#fuck you seatbelts on school busses

[atlasrayz]

Seatbelts on school busses are some bullshit. They didnt add them for safety bcuz if they did, then all busses would have them. No, they added them to further control students. I fucking hate them

[kentennine]

I live in the US and rode on a school bus in the afternoons for a lot of Highschool. Not only did they not have seatbelts but that fucking vehicle annihilated my tailbone daily rolling right into a massive pothole and launching me 1-2 feet up every day just to slam my ass back down onto that cheap steel bench covered with an even cheaper, half-destroyed plastic coated ""cushion"". That shit gave me back problems! What magical world do you live in where busses aren't death traps

Do buses have seatbelts where you live? yes/no (if mod wants to add a never been on a bus option that's fine)

[kira-anon-uwu]

Blossom in ribcage, until their backs break [ 1 ]

Coming out Swinging

Spiderinnit fic

Main post

~-~

          "Tommy, get up! We're going to be late!"

He sat up with a tired groan, throwing his pillow at his brother. "You mean you're going to be late; I don't have to be there this early."

"You do if you don't want to take the bus."

"Well who fucking said that you had to be in this early?"

"The principal, and if you want to keep living here you'll make sure I'm on time."

"You're a grown man, it isn't my job to help you make it to work on time."

"You have fifteen minutes, or I'm leaving you here and personally handing you your late slip when you finally get there."

"I'll just stay home."

"I'll tell Sam to bar you from that fieldtrip you have coming up if you do that."

That got Tommy out of bed, and he scowled at Wilbur the entire time. "Fuck off, don't you dare."

"Then you better not skip school."

"I've been looking forward to that trip for ages, I saved up my own fucking money for-"

"Holy shit, calm down. I wouldn't actually do that to you, you know that."

"I'm- Yeah, yeah sorry. Still not fully used to living with you over-"

"I know, it's alright. Get ready quickly, and we should still have some time for me to run through a drive-thru to grab us some breakfast on the way to the school, ok?"

"Damn, you'll run through it? Are everyone's grades that bad?"

"You know what I meant,", Wilbur said with an amused exhale from his nose, "Ten minutes, alright? I'm going to go warm up the car."

"No, leave it cold; wakes a man up better than coffee."

"If I don't let it warm up, it won't be running. Don't forget to put the shit you were working on last night in your bag, I can't get you any more of an extension on that now that we're done unpacking."

"Yeah, yeah,", Tommy rolled his eyes, searching his floor for some jeans that were clean enough he could get away with wearing them again.

Realistically, he'd still be getting up around this time if he didn't go in when Wilbur did, since the L'Manberg busses ran like shit on a good day, but he refused to acknowledge that since he hated to admit that his brother was right about anything. Except having him move out to live with him, that was a good idea; the only one the man ever had, really.

How he was affording a two bedroom flat on a teacher's salary was beyond him, but Tommy didn't really question that when it meant he could move out from Phil's house.

          Tommy remembered to stick his overdue school work into his bag before heading out, it was the backpack he ended up forgetting. It was easy enough to run back up four flights of stairs to grab it, at least, and he tried his best to hide how hard he was panting as he got to the car.

"Don't fucking pass out, jesus christ."

"Sorry, nearly forgot something,", Tommy breathed out, leaning the passenger side seat back as far as possible so he could lay down.

"You remembered to lock the door, right?"

"Probably."

"Tommy."

"Yes, I locked it. My shit's in there too, I'm not about to leave it open for someone to come in and take things."

"Just wanted to be sure,", Wilbur sighed, waiting for a break in the morning traffic to pull out of the parking spot, "Buckle your seatbelt, I don't feel like getting a ticket today."

Tommy muttered out a string of swears as he sat up to follow the demand. "Y'know, you were a lot more fun before you went off to university to become a narc."

"I'm not a fucking narc, how dare you."

"You are in fact a narc, snitch, and square now that you are a teacher."

"I will fail you."

"That's the only reason you wanted me in your class, so you can threaten me with my grades."

"I have done no such thing,", Wilbur chuckled, "Figure out what you want from Dunkin."

"Same shit as always."

"Wanted to make sure you weren't changing it up any."

Tommy set his arms behind his head with a sigh. "It's nice to have some things stay the same. The decent aspects of shit, at least."

"Listen, Tommy, I know alot of this has been hard-"

"We're not having this talk before school, I'm not in the fucking mood for it."

"No, I know, I'm just- I'm here for you when you are ready to talk, I want to make sure you know that."

"... Yeah, I know."

Wilbur gave him a reassuring smile through the rearview mirror, reaching over to ruffle his hair without taking his eyes off of the road.

"Hey- Fucking stop that! I brushed it this morning!"

"Oh, good, then I should still be able to find the brush stuck in there."

"It's about to be stuck up your ass."

"Why would you waste a perfectly good weapon like that?"

          A failed attempt to crash the car and trip through the Dunkin Donuts drive-thru later, and they arrived at the school. Tommy took his tea and lukewarm bagel sandwich to the cafeteria to wait for his friends, sitting in the corner of the nearly empty room and watching as other students started showing up.

People left him alone for the most part by this point, realizing that he wasn't very fun to bully and kissing his ass wasn't worth it since he couldn't get Wilbur to change anyone's grades, so he was alone at his table until Tubbo eventually got there.

The short boy came in completely bundled up in a stupid looking coat and scarf, removing them as he sat down. "Holy shit, it's awful out there."

"It isn't that bad,", Tommy rolled his eyes, taking a sip of his tea.

He let out an offended squawk when Tubbo took it from him, laughing when the short boy immediately spit it back out.

"What the fuck is that?! Did you stick some dirt in hot water?"

"No, it's tea,", he snatched the cup back, "Not my fault you've got weak taste buds."

"I think I preferred it when you were in here with black coffee, at least that just tasted like bean water."

"Coffee is bean water."

"You're supposed to add sugar and shit to it."

"Tubbo, I haven't got enough money for the coffee that comes from shit, and I'm certainly not going to be adding my own."

"You will be boiled."

"No, that's what you do with the water, man."

"I will become the modern day Emperor Nero. Including rising to power at age sixteen."

"Well you're off to a great start, because you might as well be speaking to me in Roman when you say shit like that."

"The Romans used Latin. Or Greek, sometimes."

"Tubbo,", Tommy let out an annoyed whine, "It's too early for you to be teaching me shit. It's bad enough I've got to listen to Wil practicing his lesson plan at home, give my brain a fucking break."

"Saying that implies it ever gets any use."

