This is part one of a series of Temporalysis stories I am working on. The story will revolve around the same endings. The twist is that each story shows these endings from different points of view. This first one comes from a character named Wilksin...so I hope you all enjoy.
----------------------------Temporalysis: Part One: Wilksin In JapaNewYork----------------------------
"WAR IS PEACE
FREEDOM IS SLAVERY
IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH."
The famous lines out of Orwell's novel, 1984, run throughout Wilksin's head as he sleeps. Wilksin is having trouble grasping reality as of late. It's not everyday that you feel as if your head will explode if you think for too long.
Wilksin awakens, thinking there's not another reason to continue. He's feeling very bad, holding on to the hangover from the previous night's expose.
"What the hell's going on?" he says. "I can't feel my legs. My thoughts are too jumbled. Everything feels as though everything contradicts itself. I need a drink."
Wilksin walks into the kitchen. To his surprise, he had forgotten about the week-old sandwich in his refrigerator and eats it rabidly as if he were a wolf eating his newest catch.
"Bliss..." he thinks to himself. "There's nothing like Tremulous® in the morning!"
Wilksin walks aimlessly around his apartment, looking for something to do. He knows he needs to do something that will hold his attention for a couple hours. Otherwise, as Wilksin very well knows, he will participate in JapaNewYork's newest, sickest, most inconceivable vices.
Wilksin suddenly spits out whatever is left of his Tremulous® brand sandwich and hurries to his drawing board. Stricken by a new sense of self-confidence, Wilksin begins writing randomly on his drawing board, trying to make sense of it all.
"Somewhere in oblivion:" Wilksin begins, "A man, machine, animal, plant is calling your name. To answer this call is completely your decision. To know the truth about the world you live in is a burden not many want to bear, but you're a special case. You can do this...we believe in you."
Wilksin feels inspired. Not wanting the flow to stop, he continues.
"I know you want help, closure, quarantine, release. Acceptance. I want to give you everything, but I'm only one man, machine, animal, or plant. I can only do so much. I may be able to get you started, but it is at that point when I depart and you transcend. Only you can finish this. Only you can end all these problems. Only you can answer these questions. Nobody else amounts. Nobody is on the same plateau.
I also know now that you want to be completely human. You want to know if you're awake, dreaming, thinking, existing. You want to know why it feels more real when you're dreaming than when you're awake. You want to know if your senses are lying to you. You want to know if you're simply just a pawn in the predetermined game of life and if you are, you want to strike at the God™ who chose your path. You want to strike at this God™ because you know fate doesn't exist. You know that the idea of predetermined future makes you sick and you know that you hate the idea that you don't have complete control over your life. Only you have the power to change the future, and this God™ is trying to stop you. He's trying to lead you on a path of plight and destruction and you say, 'No more!'. Destiny is not a matter of chance, it is a matter of choice; it is not a thing to be waited for, it is a thing to be achieved. Better keep yourself clean and bright; you are the window through which you must see the world. It's time to step to the edge of the looking glass. It's time for action."
Realizing that Wilksin doesn't have much more control over his bladder than a sixty year old Harmonix™ worker, he rushes to the ReleaseRooms.
Refreshed, Wilksin reclaims his place and continues his random thoughts.
"Sometimes action is scary, I know. If you aren't ready to change and evolve then by all means just step away from the edge. It's too bad not every man and woman can live on the edge. Living on the edge is a golden and brilliant thing. When you live on the edge of your world, you can see more of that world. However, some people prefer to see one horizon and one horizon only. These people are cowards. You aren't a coward are you? You may not be, but some people are. Some people are afraid of change, extremes, hope, and criticism. To avoid criticism, do nothing, say nothing, and be nothing. When you're finished with that, get out of my face. At that point you're leaving hope. I thought you were different, but nothing's permanent.
Think about that statement. Nothing is permanent. There is nothing in this world or on any planet that we could think of, conceive, or produce that would truly 'remain'."
He ponders his thoughts. A bird flies outside his window. A dove. Beautiful in all it's glory.
"So free, so wonderful, so fake..." Wilksin thought.
Taking a sip from his Micran½™ soda bottle, he continues.
"Without change, something sleeps inside us, and seldom awakens. The sleeper must awaken. You are the sleeper. You must awaken. You must seize the day, week, month, and year. If we don't change, we don't grow. If we don't grow, we aren't really living. Really living for the years to come can be the one thing that can change the 'world' we live in. Just remember that you are man and you are mortal. There is a great chance you will lose the battle between you, the world, and change.
