convert my thoughts in real time into mumbo-jumbo sentences, "I can write. I can read..."
"Skills be can implanted, they need do not memories," the holographic head stated.
What the heck was I going to do? How could I prove to these aliens that I was a genuine human being when I had no proof... Not even memories in my head that they could view?
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Post by steve on Nov 7, 2012 19:14:05 GMT -6
PART #0085
Oola wasn't very sympathetic.
"Well," she stated as we both sat in the bedroom, "At least I know why they did not brain wipe you. It already happened."
"I'm not brain wiped," I countered, "I have all of these memories..."
"...That are not there," Oola concluded, "If the Zokopers can not see them, they do not exist."
"I know who I am..." I began to assert, only to be interrupted again by Oola.
"...That was programmed into you," Oola interrupted with some frustration, "You are not the first to have this happen to you."
I paused for a moment, knowing that my next sentences had to be more logically constructed.
"If I am a legacy breed," I began, "Then I would need to have been created, right? Not born, but created."
"Are you talking about... Sexual reproduction?" Oola asked cautiously with a hint of disgust.
"Yeah," I replied plainly, "That."
"No," Oola bluntly replied, "No one is made like that anymore. At least, no one I know of."
"Well," I admitted, "Just how many humans are there? Is this the only 'town' that there is? How many of these places are there?"
"I do not know the answer to all of them," Oola began, "But there are many places that have towns likes these. There are many breeders, some who do not even have towns."
I sighed and shook my head in frustration, standing up. I knew who I was. I woke up with fingernails and toenails longer than a ruler. Why would some "breeder" do that to me? I had all of my memories. Why didn't the Zokopers see them?
I couldn't think of anything off hand. No magic thought or miracle revelations. Just my word against 'their' word. For now, I would have to sit and wait for events to unfold on their own.
After a moment of silence, I awkwardly breached the silence by asking, "And how was your day?"
"What?" Oola asked.
"Your day," I asked quietly, "I haven't seen you all day today. How was your day? Did you do anything special? I didn't even know where you were today."
"Oh," Oola replied, "I was in the archives."
"What is that?" I asked, "The archives? Is that the museum?"
"It is where we get our artifacts," Oola answered, "For the museum. It is how we know what humans did before the accident happened."
"Mind if I take a look at it?" I asked, "The archives?"
"Ask the Zokopers," Oola replied.
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Post by steve on Nov 8, 2012 19:51:30 GMT -6
PART #0086
There is no night here. There is no day, either.
Sure, you can walk into the 'town' and look up at the 'sky.' Go ahead, look now. Look all you want. Truth is, all of that 'sky' is fake. It's just some sort of sophisticated illusion, like a projection television or something. They can make that sky overcast or night or anything. They'll even produce artificial wind if they want.
Without all the tones and whistles and whatnot, you would never know what time of day it is. Those tones and whistles don't even tell you the time - They just tell the population when it's time to rehearse, when to eat, when to wake up, go to bed, etc. so forth. There are no working clocks here that I can think of. The clocks in the 'town' are all set to 10:10.
I asked the Zokopers if I could go into the archives with Oola. They didn't see a problem with it so long as I was escorted around by her. OK. Fine. It was something to do that didn't involve me beating in my forehead thinking of a way to get out of the mess I had awoken into.
As if an invisible weight had been lifted from my shoulders, I became very frank about my assessment of the 'town' while Oola and I walked through it.
"Mailbox flag ought to raise and lower."
"Nobody parks their car sideways inside a two-car garage."
"Stop signs are eight-sided, not six-sided."
"The traffic light is hanging upside down."
Oola kept silent for the most part while I gave my off-handed critique until she finally spun around to confront me.
"What is the matter with you?!" She demanded. Her height and overall size of her frame didn't intimidate me anymore.
"Oola," I stated, "I lived this. Lived it. Look, I know who I am. Maybe I can't prove it to you guys yet but a lot of this stuff... It's not right. Not accurate."
"You think you know it all?" She challenged, "I have been studying up on human history. I know a thing or two about the past."
