"Am I just a citizen" the stop program denizens shouted vainly, the maze of mirrored sheepled construct-like drones. Masses winding round the cold hard lines of the frozen city street. Once prosperous, the city's future no longer held court in the centre square as it had for Millenium Arc. Today no future thought could be found; For every Zane Citizen it was just another day in paradise; ignorance being a hit of Temp Bliss. All ignorance of known realities, and future realities scoured, wiped clean from the slate of humanity's last remaining template.
Enraged masses stood in unison, cut out to look like humans the frozen background an unneccesary script remained as a security program. Maxime thought this is what humans must once have looked like, his artistry being slightly short of genius.
No regenerated heat today, maybe not for years, hard to say, as time stood all most close to still and stillness lingered like a wet blanket on the days events. "If only things could animate once more" thought pensive Maxime of the Pursed Lips. For those who remembered the last source of sythesized thought, of the way warmth once felt when Pure Sunshine filled the hollows of their souls. Not leather soles, but real human souls, the source of all Love felt by each.
It was during the last days, time counting down to zero sourcing of renewable energy and worth fighting for, all those years ago. Disappearing templates being a huge problem for Maxime and the Authorotons, the elements were being removed before their eyes. Gone like a puff a smoke. Even the Gleaners could not use their magic recapture bullets.
The medium gray clouds hung so very low and literally foreshadowed the soon to be frozen lifeless bodies of the Denizen Torton Drones now 120 degrees minus farenheit. Drones nows, once cloned, now zoned nuisance creatures. Their long shadows cast eastward intersecting the western proximal region at the epigee where the sun once stood.
Today these replayed memory chips cast dispersions, quick pictures of crowd control from Life Magazine circa 1969's on the walls of the city's many gray skyscrapers. Once colourful, the colour slowly fading and now dying. Once the domain of many a riotous uprisings pre 69. The Authoritons had hoped to create new worlds where learned helplessness becames blighted hopelessness. In their efforts, the Authratons grew greedy for cash cow creamed crop off the top world of only the best and brightest. A resurgency to all that was extreme, the efforts of the left outweighed by a contrived future world where nothing was left to Chance. Those who disagreed where eliminated, and now the Authoratons realized they needed the dispossessed for their survival. Even though humanity was removed as a equation, there was always the fear it would return to screw things up again. But the screw ups were the Authoratons who's greedy ambition knew no bounds of constraint. The Authoratons lack of depth in the inclusion process create the void that was now their hell. Could Maxime Tour du Force help them any longer or would he go the way of the idiot dodo birds that came before, the ones who martyred themselves for the cause. The Authoratons had their fill, and now they were getting their just desserts; the desert of waiting taking a little longer than never. No having been the operative word for so long to the Denizen. The Authoratons corporate status quo stuck in the quagmire of its own effluence, not affluence.
Citizens Revolt against Corporate Realton's mentality challenged the Ad Libitum with stark realities. The reconfig meant the partition was working. All those long lost, fleetingly and not well remembered years from tattered and unravelled gene scrolls. All these hurriedly and newly created worlds were not held prisoner any longer by emotions deemed transitory and alldelusy elusive. Many ions imparted emotions departure, never burden humans again. Emotions, to the Authoritons were a lesson in learned futility and were to be avoided at all costs.
The 4 pm slanted dull shadow cast its elongated of the once human Denizen. As the temperatures dropped that much more. As the numbed faceless heads swayed animatingly back and forth to gaze at the buried sun, once countless trees orderly lined the vibrant now laid waste boulevard.
Maxime could not recall the meaning of Bill C2012; but he knew it was of significance importance at one time. This afternoon's attempt to induce the human label on the Logon-like Denizens; actual zombies who just appeared or rather, attempted to appear righteous in the Act of Rebellion. An attempt by Maxime's school of Denizen Construct to find all fragments of the Reality Channel long lost Reality Channel fragment from circa 1973. Only threaded reruns from podcast 983799zd could replicate to any authority the designation so desired for future stability. The Daisy Obligatory set sail to find lost connections without Logic's Domain.
There was no righteousness to these ghost harbingers. Their presence meant death would certainly enuse for all programs. It was soon to be realized by Maxime and only after the collectivized and tortured dreams were replayed in HOLOGRAMED Sterophonic Transdermal Tnducement.
The cops carried only copper now. Not as guns. Not for billie clubs. Nor stun guns or sinister gas casnisters with mustard colouration; those needed in their ancient arsenal deemed redundant. No need for these crowd-control tools of the past. "Where we are now we're dealing with the past. That was behind us. So far behind that no individual ever clued into the mechanical devices, idiots that they be, then, when they were idiots, I meant to say" Maxime chimed on his podcaster.