The fact that life is here, or the fact that we are here is canceled out by the fact that we evolve. We will never stay on any planet in this current form of ours that we assume now because something will happen that will shake the Cosmos. Something will happen that is so inconceivably drastic, that we will want, or need, to change. It will make us forcibly adapt. We will again evolve. The changes will have knocked the fact that we thought we were 'permanent' out of the very threads of society that clings to the idea. Change is constant. We are not.
The fact that you have morals, values, ethics, and principles is in itself completely pointless. Every facet of man's society will change drastically in ten years and your morals, values, ethics, and principles will change as well, if not completely dissolve. Everything that you thought once to be true, false, or simply indifferent will be completely null of void. Change is constant. Our beliefs are not.
The fact that we have power is completely useless. Right now we are the supreme beings on Earth. Nobody can fuck with us and nobody will dare try and change that fact...right? Once again, change is constant and believe me, our American supremacy is not. He who controls the past commands the future. He who commands the future conquers the past. You must have complete control over your power or you will become corrupted. Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. If we can't live in a world of a controlled, fenced in sense of power, we will be our own demise. The day we decide to do our bidding in God™'s name will be the ultimate sin. Today it's Iraq. Tomorrow it will be us. I don't know who will dethrone us, but we will not be the supreme power, the supreme being, for all of Earth's existence. If you think so, I pity you when you become privy to the Second Renaissance. I guess what I'm trying to say is this: We need to be more sensible with our power. Power always has to be kept in check; power exercised in secret, especially under the cloak of national security, is doubly dangerous. Unless we get a hold of ourselves and decide to change our being, we will commit the ultimate crime. That crime will be signing the contract of our demise. The power of man has grown in every sphere, except over himself. Change is constant, our power and control are not."
Hours have passed. The weather outside is horrible. The rain seems to crash down endlessly as if God™ were completely displeased with the way his World were being run. Wilksin felt as though maybe, just maybe, this cloud of rain was a sign. He didn't want to leave for work, and he now had an excuse.
"Accident," he thought. "I can just call in and tell my boss I've slipped, fallen, and injured myself temporarily." Wilksin thought to himself continuously, ignoring the Netspeak® TV show going on in the background.
"I guess I'll have to take the initiative and call into work," he said. "But it will take some work."
Wilksin gathered his thoughts and thought of a new disorder today. Everyday Wilksin seems to have another illness. By all means if Wilksin spoke any truth to anyone except himself, he would have died 13 years ago from his horrible case of 'Reznorin,' or in Wilksin's words, the 'uncuttable disease of the frenulum.'
"I've got it," said Wilksin to his Telescreen. "Temporalysis!"
This was a new low for Wilksin.
"Fuck it. I'm saying I've got a first-degree case of Temporalysis."
The phone dials in the foreground.
"May I help you?" the secretary asks.
"Yes, uh, may I please speak with Mr. Patina?"
"One moment please."
"No problem, thank you."
The background music is terrible. Some horrible music from the 90's is playing.
"Nirvana?" Wilksin thought, "I thought that guy died..."
Mr. Patina picks up the phone in a rush, waiting for his daily 'appointment' with Ms. Rapport.
"Yes, who am I speaking to?" Mr. Patina said.
"This is Wilksin Apocryphal, your most loyal employ-"
"Goddammit! Why aren't you here at work?"
"I'm sorry Sir, but I've come down wi-"
"What is it this time, Wilksin!? Could it be the Middleboro's disease, Cobain's disease, what the hell is it this time? Tell me!"
"Yes, Sir. Temporalysis. I won't be able to come into work today, but the Doc said I'll be rid of this Temporalysis in no time."
"By all means I should fire your ass, Wilksin. You're lucky my 14:30 appointment with Ms. Rapport is about to take place. You've caught me in a surprisingly good mood, and I don't feel like researching your excuse this time. Be here at 10:10 tomorrow!"
"Yes, Sir! No problems here!"
"For your case, Mr. Apocryphal, you'd better not have any problems."
"Good-bye Sir. Good luck with Ms. Rapport"
"Get your wassails away from me - good day!"
Wilksin is refreshed. He quickly goes back to his drawing board. The ideas come right back out.