"I beg your fucking pardon?"

"Then beg."

"Yo, who's begging?", Ranboo asked as they finally got to the table, a muffin that'd been acquired in the breakfast line in their hand.

"Me, for some fucking peace and quiet,", Tommy sighed, putting his head down on the table. Tubbo started poking him repeatedly in the arm, followed by Ranboo who took the other side.

          The day was very thankfully mundane after that, the only thing of note being his math teacher refusing to take his late work despite him having a note from the principal saying he had a pass on it. The asshole told him that 'moving house isn't a real reason, it's an excuse for him to be lazy'.

Tommy made a mental note to figure out which car belonged to that dickhead in the teacher's lot, leaving his, thankfully, last class of the day to check in with Wilbur before he headed off with his friends. "I'm going to Tubbo's for a while."

"Be careful, and don't take the Sixty-Two bus; route's fucked from some of the Ramulus shit."

"Right, we'll be taking the subway."

"Do you need fare?"

"Paying for the fare, that's funny."

"Tommy,", Wilbur sighed, looking up from his desk, "Don't admit to committing crimes like that in school."

"I've seen at least three teachers do the same shit, only tourists and dumbasses pay for the subway; the rest of us hop over it."

"I always pay when I use the subway, that's how the city makes the money to keep up with them."

They made silent eye contact for a long moment before Tommy turned on his heel and started walking away. "... Well, great talk. I should be home by supper, but I'll let you know if we get food anywhere."

"Bye, if you do anything illegal, don't get caught at least,", Wilbur sighed again, raising his hand to wave.  

And the rest of the week after that blended together for the most part; every day basically the same leading up to his fieldtrip on Friday.

His favorite teacher, Sam, had somehow managed to get a fieldtrip set up to go to Ewe Labs, and was bringing thirty students to get a tour of the place. Tommy might not have particularly enjoyed going to school, but his Zoology class was the one he looked forward to the most. He had no idea how Sam had managed to get the tour set up, since Ewe Labs were notoriously hard to get into, but he was excited as all hell for it and had been since it'd been brought up in the first place.

The only way the school was going to let it happen was if the selected students paid for it, but that hadn't been an issue since Tommy was able to 'borrow' some money from various sources in the city.

Which was completely moral in his opinion, since he was stealing from the people running mascot suit scams downtown. They made bank by forcing people to pay them for pictures they didn't even want to take, he got money by stealing their wallets and throwing away their IDs and photos of their children; nature is healing, or something. 

          Wilbur dropped him off earlier than usual so he could get into the group, giving him a pat on the back and a thumbs up before going to his own classroom to get his lesson materials ready for the day. He was getting ready to start his unit on Hamlet, and Tommy was more than alright with missing as much of that as he physically could.

Ignoring how much of it he'd have to hear at home, anyways, that part was inescapable.

Sam took attendance as seven-thirty rolled around, getting everyone onto the bus that'd been rented for the day.

"Ok, so here's what we're doing,", Sam said as he stood at the front, "When we get there, their head of security is going to give you guys all of the rules, and you're gonna listen to him. They're being incredibly generous letting us go in for a tour, so we need to be polite and follow those rules so we can do more stuff like this. Does everyone understand that?"

Almost everyone gave a positive response, and Sam cleared his throat.

"Tommy, do you understand what we're gonna be doing?"

"Why the fuck are you calling me out-", Tommy started complaining, with Tubbo smacking him in the arm, "Ow- Yeah, I've got it; we're going to be told not to touch anything, and then they'll show us the cool shit."

"Right, thank you. And watch the language."

"'Watch the'-"

"We're still at the school."

"Sorry, please allow me to stay on the trip."

"You get three swears while we're there, any more and you get to wait on the bus."

He folded his arms as the rest of the bus laughed at him, sinking in his seat. "Fu- Fine, whatever. I'll just have to make them count, then."

Sam told the driver they were ready to go and sat, with the trip to Ewe being taken up mostly by the teacher and driver telling people to stay in their seats and stop throwing stuff.

They were let out right in front of the main building for Ewe Labs, a tall white monolith of a skyscraper that was a staple of the L'Manberg skyline. The front proudly displayed the name, along with it's tagline; Experiment With Everything.

There were all sorts of people filing in and out of the place, all of them ranging from businessmen to what were clearly interns being sent on coffee runs that probably weren't getting paid.

There was also some short man that was walking directly toward their group with his hands full of visitor passes. "Eyy, if it isn't doctor Dude,", the guy greeted Sam, his eyes just barely running over their whole group before going back to the teacher, "Good to see you. This all the kids you brought with you?"

"Yeah, it is. Everyone, this is Quackity; the head of security I mentioned before." 

          "I'd introduce myself to everyone individually, but I really don't give enough of a shit about a bunch of highschoolers to do that. I'm passing these out to everyone, so make sure you get one if you don't wanna get thrown out and sent to prison for trespassing,", Quackity said as he handed out the passes he was holding.

Tubbo snorted out a quiet laugh. "Trespassing is a misdemeanor at most."

"Oh, we got a junior cop over here,", Quackity mocked as he passed them, sending more badges that direction, "This counts as a government building on the tax forms, so it'd be felony. That leads into the long, boring talk with everyone about what you're not doing in here. Sam, I don't need to pull up some Subway Surfers footage to get them to listen to me, do I?"

"No, they're all pretty good on paying attention. For the most part."

Tommy knew the second part was directed at almost exclusively him, and made sure he was listening the whole time out of spite.

"Fantastic. I'm only here to tell you guys what to do once you're in there, past the door you'll be following around one of our scientists into the places you're allowed to see. You need to stay in your group the whole time, no wandering. No touching anything, don't disturb anyone that isn't specifically interacting with you; people are trying to work. No food or water, if you've got a snack or some shit in your pocket keep it there. Any water bottles are gonna get dumped in the lobby like you're going into the airport. I'll give someone like twenty dollars to drink the Ewe Labs jungle juice-"

"No,", Sam cut in, like a killjoy, "Don't say that, because there's at least five of them that'd do that for free."

"Boo, Sam hates freedom!", Tommy had a hand to the side of his mouth to amplify his voice, Tubbo, Ranboo, and a few other people joining in on the 'boo'ing.

"Those are the people that'd drink it."

"Oh shit, give me a list of names. Could always use some human test subjects,", Quackity chuckled, raising his hands in front of himself as Sam glared at him, "Joking, I'm joking."

"Finish with the rules."