"Is it from them? The floating heads?" I asked, "The guys who talk all garbled? And that reminds me, how come you speak normally and they don't?"
Oola straightened up for a moment, then turned around and started walking again but more quickly, "You think you know it all but I will show you. Follow me."
And so we walked towards the archives and, hopefully, to someplace that would give me a chance to prove that I was a genuine human. Nothing else had worked so far.
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Post by kaijafon on Nov 8, 2012 20:24:28 GMT -6
It must be frustrating to be in that position! lol! trying to prove you are human. thank you! great!
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Post by steve on Nov 9, 2012 19:06:41 GMT -6
PART #0087
Look at the 'town' for a moment. Just look at it. It's not a trick question.
Everything is bright. Cheerful. The grass is almost florescent green. Everything looks clean and spotless. Every house looks like it was just painted. the mailboxes look like they were just bought from a store. How many cracks do you see in the asphalt on the road or the pavement in the driveways? None. The town looks more like a drawing, an artistic depiction of a town rather then a town itself.
The archives, though, is a different scene entirely.
The archives is real. It's where all the stuff that the props are based off of are kept. And it's old. And it's dirty. And it's dark.
Have you ever been in an aircraft hangar? Ever seen one? Those buildings are massive in every way - Tall, wide, long and flat. That's what the archives were - A place that was really large and flat that housed historic (to them) buildings and artifacts. If Oola had told me that it was five miles from one end of the archives to the other, I wouldn't have doubted her for a moment.
There's a smell to the archives. A musty, thick and dirty scent.
Despite Oola's larger frame, she maneuvered her way in between the decayed buildings with familiar ease. I could tell she had been here before and I was amazed that she was doing all of this without shoes of any kind. I also understood why they didn't let the "ferals" in here - It would be like placing a proverbial bull into the equally proverbial China shop. Most of them wouldn't even be able to comfortably fit through the (for me) normally-sized doorways.
I have to admit - For the first time, I felt "home." The scale of everything just felt right. Doorways looked like doorways. Cars looked like actual cars and not the statues of cars. Despite the smell and the darkness, there was a certain comfort level in finally seeing something normal for a change - Not a television remote control in some museum but an actual house or building, an actual car.
Yet there was something dismal and morbid about the archives. Just look at all of these buildings - Sad and pathetic hollow shells of their former selves. I wasn't walking through an "archive" any more then I was walking through a morgue. A residential house that had been propped up by super technological means. A chunk of an elementary school. The remnants of an auto dealership stitched together like when the FAA reconstructs a crashed airplane bit-by-bit, but through more magical technology in three dimensions and not in two.
"You claim to be a real human," Oola began to say as we walked towards a two-story building that looked particularly well-preserved, "Perhaps you can tell me about a few things in here."
"I'm not challenging your knowledge, Oola," I tried to protest, "I just want you to look at it from my perspective."
"And look at it from mine," she stated, turning around before we entered the building, "A legacy breed that claims to be over eight hundred years old, found in a feral reservation with clothes and... Other items."
I paused for a moment.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"See for yourself," She stated, turning back around and walking into the building. I followed.
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Post by kaijafon on Nov 9, 2012 20:50:48 GMT -6
ugh! these short chapters with "cliff", are killing me!!!! LOL!
thank you!!!
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Post by steve on Nov 10, 2012 14:48:06 GMT -6
PART #0088
It felt like a lifetime ago but there they were - My old stuff from only a few days ago. Or, rather, my "new" old stuff.
The 'poncho.' The 'shoes.' Matches. The bunsen burner thingy. Everything that I had worn or taken on my trip to that mysterious color-shifting tower.
Oola looked over at me with the type of face you made right before you said "checkmate" during a game of chess.
"They found this on you," she stated, pointing to the objects, "Or, rather, near you once they found you. They probably found it after they scanned your brain for memories."
"Yeah, so?" I replied, "They're just supplies."
I picked up each item and described them briefly.
"Matches," I said, "They light fires."