"Technology is false," he begins. "The definition of technology is something along the lines of...any tool that will help better the position of man, or help complete man's tasks. In thirty years the definition will be...anything and everything to help better the Machine's purpose, to complete the Machine's tasks."
Wilksin suddenly vomits. Luckily, away from his work. He doesn't know why that happened, but he can't stop now.
"I know that there will be a time when the Machine takes over. Machine is already tirelessly doing our bidding, and there is no telling when the Revolution will take place. There will be a time when Machine will prosper, live, be healthy, and happy. As with us, I'm sure that, for a time, it will be good. Eventually, though, we will no longer be the 'top' of the food chain. We will no longer be feared, respected, and sought to be pleased any longer.
Robotic Darwinism will soon take place, eliminating humans completely from their livelihoods. Machine's survival of the fittest will replace our survival, or maybe our existence."
Wilksin feels the sudden urge to vomit again. He closes his statements for the day, feeling as though he will soon pass out.
"I hope that we soon realize what we're doing to ourselves...machines...demise...war. End it all, Mr. President. Just end it now!"
Wilksin vomits. He defecates all over himself. Blood pours from his nose and eyes. He feels the need to complete the entries by any means necessary.
"Nothing...especially the rule of Homo-sapiens...is permanent. Change is constant...I am not..."
Wilksin drops the pen, passes out and falls to the ground.
The next day the MediMen™ are there to clean up the mess. They strip him naked, the last shameful act of Wilksin, as they throw him in a plastic bag.
Sirens fill the air as Wilksin is taken to the MediPalace™ to be taken care of. As they bring the body in to be autopsied, everyone takes one last look at the plastic bag that is Wilksin's new domain.
"My God™!" says Mr. Patina. "This boy looks horrible...what did he die of?"
The Chief MediMan™ answers, "We don't know. We're going to try our best to find out though."
"We'll notify you as soon as we find out, Mr. Patina" said MediMan™ No. 3
"Thank you very much," said Mr. Patina.
It is morning. The previous day consisted of horrible weather, philosophy, theorem, and Wilksin's last stand.
The phone rings in Mr. Patina's Moonbeam™ Condo. Mr. Patina wakes and drearily lurches to answer the phone.
"Yes...what the hell do you want..." said Mr. Patina.
"Mr. Patina, this is Chief Moorely of the MediPalace™ JapaNewYork precinct, and I'm here to give you some feedback on your former employee, uh..."
"Apocryphal. Wilksin Apocryphal."
"Uh, yes, that's it. Well, we have interesting news."
"Mr. Apocryphal seems to have died of a very odd, previously unknown disease."
"Please, just get to the point, Doc"
"Yes, well. The disease is unknown, so naturally we didn't know what to do. After searching through Mr. Apohcryphal's things we found a letter in his right pants pocket, and the only thing it had written on it were a few random words, thoughts, and it seems to be excuses."
"That sounds like Wilksin all right! That bastard!"
"Well, we decided we would name this disease after the one he had on this paper."
"What is it, Wilksin's The Greatest disease? That self-righteous bastard!"
"No, Sir. From this day on, Wilksin will have died of Temporalysis™."
Silence filled Mr. Patina's condo. He says his good-bye's to the MediMan™ and sits to have a smoke.
"That bastard. He finally had a real excuse. Well, I guess there's not much else to do exce-"
Suddenly, an explosion rips through JapaNewYork. Explosions everywhere. There are explosions in Reddiafrica, Narqual, The Republic of Yukatonomia...everywhere.
The Machines have arrived, and they are all but jovial. The Machines have started the war against the Humans in the worst way - by almost immediately winning it within minutes of its commencement.
Although it's now impossible, you cannot help but feel that Wilksin would be feeling very accomplished right now. He seemed to have died the way he wanted, and on top of this - he escaped facing the demise he had just predicted hours before.
In a weird way, Wilksin had the happiest ending anybody could ever have. He was able to die amongst his people, silently, in his apartment, in JapaNewYork, and from a disease his body seemed to invent. He knew his predictions were correct, and it seems that his body felt sorry for him, and just ended his life there - somewhat more peacefully. It also seems as though The Machines also knew of Wilksin and his Writings. They struck before anybody other than Wilksin could read the scribbled thoughts on those drawing boards. Everyone who died that day, died in ignorance and oblivion, believing that change wouldn't happen to them. If only we could all go out this way.