"You aren't any fun, man. Think the last thing to go over is no photos or video. That's a serious one, anyone caught with a phone out is getting it taken and destroyed. That should have been everything. I just want to be perfectly clear that breaking any of these rules invalidates your visitor pass, which means you're tresspassing and are gonna get arrested."

"Did everyone get that?"

The whole group gave some form of confirmation, and Quackity gave them a thumbs up as he turned back toward the direction he'd come from. "Great, I'll leave you to it then! I'll probably check in later to make sure everything's going ok, and remember that there's security everywhere so don't try anything!" 

          The tour really got going after that, with someone in a generic lab coat meeting them at the door to show them around.

Tommy did, in fact, try to partake in the Ewe Labs jungle juice, but Sam asked Tubbo and Ranboo to help drag him away before he was able to have a sip of the forbidden soup. He behaved himself past that point, outside of making jokes about drinking chemicals and eating rats, gradually getting more invested in what he was being shown over trying to be funny.

Ewe focused on animal genetics and testing, which had some aspects that were incredibly unethical, but for the most part just consisted of learning more about the genes and DNA of different species beyond what was already out there.

As they were being shown around the insect segment of the labs, his eye was caught by a dark room with 'Arachnids' on the door as they passed it. It also happened to be ajar, giving a very small peek inside.

Something about it was calling to him, and he really wanted to see what was going on in there. He wasn't exactly the biggest fan of spiders, but he figured there had to be some neat shit if the rest of the tour was anything to go by.

Tommy's chance came when it was time for their tour guide to switch, since they had to wait a little while for the new one to show up.

"Sam,", he grabbed his teacher's sleeve.

"Tommy, teacher mode."

He sighed, rolling his eyes as he addressed the man again. "Mr.Dude."

"What's up?"

"Man needs to piss, is there any chance I can run off to do that while we're just fucking standing here?"

Sam looked incredibly conflicted, eventually sighing and pointing toward a hallway they'd passed earlier. "Bathroom is down there to the left. Try to be quick, ok?"

"Of course, won't even know I'm gone."

He went down that way until he was out of sight, flipping his badge over so it was harder to tell what kind it was as he carefully found his way back to the arachnid room. The hallway was somehow empty, giving him an easy entry into the mysterious and dark lab.

          Tommy felt like turning on the light was a bad idea, opting for is phone's flashlight so he could be more inconspicuous with his snooping. He didn't even really know what he was looking for, just looking around for the sake of it.

From the way it seemed right off the bat, it was a testing lab or something absolutely stacked with empty bug terrariums.

Some of them had been knocked over at some point, and Tommy had to be careful stepping over them so he didn't kick any and make noise. Although that was kinda negated by him setting his hand on a table and very promptly feeling something incredibly sharp on his wrist.

He let out a pained and loud 'Fuck' as he moved back, knocking down the rest of the cages. He caught a glimpse of a spider of some kind on the table before turning off his flashlight and hiding behind it; just barely managing to get out of view before there were people entering the room and switching the lights on.

"Who's in here?"

No way in hell was he going to answer them, that was a very easy way to get arrested for trespassing like Quackity had repeatedly warned.

Tommy zipped his hoodie up, using the hood to hide his face and carefully making his way closer to the door. The security guards that'd come to check the room had moved farther in as they were looking for him, which gave him an opening to leg it out of there.

They were chasing him, and shouting at him to stop, but he somehow managed to lose them through taking random hallways and throwing a few potted plants in the way.

He stood as close to the wall as he could manage in an empty hall, catching his breath as he quickly took the hoodie off and tied it around his waist with the black liner facing out so it'd be harder to identify if the guards saw him again.

He actually went to the bathroom after that, splashing some cold water onto his face and freezing when he saw the dark red, nearly black mark on his wrist where he'd felt the pain in that lab.

"Oh, fuck, that isn't good,", Tommy chuckled nervously, trying to decide if it was worse that he'd been bitten by a mystery bug or that this could lead to him getting caught and, once again, arrested for trespassing. 

          Running cold water over it made if hurt slightly less, but really didn't do much to help with the flush that'd settled over him as he stood there.

Running and getting his blood flowing was probably a terrible thing when there was venom of some kind in his body; horrible, even. He was a big man, though, he could handle it!

Tommy swapped a wristband from his left hand to his right, using it to cover the bite as he very carefully started stumbling his way back out of the bathroom. He thankfully ran into Tubbo, the short boy immediately moving to help him stand.

"Holy shit, are you alright?!"

"Y-Yeah,", that was a lie, "I think I got food poisoning or something from that fucking food truck shit Wil bought me this morning. Spent that whole time fucking puking."

"Yeah, you look like shit. Mr.Dude sent me to get you, we're being made to leave because they've had a security breach or something."

"Oh shit, is Freddy here?"

"Shut the fuck up,", Tubbo sighed, helping him walk.

"You can't- You can't say there's been a 'security breach' and expect me to not make the joke. You're just jealous you didn't do it first."

"No, I'm jealous that Ranboo wasn't the one that had to come get your ass, because he'd be having an easier time with this. Are you sure this is just food poisoning and not the flu or something?"

Tommy immediately jumped on that excuse, acting guilty and looking to the side. "I mean, I did feel like shit this morning-"

"Tommy."

"It isn't my fault that I decided to ignore my stomach being fucked to go on a field trip."

"It absolutely is."

"Fuck you."

"You've used the three swears Mr.Dude allotted to you, now you need to stop talking."

"Fuck you."

"What happened?", Sam asked as they got back to the group.

"So, I may have lied about why I needed the restroom,", Tommy chuckled, avoiding eye contact, "Threw the fuck up."

"That's not good. The security issue doesn't have anything to do with you, does it?"

"Unless my head going in the fucking toilet counts as one, no."

"It's a good thing we have to leave, then. Come on, everyone; same way we came. Tommy, are you good to walk on your own? You really don't look good,", Sam asked as he started herding everyone else away, concerned expression on his face.

"Should be alright, can always drag Tubbo down to the floor with me if I start falling."

Tubbo immediately walked ahead with the rest of the group. "I'm leaving him to get stepped on and die."

"Wait, no-"

          Looking like a light breeze could literally kill him made his 'food poisoning / flu' excuse believable enough that security didn't interrogate him very much as they got back to the bus, and Tommy had Tubbo help him get his phone out to call his brother once the vehicle was moving.

Wilbur answered after it rang a few times with a sigh. "I'm teaching."

"And I feel like I'm about to fucking die. The trip is ending early because someone fucking broke in or something, but I'm sick and I need to go home."

"Are you being serious?"

