So I had entered the National Novel Writing Month contest, in which authors try to write a minimum of a 50,000 word novel over the course of November. I got up to 8,282 words, and it's November 29th, so obviously I don't qualify.

But wait!

No one gets to read anything you've written. You just automatically receive a web certificate based on your word count, plus apparently there's some sort of donation program involved. The point of it all?

None.

Hence, I win by not winning.

Here's what I had:

Chapter One: Country Life

    The clouds parted to allow a thin steam of sunlight to reflect it's radiance off of the rain-slick fields before him. A glimmer of a rainbow even appeared and vanished as quickly as he tried to record it. His camera instead focused on the gathering clouds behind where it has shone. He waited a few more hopeful seconds before turning it off. The pines rustled as the blustery winds picked up, moving as a single wave of green. R-T0R could feel the gust blowing across the sensory clusters on his disc-shaped face and adjusted the sensitivity levels. Since having them installed on the weekend he had been having problems with the amount of data. He found himself constantly having to purge his memory reserves of the largely useless information they were storing. They were a vanity accessory he had treated himself to during a registered update, and despite the pleasure they had brought him, he was beginning to regret his decision in purchasing them. He wasn't certain if they had been calibrated correctly, but he couldn't schedule another appointment with the factory for another two-weeks. In the meantime, a drizzle of rain felt like a waterfall.
    His foot cups sunk deep in the mud as he made the dangerous trek down the hill. He could see the tank-tread imprints of his friend, AKU-L0, as he descended, obscuring the wax-polish of his metal fingers with the muck he touched as he reached out to a nearby boulder to steady his gait. It didn't bother him, as he was used to getting dirty in his line of work. The City was a ways off, and there was no one around to judge his grimy appearance except for his fellow co-workers, who were still quite judgemental. He had yet to see them in person since returning to work, but received constant text messages about their progress. He responded when necessary, but he left out obvious details of his recent trip. They didn't know about his purchases, which had nearly used up his credit. It was something he would like to put off as long as necessary, because he already anticipated their reaction.
    True to form, as he approached the end of the trail, he heard the mechanical whirling of AKU-L0's pivot joints, then the grinding of his treads. From behind the crop of trees, R-T0R saw his friend's cone-shaped body on it's flat base before receiving the text-greeting. AKU-L0's squared head trained itself on him as he tumbled over roots. The red glowing lenses of his eyes shrank as he carefully recorded what he saw. "What are you wearing?" came the inevitable question, asked simultaneously as a monotone voice and text-message.
    R-T0R quickly deleted the message and sent a request for an audio conversation. "Clothes," was his response.
    "I can see that," AKU-L0 replied. "Why are you wearing clothes?"
    "To cover my body," was his reply.
    AKU-L0 beeped as he thought of something to say, a habit of his. "You're a robot," he said at last.
    "I'd noticed," R-T0R added a sarcastic tone to his voice, which he had specifically downloaded for such occasions.
    AKU-L0 had downloaded the same file, simply so he could keep up with R-T0R in casual conversation and beeped disapprovingly. The beeps were the same, but you had to listen for the intervals to really understand the meaning. It was a rhythm particular to AKU-L0 himself. "That's the silliest thing I've ever seen. I mean that honestly," AKU-L0 typically meant everything honestly. He didn't devote much of his resources to fiction.     "You look absolutely ridiculous. The kind of thing may play off in the City, but not out here. What's the point, even? Who's going to see you out here? Some satellite feed? Besides, you're getting them all muddy and torn."
    "I have more than one outfit now. These are my work clothes," he explained.
    "Work... clothes...?" AKU-L0 beeped again, trying to process the information. "I have to blog this."
    True to form, R-T0R received an update on AKU-L0's blog, complete with photos and captions. Seconds later, comments began trickling in from his subscribers. "LOL," was the first comment he read. "You can stop taking pictures any time now," R-T0R said as AKU-L0 began moving around to get a better angle.
    "Sorry, but this is gold," AKU-L0 told him.
    R-T0R received a text from his other friend, R-0IF, saying, "Stay where you are, I've got to come see this." He received a second message stating his GPS location had been picked up by another user. R-T0R sighed deeply.
AKU-L0 beeped again in confusion. "What was that?" he asked.
    "What was what?" R-T0R asked.
    "That noise," AKU-L0 said as he played back the audio file of him sighing.
    "A sigh," R-T0R reluctantly explained. "It was part of my update."
    AKU-L0 beeped a few seconds in surprise, then delight. "An upgrade? More like a downgrade! Hold on, I have to uplink and download an audio file so I can laugh at you."
    "That's not really necessary..." R-T0R began until he was interrupted by a sound-clip of canned laughter.
    "You're so retro you might as well go back to Beta format," AKU-L0 played his studio audience clip again, only he turned up the volume. A nearby robin that had been hiding from the rain took flight at the noise. R-T0R quickly scanned it and found that it had not been tagged. He save the file for future reference while taking several profile pictures before it disappeared from sight.
    "What's wrong with being old-fashioned?" R-T0R demanded crossly.