"Cigarettes," she quickly corrected, "They light cigarettes."
I kept a straight face as I replied, "Yes, striking a match causes a fire. You can use that fire however you want... Like lighting a cigarette."
I could tell that Oola wanted to challenge me further but she remained silent.
"Bunsen burner lighter," I described, "Used to light the gas from a bunsen burner... Or any other flammable gas."
"Who is bunsen burner?" Oola asked.
"Not 'who,'" I corrected, "What. A bunsen burner is something that you use in... Science to heat beakers and other scientific equipment. It's like a gas stove only it's called a bunsen burner."
"The gas is called 'bunsen'?" Oola asked.
"No," I replied, "Bunsen is... I don't know. They just called them bunsen burners."
"OK," Oola said, "Then what is that?"
"Nail clippers," I answered, "To trim your finger nails when they grow too long."
"Ha!" She reveled instinctively, "Finger nails do not grow. Not even on legacy breeds!"
"On genuine humans, they do," I countered, "Women tend to grow their finger nails long and paint them. At least, that was the custom back then."
Oola was silent for a moment.
"You are lying," Oola stated simply, the look of puzzlement and confusion crossing over her face.
"Oola," I quietly said with as much of a neutral tone of voice as I could muster, "I don't know what designer breeds and legacy breeds are capable of nowadays. You would know more about those things then I would. I'm just telling you what these things are and why they exist."
"Why would finger nails grow?" Oola blurted out, confusion still etched onto her face.
"Would you like the really long explanation or the shorter explanation that might not make as much sense?" I asked.
"Either one," Oola replied.
"What we, humans, call fingernails are what are called 'claws' on other animals, like cats and dogs," I began to explain.
"Ancient humans had claws?" Oola asked, genuine curiosity briefly overriding her judgmental harshness.
I suddenly understood how my fifth-grade science teacher felt. No wonder Mr. Goldstein didn't have any hair on top of his head. Maybe those rumors that he also kept a bottle of booze in his desk were also true.
And that's when a thought crossed my mind... A thought so wonderful it caused me to unconsciously break out into a smile. Maybe... Just maybe... I had stumbled upon a way to prove that I was a genuine human after all.
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Post by steve on Nov 11, 2012 8:45:29 GMT -6
PART #0089
"Look," I began, "Can we accept that all of these items are old? That this is a genuine nail clipper and these are genuine matches?"
Oola looked confused for a moment, asking, "What do you mean?"
"That these items weren't manufactured by the Zokopers but made by genuine humans," I stated, "Can we accept the fact that we can distinguish between stuff made by Zokopers and genuine humans?"
Oola slowly shook her head in confusion, saying, "I do not know, you would have to ask them."
So I did.
I called the Zokopers to appear and, sure enough, the holographic head appeared almost instantly.
"I a have question," I said to the holographic head.
"Yes?" It replied.
"Can between you tell by objects made and genuine humans as people such yourselves?" I asked.
The head paused for a moment, then said simply, "No."
Before I could answer, the holographic head explained, "We create we can anything in precise as want we detail as want. We creative have no limit."
"Then," I began to say, trying to absorb the revelation that they could create anything, "Then you how do all know that is of this genuine? Or anything that is here genuine?"
"We what know have we created," the head replied, "If did we create not it, it be must genuine."
"Then you how do if was know I created?" I asked, "Who and was where I created?"
"Deduction," the holographic head replied with a slight smile, "Genuine have humans life short spans. A before human born disaster not the would alive be today. Therefore, you be created must a or feral."
"But do how know you am I created a or feral?" I asked just as I heard a series of tones. I noticed Oola looking around.
"Time for bed," the holographic head replied with a smile.
"But do how know you am I created a or feral?" I repeated.
"Time for bed," the holographic head replied with a smile.
"Come on," Oola replied, tugging at my arm, "We have to go."
Saved by the bell, indeed.
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Post by kaijafon on Nov 11, 2012 12:16:33 GMT -6
I don't know how you keep their language straight! lol! or not straight ...or....
hahahaha!
thank you!
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