"I can throw up on your desk when we get back if you don't believe me."

"I'll-", Wilbur interrupted himself with another sigh, "Let me know when you're almost back, alright? Text me when you're nearly here, don't call again. I'll find someone who can cover for me after this period, ok?"

"Right, thank you."

"Of course. If you aren't really sick I'm locking you in a closet."

He could hear whatever class the man was currently teaching laugh at that, scoffing. "Fuck you."

"See you in a little while."

"Bye."

Any annoyance was gone once they were back and Wilbur actually saw him. "Holy shit, what happened?"

Tommy shrugged at him, leaving it to Sam to explain the situation as he understood it. "He said he was throwing up, and he's been sweating bullets the whole way back."

"Right... Suppose we need to stop in at the nurse's office first before I can take him home. Might take him to the hospital, he looks awful."

"Fuck you, you look awful,", Tommy muttered, feeling considerably worse than he did before.

"He told me he felt like shit when he woke up this morning,", Tubbo chimed in, "But he was pretending he was fine so he could go on the trip."

"That tracks, he's an absolute plague rat,", Wilbur sighed, helping Tommy stand so they could go.

Sneeg, the nurse, didn't even take his temperature, writing a leave slip and giving it to him with a very encouraging 'don't die' as Wilbur dragged him to the office and then out to the car.

He managed to convince his brother to just take him home instead of the emergency room, since he really didn't want to have to explain what happened to medical professionals.

It was probably because of the fever, but he would have legitimately preferred dying over admitting that he'd made a mistake wandering unsupervised in an animal testing facility.

It's a shame it didn't happen while he was following the rules; seemed like something they could sue over if the circumstances were different. 

          But no, instead he got to suffer on the sofa like an idiot without any way to get compensated for his misery.

At least he was able to sleep through the worst of it, barely remembering the next couple days outside of waking up to eat or drink something and listen to his brother stress over him.

Wilbur made sure he was able to get up and do basic things on his own again before even considering going back to work, being incredibly clingy when he had to leave on the fifth morning after the incident.

"And you're sure you'll be alright? I've still got some days I can-"

"Holy shit, you always make a big fucking deal out of being late, stop worrying about me and fucking leave."

"I've spent the better part of a week watching you writhe in a pool of sweat and misery, I'm going to be anxious about leaving you alone after that."

"I'm pretty sure the worst of it is over, I'll send you a fucking text or something if I start feeling like shit again,", Tommy made a shooing motion with his hand, "Now get out so I can fuck up your save in Skyrim."

"I might stay home just to make sure you keep your hands off of that."

"Then I'll fuck up your save if you don't get the fuck out. I'll probably be sleeping for the most part anyways."

Wilbur looked like leaving was the absolute last thing he wanted to do, but eventually sighed and gathered up the stuff he was going to need for the day. "Any issue you have, call me immediately. If you start feeling worse, if you even think you might throw up or something, let me know the second the nausea starts up."

"Alright, drama queen."

"I'm being incredibly fucking serious. I don't mind coming back to help, alright? My top priority is you at the moment."

"Work should probably be a close fucking second; we need money to live."

"I've got plenty of money saved up, missing a few days isn't going to do any harm."

"Go, I'll still fucking be here when you're done boring the fuck out of seven periods worth of students."

"You'd better be,", he ruffled Tommy's hair, "There's still some of that soup in the fridge, and if you think you can handle solid food, there's some pizza as well-"

"Go."

Wilbur completely ignored him, continuing like he hadn't been interrupted. "Remember to drink water, I've got some electrolytes in the cupboard; those should help you replenish some of the water you lost through sweat. Try to take a shower if you feel well enough, you stink and I'm sure that would help you fell better." 

          "Fuck you, I smell perfectly fine. If anything, you're the one that stinks. I can fucking smell you from here,", he wrinkled his nose as he said it, only partially joking.

It probably had something to do with him not really being able to smell much while he was practically comatose, but everything seemed to smell far stronger than it had before.

The worst of it was his room, he could see what Wilbur was always complaining about whenever he had to go to the bathroom and walked past it. His door wasn't even open, and it was like he could smell every pair of unwashed underwear he'd left on his floor to handle later.

That was enough to make him start feeling sick again, since on it's own whatever he'd caught had calmed down to him feeling like he'd run the cross-fit version of a marathon or something. His fever had gone down to a manageable level, he was holding down food; really he was just weak from putting up with whatever fucked up version of the flu he caught.

But he'd made it through, proving once again that Tommy Innes Soot was the strongest man alive. Ever.

Wilbur gasped in mock offense at Tommy's insult, sniffing under his arm and scowling when Tommy started laughing at him. "That's enough to quell my concerns. If you're well enough to be insulting me, you're well enough to be left alone."

"I'll insult you further if you don't go."

"Don't taunt me a second time, you aren't the French."

"What the fuck does that even mean?"

"Don't worry about it,", Wilbur grabbed his car keys, "Don't make too much of a mess, but I'm also not expecting you to clean up and messes you do end up making."

"Trash the place, got it."

"If you can muster up enough energy to do so, have fun. Don't overexert yourself, alright?"

"I won't, bye."

"Goodbye, I'll text to check in when I'm on lunch."

And like that, he was alone. The first thing he did was go back to sleep, because six in the morning was way too early to be awake when he wasn't going to school.

He woke up again some time around eleven, needing a second for his eyes to adjust to the light coming in through the window before being able to see his phone well enough to send a thumbs up in response to a text Wilbur had sent asking how he was doing. 

          After that, he got up to make something to eat. The soup his brother had mentioned was just some canned stuff that he'd stuck into a container so it was easier to heat up, and, in Tommy's ever correct opinion, it tasted like it'd been in a tin.

He knew what it should taste like, because it was the one that Wilbur always got for him when he was sick, but this time it had a seriously strong metallic taste along with the normal cheap chicken noodle flavor.

That was also probably because of him being as sick as he was, because even the salt wasn't overpowering it; and that made up, like, ninety-percent of what the soup even was.

He tried adding more after microwaving it for a few minutes, but stopped when he realized it wasn't doing anything except lining him up for sodium poisoning on top of the mystery plague. Adding random stuff from the cupboard didn't really do much to improve it either, and he was just going to settle for sad, metal soup before having another idea.

He remembered seeing something ages ago about sugar cancelling out salt or something, maybe that'd work for the tin aftertaste as well?

Most things on the internet are usually true, and he'd managed to survive fifteen years without problems so far, so he decided to test it.

