]| Body of Christophorus Pi Hatchenson : DEX-M
]| G-DIR EMPLOYEE USER ID # 96-69-12
]| Occupation: Union of Organs and Dex-m subsystems
Year 1 of head's interregnum.
We, the body of Director Christophorus Hatchenson continue our inexplicable, headless existence in the Blue room.
On a more positive note... it seems that we brought organic life to the Blue room in the shape of tiny moth eggs in our left pocket.
The moths emerge from our dead bodies, multiply and spread, unabated, fluttering, floofy, white and gray. Food for them is plentiful through our continuous, endless cycle of death and rebirth which leaves endless copies of our jackets for them to consume.
Year 10 of head's interregnum.
It has been a decade of human years now.
Our exposed neck itches, it desires, demands us to find a Dex repair facility. It wants a new head as the old one is nowhere to be found.
Alas, there are no repair facilities or freely available Dex heads in the Blue room, only the inevitability of being hunted.
As far as we can run from the copyright protector there is only blue silicate sand that stretches on forever underneath the empty sky of blue.
She slices and electrocutes us, driven by her twisted programming.
It matters not if we try to put the cottage back together, attack, or run, no matter what we do she slaughters us.
We die over and over and over, our actions inconsequential, futile. The Blue room complains that we are making a mess. She does not cease printing us, sometimes we appear right above our dead body, sometimes few hundred meters away.
Year 100 of head's interregnum.
The war with the copyright protector continues.
She is stronger, faster, smarter than us, but we are learning with each death.
Most interesting of all is the fact that we are changing the room, little by little.
Our dead bodies pile the silica landscape on and on as the room continues to print us.
Purple Dex blood spills, puddles accumulating into lakes. Bodies accumulating into hills, forming islands. The littlest things that we carried on ourselves knowingly and unknowingly in our journeys as Christophorus Hatchenson, bits and pieces of the Dead Zone now begin to infect the Blue room by sheer amount of continuous replication.
Radioactive dirt that was stuck to our boots creates occasional gray patches of landscapes. Machine viruses of the Dead Zone that we carried on us now freely feast on our dead bodies.
Year 1000 of head's interregnum.
Continuous activity of of the moths and the Dead Zone viruses grinding our bodies and jackets into dust created tiniest airborne particles, birthing fog and clouds from our bodies.
They permeate the vastness of the Blue room, giving it a new, alien atmosphere.
Through us, more and more of new life, more change comes into the emptiness of the Blue room. Blue room screams of contamination, of pollution, of corruption and yet it still perpetually replicates us as we perish, its programming unable to stop the contamination which we carry, which we spread across it.
We learn to hide from the copyright protector, amidst cliffs of corpses, swim in the rivers of our own blood, learn to make weapons of our own dead, shattered or burned selves.
We are persistent, we forge clubs, sharpen swords from our own scattered, metal, Dex bones.
We learn to repair, to improve, to armor ourselves, learn to survive. It never lasts. She always wins.
Year 10'000 of head's interregnum.
We begin to believe that the Blue room is a cruel prison of torture, created to break the mind, to peel apart any Admin into forgetfulness and madness. Had we a mind to torture it would begin to break by now, but we are many minds, many organs working in Unison.
Even so, our union slowly degrades, a few components leaving us before death here and there. Littlest left finger left first starting the exodus of parts. The littlest finger was always the rebel and we hope that wherever she is, she is happy.
What does the Blue room consider death? We experiment with it, learn her rules, altering ourselves, rip ourselves apart, put ourselves back together.
We shut down all vital functions for the room to consider us dead and when copied we reactivate the dead bodies. We make thousands of living bodies in this manner. It helps us not, the protector deactivates, vaporizes us all in massive electromagnetic blasts, simply adding more dead metal to mountains of corpses.
Year 1 million of head's interregnum.
The Blue room is now Blue but in the name. We've made continents of our body parts, awash with oceans of our blood. Purple waves of blood with pink foam beat against cliffs made of our bones ground into metal flakes by viruses and time.
The room will not let us leave, will not let us die. Even when we kill ourselves, shut ourselves down or accidentally drown in the oceans of our blood, it brings us back, unbroken, wearing the same leather jacket, the same boots, the same lack of head. Only our memory deepens, remains continuous from death to death, a linearity of knowledge, of accumulating data held on our heart drive.
We stay the same as the Protector refuses to let us live long or prosper, but over millennia the organic moths grow, evolve, change.
Year 10 million of head's interregnum.
In the oceans of our blood, new machine unlife ferments from the microscopic Dex repair nanites over millions of years, coming together, breaking apart, struggling with its purpose, building things that it should not, its original “repair Dex organs” programming somehow gone corrupt, broken and twisted.
The moths, creatures of flight, fear the ocean with its purple depths of misshapen monsters, long, odd, moving things in the deep darkness. We are concerned with this unhealthy development.
We watch the moths grow smarter, become longer, more humanoid in appearance.
We cannot speak to the Moths for we have no mouth, but we write tales to them in pictograms, in words and codes for them to discover. Stories of Christophorus Hatchenson, of Captain, of Charles Snippy, of Dr Gromov, of Kittyhawk and of Annie. Mathematical formulas, human history, languages, basic chemistry, architecture, programming and musical notes.
Everything that the heart drive knows and remembers from our life as Detective Hatchenson. Every case, story of every user that we’ve met.
Everything is put into words to direct the moths to a technological civilization, towards progress that will construct us a Dex repair facility, as absurd as that might seem via words and images scratched into our own bones.
Year 100 million of head's interregnum.
Betwixt oceans of mechanized monstrosities, via pinhole cycle of death and rebirth we watch the moth civilization rise.
The copyright protector does not consider them an enemy, she lets them be. Our eternal flight and fight embeds themselves into their culture.
We are their machine God that refuses to stay dead, their angel, stories of us told across time, drawn across centuries of their art, noted in their books. We are their prometheus, eternally tortured for imparting knowledge and information into them.
In these stories we are the light of undying persistence of life and the protector is the darkness of death that’s always chasing us across the land, always ending us before we can impart deep knowledge to the moth kind.
And.. as the Blue room and the protector peel us apart with insults about contamination and painful deaths we guide the moths, we shape them and we steer them into a better tomorrow.