The lulled crowds turned to the occluded sun as if they were planning to collectively restore their plasma energy. From energy's regeneration these stringy humanoid plants hoped for the tiny ray, the quick sliver of silvered light captured on the back of the steely Brain Trust's Recapture Protocol 97563 or POC nonmenclature.
Maxime was beginning to realize this profane attempt to recapture the long lost last bits; jeweled remanents of hybridization circa 1930's was a no win gamble for Maxime. Of course Maxime knew this, his prosperous past had been duly noted by the Authoritons. The clever lapel pin held onto his psuedo personae like the fabric of his life which was unravelling his dna strands like worn-out shoe laces.
As a prosperous player, Maxime could only dream of worlds he captured. These once created worlds having been actualized not realized as reality did not matter. Between being and NonBeing; the Bridge World. The lie behind the truth, the truth which never showed its face lately. Maxime was worried that the new formulations now regathered from the recapture where threads without substance. Maxime realized how much more than necessary it was for ancient data retrieval. Maybe as far back as the beginning of the twentieth century. All data had been or was thrown out with the bathwater, thought useless. Now realized, how the dynamic of these long lost numbers impacted the future and the truth found in the future.
For a time the Company's Mavens were ravenously hungry for more bait. Like blood-hungry cannibals, they searched with penetrating light beams in all darkened spaces. Efforts to find the glory; the truth held hostage. Where were the truthful numbers, the pathway covered with sand, the gateway certainly eluded them.
All hope was almost lost. Then Maxime realized the long lost desert gene/slice motherboard; lost scrolls held deep within Big Blue. The journey there not on this planet. A new set of perimeters to comprehend. Not an easy sell. The records did contain, certainly they did contain the only known placement of Proximal Reality. In the world that contained only these partial fragments to directional maps of reality a way up the Spiral Cord. A champion of sanguinous burgundy; rich with potential; to the Gleaners.
101 felt let down by the lack of future prospects having tasted all the wares. She becoming reticent of men. Clamours she called them. They came and went. No longevity. No concept of lasting love. No romance. No Romeos. There was no one left where she left off in her Research Trials. She did not sense the appelant emptiness; screaming at the universe seemed inane. Why would Maxime allow this theatre of the absurd to exist at all? Was absurdity allowed but not hosted reality segments? 101 J-bot feminine, wiley fox of an android thought feverishly. Time was running out, after all. Maxime may have something up his sleeve; he usually had in the past. The future illuminations from the Gleaners the only focus as to where the light had been since time set them upon this course. How unwavering now a matter of dispute in hot circles.
Not feeling well today, Maxime was beginning to weep, not tears of sadness, as emotions were irrelevant to the Company, but remembered sadness, which now only took the form of dampened epidermis around the occular sockets. He missed 101 J-bot. He just did not understand why he missed her. What was special about J-bot? Everyone else had the same nuts and bolts. "Maybe secret encoded from ancient numbered remanants" hypothesized Maxime Tour du Force.
Would the Authoritons allow Maxime the time to escape the podcast Direct Order? Would the Realtons allow Maxime the time to test his theories to save the hyperplasia? Could Maxime find the glean once more through the clouded reality set upon all Trontons known in the Denizen quandrant?
Maxime felt the furry pelts of the past on the couch of the Museum du Humanitaire. To him, the feeling was a preformed construct, as much a templated and digitized expression of sensory delusion. Since reality was no longer an option, Maxime stuck to the tried and true, as true non reality can get. He had to find the RNA sequence before life's podcast direct from the Mainframe last remaining defragmentation. The question whether or not Maxime had the time or the motivation to pursue all of mankind's efforts to find the trig and set course to Regenesis' Future.
Whether or not the N7H8 adequately compensated his heroic efforts or, and feeling less than honoured for his brain trust, Maxime eluded the Authorons once more. The once belaboured unbound resourcefulness of the once known human spirit would be futile now. The program did not exist before 2011.
Today, Maxime's efforts at this late juncture was much like finding the eye of the needle, the last sand crystal numbered with the ancient writings. The Construct of composed timeline in which faded eras held court only owned by Gleaners ten decades ago. The long lost desert scrolls were not found in they hyperplasia; Maxime needed to find them, and soon. All this that he had recaptured, recreated and retool in the Corporate Design Label; The Logon, lost now, had held the key to all Truth.