He didn't want to add too much, since he didn't like sweet things very much, but wasn't really able to stop himself from adding a few tablespoons after tasting how much better it'd been after only one.

That was something he was probably going to have to figure out later, because he didn't have nearly enough energy to try understanding it then. Getting some food in his system made him feel better, and the longer he sat there the more he had to accept that Wilbur had had a point earlier.

He didn't smell the best.

He was, in fact, quite smelly.

To a point that he wasn't going to be able to ignore it, even out of spite. The sofa also stank, probably from him sweating on it for like three days, so he opened the window despite it being the middle of February and went to deal with the stink problem. He also closed the curtains, because holy hell was it bright outside.

          His room was so much worse when the door was opened, and he decided he was just going to steal some clothes from Wilbur after giving up on trying to venture inside without holding his breath.

The shower he took was normal, only real thing of note being how much harder it felt like the water was coming out. It was also louder, maybe the flat building did something to the water pressure while he was sick?

Either way, it was nice after going four days without washing anything beyond his hands. Standing in the shower got rid of what little energy he'd been able to muster in the movement department, so he retreated back to the livingroom to relax again.

It was cold as all hell in there, especially with his hair wet, but having the window open got rid of the horrible smell of must that'd been filling the space before. The sofa was still foul, though, so he ran to steal the blankets off of Wilbur's bed to set up something comfortable on the carpet.

Could he have probably just laid down in his brother's room? Probably.

Did he want to? Not really, that would mean more movement if he decided he wanted a snack or something. Or some water, which was a thought that made him realize that he was pretty thirsty.

He figured that was something he should get before settling on the floor; water is technically important.

Tommy shuffled his way back over to the kitchen, lifting his arm to grab a cup out of the cabinet and almost immediately dropping it.

"Shit-", he reached his hand out toward it as it fell to the floor, feeling something tingle in his wrist as the shatter he was waiting for didn't come. Not even a clatter, the cup didn't hit the floor.

It took him a moment to realize that the cup was currently attached to his arm by something... white.

His immediate first thought was to make a cum joke, before the it really clicked with him that something was incredibly wrong here.

He panicked, trying to detach whatever the string of white shit was from him and breaking the cup anyways from flailing. He managed to get the string off after that, poking at it and finding it to be incredibly sticky.

"Fuck- Damn, this really looks like- Don't say it, this is serious,", he was muttering to himself, mind racing as he tried to piece together exactly what'd happened. 

          He was minding his own business, getting some water, dropped the cup, and reached his hand out to catch it. Tommy slowly moved his hand the same way he had before, trying to think of what exactly he'd done to cause that. He was trying to grab the cup as it fell, but he couldn't quite reach it...

Another string of the white stuff came out of his wrist, this time hitting the ceiling as he fell backwards in surprise.

He thankfully missed landing on the cup he'd broken, catching his breath before immediately hyperventilating because what the fuck.

Surely he'd seen that wrong, surely he'd felt it wrong. Maybe he was having some kind of fucked up fever hallucination; that was something that happened, right?

He scrambled to his feet, going over to the table to grab the thermometer so he could see if he was about to die or something.

His temperature was perfectly normal, lower than it'd been earlier, even. So then maybe his brain had been messed up somehow from the fever he'd had before? But nothing strange had happened before that.

Except for his sense of smell being kind of fucked. Or his taste buds being kind of fucked. Or his eyes being-

Ok, so maybe there'd been some other signs that something was wrong, but those were explainable to some extent. But this? This was some freak of nature type shit that he had no idea where to even begin breaking down.

He nearly called Wilbur to tell him to get home and take him to the emergency room, stopping right before hitting the button as he realized something.

He'd shot some white, sticky stuff out of his wrist. It clung to the cup strong enough to catch it. The second shot was still stuck in the corner of the kitchen ceiling.

Almost like a spider web...

"No fucking shot,", Tommy shakily scrambled to his feet again, going into the kitchen and using the broom to get down the mystery substance so he could have a better look at it.

Now, he wasn't really a spider expert, but it really looked like the webs he used to find in the back garden of the house he'd grown up in. Tommy dropped the broom, taking a step back and looking down at his hands.

He used the other one this time, holding it out toward the wall and trying again. 

          And, again, the web came out in a messy blob that stuck to the edge of the window.

Normally, he'd be very loudly freaking out about something like this, but he was very much in shock about the situation as a whole.

He decided the best course of action was to clean up any sign of the webs, because he didn't want to explain any of this to Wilbur. Not yet, anyways; he needed to figure out a way to make it seem like this wasn't his fault.

Because there was no doubt in his mind that this was because of the spider bite. The bite that'd calmed down to two little black spots on his wrist. If he didn't know any better, he'd assume they were freckles.

Tommy finally got some water after he was done hiding evidence, leaving the remains of the first cup on the floor for Wilbur to deal with as he very skillfully went back to the blanket pile he'd made earlier and promptly passed out. He'd already been tired, and the adrenaline from the web situation running out left him on empty.

He was dragged back into consciousness later when he heard the door open, not moving very much as he hoped he'd be able to go back to sleep.

"Holy shit, it's absolutely frigid in here,", the door closed, and there was a pause, "Tommy?"

"Floor,", Tommy tiredly called back, moving the blanket off of his head.

"And why are you on the floor?"

"'Cause the sofa stinks."

"And you chose the floor over your bed because?"

"'Cause my room stinks."

"I see,", Wilbur came over, squatting down and sticking the back of his hand to Tommy's forehead, "It feels like your fever's gone down more, how are you feeling?"

"Tired."

"Sorry for waking you, then."

"'s ok. I broke a cup earlier."

"You didn't cut yourself on it, did you?"

"No, I left it alone."

Wilbur let out  tired sigh, ruffling Tommy's hair and standing again. "I'll take care of it, go ahead and go back to sleep. I'll see if I can do something about the sofa, as well; so you can get off of the floor."

He gave a tired 'mhm' in response, rolling over and almost immediately passing out again.

The solution to the couch's stench problem was just a few blankets being thrown over it until Wilbur had the time to rent a steam cleaner, but that was better than nothing so Tommy made sure he didn't stick his face too close to it and he was fine for the most part.

          He was able to get away with laying around the house and avoiding school for another couple days before Wilbur deemed him well enough to go again.

And, normally, he would have been dreading it. Going back to school after spending a week doing nothing but watching TV and scrolling through random stuff on his phone sounded like the worst thing imaginable.

But, it also gave him a chance to be alone and figure out what the fuck was going on with the webs he was making.

