Prologue

23 1 0



M.C. LOG 2032-02-14. 3:44 PM.

----------------------------------------------------------------

SITUATION: U.S. dollar unable to compete with foreign exchange rates. International trade patterns closing. Domestic resources declining.

ANALYSIS: Population largely unaware. Will vote for higher taxes based on provided information regarding perceived level of crisis.

RECOMMENDATION:

- Utilize remaining funds and resources to construct colony GENERIK on costless land.

Blueprints on sheets 2A – 263A.

- Amass citizenship through propaganda.

Examples on sheets 304C – 351C.

----------------------------------------------------------------


Installation

Acoustic ceiling panels and stainless steel countertops. White feather beds, opalescent tubs and air dryers that operated at full blast. Round the clock meds at just the right intervals and doses, a redscreen that showcased the latest trends, scores, gadgets, and starlets. Mom in the gym at the lower level and dad hiding in the kitchen or down at one of the NightChapels—a habit more than 2x weekly he thought we didn't know about. This was what my first greenhouse was like. I was there till about age seven, I think. Since then I've upgraded. All my appliances are self-cleaning, and my redscreen is almost twice as big as the little 90-inch we kept in that house. The gym is top-of-the-line and my parents are nowhere to be found.

By now I've been able to afford enhancement for most of my senses—I can see in the dark and every touch is electric, who cares that I've had to sacrifice memory space in order to make room for new adjustments? I'm lean/athletic, and have just the right amount of facial stubble, but the curve of my jawline is slight enough to attract whomever I please. I'm considerate and efficient in bed, if a bit kinky according to some. I've got everything I want, it seems.

If only I didn't keep seeing the same things over and over, like a redscreen recording on a residual loop, like coming down from the highest quality candy injections, like men and women and their eyes are all the same. It's been hours, days, centuries—and still I've been sitting in this sterile white waiting room, false light penetrating the slits of my eyes and the faint hum of machines, hard at work and barely working at all.

SubterranRead this story for FREE!