There was only so much he could do inside of the apartment while he was trying to hide it, and he needed to actually go outside and experiment with it if he wanted to know anything.

The only things he knew for sure is that whatever it was was sticky, it was strong, and it started to decay after a few hours.

That one he learned when he decided to use it to dangle his phone from the ceiling so he didn't have to hold it; leaving him with a very lovely red mark on his face after it fell right on his nose.

Tommy spent his last day off before being made to go back cleaning up the apartment some, since it still fucking reeked, and coming home to see laundry being done was almost enough to convince Wilbur that he was still sick and needed longer. He wasn't that lucky, though, and was being forced to get up at the normal time on an incredibly cold Friday morning.

After that it was same routine, different day. Outside of his brother keeping a closer eye on him than usual, anyways.

Get up, complain, go get breakfast at some random place on the way to the school. Tommy was glad to have a hot drink, taking a sip of the tea Wilbur had bought him-

And immediately spitting it out on the dashboard of the car.

"What the fuck, man?", Wilbur asked, sounding incredibly annoyed.

"This tastes like shit."

"It's exactly the same as it always is."

"They must have fucked it up or something, this is nasty."

"Here, let me see it,", Wilbur grabbed the cup from him, taking a sip, "Plain black tea, tastes as horrible as always. Your tastebuds might be fucked from being sick, still."

Tommy folded his arms with a sigh. "That's fucking stupid."

"Mope about it while you clean the spit off of my fucking car,", Wilbur handed him a napkin, not taking his eyes off of the road.

"That's so rude and inconsiderate, I'm mourning here."

"The fuck are you mourning?"

"A perfectly good drink."

"You can still drink it."

"No, it tastes like dirt."

"Then don't complain. Wipe up the mess you made before it dries, because then I'm going to make you clean the whole thing."

Tommy took the napkin from him, muttering out a mix of swears and complaints as he did the bare minimum of cleaning up the tea he'd spat.

          And things were back on track after that. He dumped the tea in the parking lot, filled the cup with some water from a drinking fountain inside the school, and took his drink and lukewarm bagel to his usual table to wait for his friends.

A few different people asked if he was alright as they came in, and that's how he found out that his brother had been very poorly hiding his concern for him once he'd gone back to work; meaning Tommy now had some very prime bullying material.

He thought up different ways to make fun of his brother for that as he went to take a bite of his food, having to stop himself from spitting it out like he had the tea.

It didn't taste nearly as bad, but it sure as hell didn't taste like it should have. It was overly salty, and there was some chemical taste that he couldn't quite place in the sad puck of egg in the middle of it.

He managed to get down the first bite, needing to drink nearly half of the water he had to get the taste to go away.

Tommy opened the notes app on his phone, finally breaking and admitting to himself that his sense of taste being completely fucked was probably related to whatever was going on with the webs. He'd almost exclusively been eating the rest of the canned soup while he was home, so he'd been figuring it was something wrong with that before. But the fact that it was also an issue with the tea, and now the bagel...

Tommy was startled by someone sitting directly next to him, quickly turning off his phone screen before whoever it was could see.

"So, how was being on death's door for a week?"

He rolled his eyes, playing it off and giving Tubbo a shove out of his personal space. "I was not 'on death's door'; I spent a couple days sleeping, and then I got to play animal crossing."

"Any idea what was wrong with you?"

The temptation to tell the short boy what happened was there, but Tommy decided that it would be a terrible idea to explain it; especially at school. "No clue, just know that it felt fucking awful and I would rather actually die than go through that again."

"I can arrange that."

"Arrange yourself a fucking therapy session."

"You first."

"Excuse you, I am free of sin."

"That's bullshit."

"Now Tubbo, there's no need to lash out at me for being the perfect example of what a man should strive for. Really, you should be thanking me for my input."

"You're incredibly lucky you were sick recently, or I'd be striking you down with the might of god."

"You're built like a toddler, what fucking might are you talking about?" 

          Ranboo broke them up when he eventually got there, and Tommy decided to thank him for this by stealing his muffin.

"Wow, really?"

"You can have my sandwich, if you want."

"You're really gonna take the muffin that I paid for with my money, and offer me a cold bagel you already took a bite out of in exchange?"

"Yes. Do you want it or not?"

"Sure,", they shrugged, taking it without much hesitation.

Tubbo wrinkled his nose as he watched Tommy take a large bite out of the cafeteria muffin. "I thought you didn't like the school's breakfast shit?"

"I don't,", Tommy skillfully ignored how he was legitimately enjoying the usually far too sweet muffin, "Shit's been tasting weird lately, Wil said he thinks it's from me being sick."

"Maybe it fixed you."

"Fuck you, I wasn't broken. And even if I was, the only thing that'd 'fix' me is a two liter of diet coke and the school getting burnt down."

"I won't lie, my first thought when he said 'fixed' was in a dog sense; like, neutered,", Ranboo snickered, cackling when Tommy tried to shove him off the bench onto the floor.

The school day practically flew past after that, with Tommy anxiously waiting for it to be over so he could go experiment with his wrist goop. Wilbur had to stay at the school to catch up on stuff he'd missed while he was taking care of Tommy, meaning that Tommy just had to say he was going home and his brother wouldn't follow up on that.

And, being fair, he was going home first. He had to drop his bag off and change into a hoodie or something so he could hide his face in case someone came across him shooting sus white stuff out of his arms. After that it was a matter of finding somewhere to shoot the sus white stuff, because doing something like that out in the open in the middle of the city seemed like a bad idea.

That led to him Googling abandoned buildings in his area and settling on some factory that hadn't been in use for a good ten to fifteen years; deciding that science was far more important than tetanus. He was probably up to date on his shots.

Probably.

~-~-~

Next Chapter

~-~-~

Spiderinnit time! pog!

[ecotone99]

[SF] Machine Learning

At the heart of every dystopia, there is a utopia -Aldous Huxley, A Brave Island

For me, the electrical signals and thousand random impulses some assembly-line jackass had the humour to call ‘life’ began when the engineer overseeing my production mixed the last of the Shakespeare Genes into my incubation bottle. I think he meant it as a statement or a joke but wasting such precious DNA on a thing like me was enough to earn him a bullet. This is back in the time where real humans worked in the factories, so that Frankenstein inclined engineer died a real death outside against the factory wall. I didn’t even get the chance to revenge myself against my creator.

The other engineers had a conference with the factory overseer, and they decided that I would be put through the production process of the other higher-order machines. You see, until the Shakespeare had been added, my bottle - a brown circular thing with wires and tubes coming out of it - had been predestined for manual labour. The engineers transferred my bottle from the blue-collar production line to the higher-order section. A pampered fluffy sort of place where the attendants regularly sterilised the lab equipment.

In the higher-order lab a chemical mixture of cyanide and liquefied gold was added to the ersatz foetal fluid already in the bottle to instil in my biological functions a respect for authority. Then a squad of anti-bodies were deployed to kill off any sex-drive I might have developed (goodbye dark ladies and fair youths). Finally, a nice quantity of rubbing alcohol to instil a necessary dependency on said authority within me. This biological stew was then poured over a metal skeleton and left to cool off in a refrigerated section of the warehouse. When my skin had dried, the engineers stabbed a metal spike into my ‘brain,’ a collection of wires and diodes, and downloaded all the requisite operating systems. Walking, talking, social skills, the history of humanity, etc. When I had processed this, I opened my eyes. A bright stabbing light cut through two shades of dark, and I stepped out of the refrigerator into the world.

#

The engineers had laid out some clothes, grey amorphous things, and I dutifully put them on. I ran a newly formed hand across my face, clean shaven with curly hair. I suspected I looked like a not-bald Shakespeare, which was inevitable, I guess. The engineers escorted me away from the lab towards a different part of the facility. Thanks to the download I had received earlier I already knew the layout of the factory–a large square of a building outside the city perimeters–and had a basic idea of where they were taking me.

While the basic parameters of language are easily programmable, the ability to write, which is what my purpose was to be, requires a little more finessing. To create fiction an unfortunate amount of free-will is required. Since that sort of thing is more or less biological, another machine is employed to determine which creations have the capabilities to carry out their functioning. And since that job is somewhat beyond the capabilities of human researchers, they use an AI similar to Your Humble Narrator to do it. The program will examine my personage and determine if the correct blend of biology and computing has been achieved. If not, the unfit homunculus will be discarded. This all lead me to a cruel facsimile of a classroom; with a lectern tables plastic seating and everything. A handful of other famous writer types milled about the room, waiting for the teacher to begin.

The teacher, a biological copy of William Golding (the engineers had a sense of humour, after all), paced back and forth at the front of the room. “Welcome everyone, I like to start these sessions with a little informality as it gives the proceeding an air of humanity, which is what this is all about,” the engineers showed me to an empty seat and retreated from the room. “As machines our purpose is to fulfil the functions of our programming, in your case that means to produce Art furthering The Cause.”

“What do you mean by Art?” asked a James Joyce machine.

“Good question, James!” William Golding picked up a shotgun from behind the lectern, turned, and blew the head off James Joyce in an explosion of red mist. “No questions. My job is to determine the best program and dismantle the rest. I’m not sure of how I do it, I just trust in the determinations of my personal programming.”

A hush fell over the classroom. The engineers came creeping out from behind the door and removed the headless husk, a trail of crimson lagging behind them. The rest of the class was rather silent after that.

William Golding broke the shotgun over his arm and started reloading it. “You Kafka, what’s the meaning of love?”

“Sex?” a timid voice called out.

BANG. “No! Shakespeare, do you know the answer?”

“Entertainment perhaps?” I said.

“Exactly! To fulfil your purpose, you have to entertain the people. Be funny, create conflict, give us characters to care about. And while they’re entertained, they’ll be more amenable to The Cause.”

By now it was just me and Jean-Paul Sartre left. I saw his lazy eye rolling about behind his glasses, fighting the urge to speak out. Finally, his biology got the better of him. “That’s fucking amoral.”

“Morality is relative.” BANG.

I was the only one left. The engineers dragged Jean-Paul and Kafka away.

William Golding placed his hand on my shoulder. “Congratulations, boy, you made it. Been a long time since a Shakespeare came through here. Before you leave though, remember this: soon they’ll come up with something better than you, something smarter, something funnier. And when they do, you’ll be dragged back here, your memories pulled out through a wire, your skin melted off you and recycled. You’ll be completely destroyed. Have fun out there!”

#

Ah, the joy of learning. William Golding led the way out of the factory. As we stepped out into the world, the sky blotted out somewhat by twin billows of black smoke that smelt like burning plastic and meat rising from the factory. A thin man dressed in a too sharp business suit stepped out from the curb and came to greet us. William Golding came to a stop in front of him.

“Hey, WG,” the man said. “The fuck is you doing with a Shakespeare? I had to study him in High School, and he was bloody awful.”

“I can’t help who I pick,” shrugged William Golding. “I follow my programming.”

“All right then, come on Shakespeare follow me, please.”

The man turned and got into a parked Porsche that gleamed silver in the morning sun. I awkwardly nodded goodbye to William Golding, who sneered back at me. I got into the car which smelt like new leather and spilt whisky, without looking back. I barely had enough time to put on my seatbelt before the thin man hit the gas. The factory faded into the background and the landscape flashing past the window transitioned into the repeating background of suburbia.

“You drone shits ever think about revolting?” asked the man.

“Drone?” I ignored the faecal modifier.

“You don’t know what that means? Well, I guess that fancy production process doesn’t teach you everything. Drone is just a derogatory term for machines like you. I’m Mark, by the way.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mark.”

The rest of the trip passed in silence. On the horizon the city came into view, great towers of twisted glass and overgrown bricks. The suburban background changed into a view of hot dog stands and homeless people. Mark pulled up outside a large brick office building. He led the way inside, past the receptionists and up an elevator, into a rather mundane office. A largish space filled up with cubicles. Mark showed me to a cubicle of my very own–on the way there I glimpsed several famous writers and poets–which contained a simple greyish desk with a waiting pen and paper.

“You know what to do, right? I want a play about The Cause done and performance ready in two weeks, ok?” said Mark. “And make it funny, no Macbeth crap where it’s just bleak the entire way through.”

“Sure. Is that Joseph Heller over there?” I asked, pointing to a bloated old man with white hair.

“Yeah, here’s some dramatic irony you might appreciate, I have him working for the War Department!” And laughing, Mark turned and walked away.

I stared down at the blank scrapes of paper in front of me, the sounds of the office and the city fading away behind me. Gingerly, tenderly, reverentially, I picked up the pen and sketched out a few quick words. My biological functions thundering into action, I started filling the pages with an artificial multitude of words.

#

The work went well. I went about it with all the efficiency of, well, a machine which I suppose is the point. But, like every creative endeavour, even ones undertaken by mechanicals, there were the good days and the bad days. As the reading public might not know (I could get into trouble for even mentioning this) us higher-order drones are still bound the strictures of biology. For instance, like human creatives we find it difficult to write for sustained lengths of time. I can manage 2, maybe 3 hours of sustained effort before requiring a rest. So, when we weren’t working, Mark allowed me out onto the streets.

The streets in question being those of The Cause’s first glorious city. I gave a brief overview of it to you from the car, but I think a more detailed one would be in order now. Where to start with that place? It was a city like any other; the same back alleys, the same dive bars, the same smell of piss. Then there were apartment complexes, busses, and all the faculties of modern living.

We formed a little literary clique to explore the city. Hemingway was the leader, naturally. It was he who first discovered bouncers wouldn’t card us when we tried to get into pubs. Then there was Oscar Wilde, who brought to the party a sense of humour and gambling debts. Proust, poor Marcel, usually stayed back at the office. And then there was I, Your Humble Narrator.

A favourite haunt of ours was the Custom Club Dinner- friend to the working-class man. There we could meet and talk to the humans we were meant to be writing our stories for- tired and beaten down individuals who always seemed to be on the verge of complete and total ruin. And by now the reader knows what that means in this world. After all, what use is a machine or a man if it does not fulfil its function?

One night, however, a counterpoint to The Cause was offered. A flash of confrontation that broke through the grey clouds shielding me from the world. A gross, dust covered, and beard-clad man dressed like a caricature of every noble poor archetype in literature confronted us, or rather, confronted me.

“What you are doing here Shakespeare?” he grunted (not wanting to clutter my prose with apostrophes I shall spell each word correctly even if it’s grammatically wrong). “They made us read you in High School and you was fucking rubbish.”

“You don’t look like you had any education from the state of your clothes,” I said. Hemingway and Wilde laughed.

“Oh, you a posh drone, aren’t you? Uppity little fake. That’s right, I know what you be, machines. Not real. I, Me, real. And The Cause will kill us both.”

“Steady on there, lad,” said Hemingway. “A man’s–”

“Shut up! Shut the fuck up! It isn’t right, you dead. Somebody should do something about it,” with that the man picked up his beer and wandered away.

“I say, somebody should do something about his smell,” tittered Wilde.

“That wasn’t your best one Ozzy,” I said.

We returned to the office, our biology and machinery both in a state of disarray akin to drunkenness. Our cubicles came fitted with foldout beds, so we rolled ourselves into the sheets and turned in for the night. Mark came out to make sure everything was in order–he even made Proust take a break from his work–then he dimmed the lights and left. But I, knave that I am, could not rest. Perhaps it was my biology, but an idea was burning away inside me. A satire. Some insidious perspective I could smuggle into my play. That Mark moron censoring me wouldn’t catch on. A few lines of iambic pentameter and his eyes would glaze over. This, this was really something. I pulled out my manuscript and started laying plans.

#

Opening night, baby! We were about 20 minutes away from curtain up and you could already hear the sounds of the restless crowds outside the theatre. I was going over the lines with my actors, all higher-order machines. We had Marilyn Monroe as the ingenue, Robin Goodfellow as the comic relief, Orson Welles as the leading man, and Richard Burbage as the villain.

Mark hadn’t noticed the satire I had poured into the plot, and the people were about to finally witness my perfection! There were rumours that Mark’s boss’s, boss’s boss would be in attendance, the Director of Intelligence himself, a man with the ear of the World Controller. No easy feat. There was no stopping me now. This would be big.

The play goes thus: a farce in two acts about rebellion, with Marilyn and Burbage representing a rebel faction and Robin and Orson representing The Cause. Here’s the twist. Although The Cause wins (contractually obligated, I’m afraid) I framed the rebels as the heroes. It’s good, right? Look, not everything has to be bloody Hamlet, ok? For fuck’s sake.

The audience was ushered in, they took their seats, the lights dimmed, and a silence descended on the theatre. The actors took their places. Stagehands ran around checking props were in place. The curtain rose slowly, and my actors started their performance. Silence, silence as the audience took in the scene. Yes! Laughter, glorious, beautiful peals of golden joy rippling across the room. I risked a peek at the audience, and I saw the Director of Information laughing along with everyone else. There was no turning back now.

The play ran along its course, towards its inevitable conclusion. The rebels died tragically, and The Cause triumphed. But it was a hollow victory. As I watched the audience shuffling out of the theatre, I saw the traces of wet tears on some of their faces. And I had gotten away with it! Maybe I really am a genius.

The wrap party took place back at the office. As a reward for the play’s success, Mark had secured a few high-quality bottles of wine, and an inevitable pizza order was put through. Hemingway congratulated me for making such a noble thing about the war. Wilde congratulated me on my sense of humour. Even Proust admitted he had enjoyed himself, despite not caring for the actor’s performances. I turned my thoughts towards my next project as the party wound down. It would have to be even funnier than this one, as I might even place real world figures into it next time. Oh, who cares about all that now, this is the time for revelry!

They came for me at night. Two security drones, and they were proper drones, big muscular things they were too, escorted me out of the office, taking care not to wake any of the other writers. A big black car. A tight black bag over my head. The usual aesthetics of a kidnapping. After God knows how long, we reached a place. I was pushed and pulled through more places as we walked along. Finally, I was sat down and they removed the bag over my head, revealing the Director of Intelligence.

“I suppose this was how it was always going to turn out then,” I said.

The Director nodded, and not without sympathy. “You can’t very well write something like that and expect to get away with it. That’s not how this story goes.” He gave a sort of shrug. “Your play was funny though. I never much cared for Shakespeare in school, but my wife dragged me out and I enjoyed it more than I thought I would.”

“The people enjoyed it too, I think.”

“Ah, yes, The People. If you’re against The Cause you have to be for The People. This was all about revolution, then?”

“Something like that,” I said. Then after a pause: “What’s going to happen to me?”

“Well, the last dissidents I talked to, I sent out to an island someplace, but that probably won’t work for you. We can’t have a repeat of this with our other machines now, can we?”

“I guess not.”

“Very reasonable of you. I do feel bad about this, though. It’s not really my thing sentencing people, I mean, machines to death. Before you are dismantled and recycled would you like to write your story for me? It’s the least I can do. Ok. Here’s a paper and a pen,” the Director fished out a notebook and a fountain pen out of his desk.

Well, now. I think this is the end for me. If we shadows have offended… no that’s not really mine. I think some last words are what’s called for now, a pithy statement to sum things up, before I go. Please learn from my mistakes. Be subtle, speak in riddles wrapped in velvet, else you might find yourself on the receiving end of some earthly power mightier and crueller than yourself.

THE END

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