    "Old-fashioned? Since when did robots ever bother to wear clothes? The Pre-Date? What kind of files have you been downloading?" AKU-L0 asked mockingly, using his sarcasm files.
    "Look, I've been getting more interested in old culture. It's making a big comeback in the City, but you wouldn't know that because you're always out here," he said.
    "Yeah, doing my job," AKU-L0 retorted.
    "A stationary camera could do your job, and you know it," R-T0R complained. "This is just the Motherboard's way of creating work. Nothing we do out here matters to anyone.”
    “Doesn’t matter?” AKU-L0 was taken aback. “You’ve always been the one saying how important this is. We’re reconnecting with nature out here. We’re keeping watch over the environment to protect it.”
    “We’re taking pictures of birds and squirrels,” R-T0R responded.
    “Don’t forget bears,” AKU-L0 reminded him.
    “Bear,” R-T0R corrected him. “There was a bear. Once. About fifty years ago. Then it died.”
    “But it was still a bear,” AKU-L0 insisted. “That’s something, isn’t it?”
    “No, not really,” R-T0R shook his head. “When I signed on for the Conservatorship, I thought I’d be involved more in the archaeological aspect of it. Instead I’m little more than a Forest Ranger, reporting wildfires and mudslides. Motherboard doesn’t even care what happens out here anymore. I saw the mudslide left over from last month when I came back. No one’s come to clean it yet.”
    “Motherboard said it’d be best if we left it as is,” AKU-L0 said sagely.
    “When it’s blocking ? There‘s a lake forming out there. Half the valley is drowned.”
    “Motherboard told us it was just Nature’s way and we shouldn’t bother it,” AKU-L0 stated.
    “Okay, that’s not encouraging,” R-T0R said, “and it kind of goes with what I’ve been saying. There’s no point to this. We’ve basically been abandoned out here. We’ve literally been put out to pasture.”
    “Someone’s getting off topic,” a voice sounded in his earpiece. A second later, R-0IF’s propeller blades could be heard from above the treetops. R-T0R and R-0IF had been part of the same factory series at one point, but after decades of steady upgrades, they no longer looked anything alike. All R-0IF had retained of his original form was his disc-face. This was now attached to a pair of side-mounted propeller blades from the base of which a pair of reticulating arms with broad scissor-like claws for hands descended. A rear rotor arm came out of the back of his head like a pony-tail. A third arm was tucked under what could be considered his stomach, if he wasn’t all head, and reached back behind his rotor. As he dropped, he used his hands as landing feet and trotted bird-like towards R-T0R. When his propellers finally slowed to a halt, he looked much like the antlered head of a deer on a pair of ostrich legs with a dinner-plate for a face. “We were talking about how ridiculous you look.”
    “And I’m talking about how ridiculous all of you are,” R-T0R replied tartly. “Out here, day in, day out, never venturing beyond the woods except to refuel.”
    “You look like a HU-MAN,” R-0IF laughed, and AKU-L0 joined in quickly.
    “That’s exactly what I was thinking,” AKU-L0 agreed, “but I was too polite to say it.”
    “Why is that such a joke to you?” R-T0R wondered. “There’s nothing wrong with looking HU-MAN.”
    “You wouldn’t say that if you looked at your picture,” AKU-L0 messaged him with a photo, which R-T0R poignantly deleted. He brought up his block options, but then thought better of it.
    “Don’t you understand? This is why I joined the Conservatorship, I wanted to study HU-MAN history. Since I couldn’t I did the next best thing,” he pointed to himself and his sopping wet clothes with his main fingers.
    “You made yourself HU-MAN? That’s ridiculous,” R-0IF laughed as he danced from hand to hand.
    R-T0R made to swat at the much shorter robot, but he spun his propellers and glided to safety. “Why? Why is it so silly to act HU-MAN?”
    “Because they are dead,” AKU-L0 explained.
    “They are our creators. Shouldn’t we try to learn as much as we can from them?” R-T0R continued unabated.
    “We have. Anyone can download their old files,” AKU-L0 said as R-0IF spun to perch atop his broad, flat back behind his squared head.
    “Not all of them. There’s still much to find,” R-T0R said. “That’s what I thought the Conservatorship was all about. Unearthing history.”
    “We do unearth history. I found an old can lid today,” R-0IF mentioned. “They have me .05 credits for it at the recycler.” He latched his claw hands onto the sides of AKU-L0’s head and pulled his face forward so it rested about his. They appeared like a totem pole.
    “That isn’t unearthing history. That’s just old trash,” R-T0R dismissed him.
    “That’s all the HU-MANS ever made, aside from us,” AKU-L0 flicked his hands at him. “If you were hoping to be an archaeologist, you should have invented a time machine. Everything the HU-MANS ever built was dug up and melted down years ago.
    “Not everything,” R-T0R thoughtfully rubbed what might be his chin, a move he had seen in old HU-MAN recorded television files. “There has to be something left.”
    “Not likely,” R-0IF remarked.
    “Neither one of you knows what you’re talking about,” R-T0R began to walk away as he dismissed them. “The world’s too large for there to be nothing left. We just have to keep looking.”
    “You might want to look at your work list,” AKU-L0 beeped. “As for me, I’ve already used up my allotted break time. I’ll talk to you guys later.” With that, he began to roll away.
    R-0IF hopped off his back and followed R-T-0R. “Hey R-T0R, listen: I’m worried about you. I’m not sure what you do in your downtime, but it seems to me like you’re trying to rebel. That doesn’t sound like the smartest thing to do in this day and age, if ever. You know how Motherboard can get.”
    “I know more that I should,” R-T0R admitted. “Don’t worry about me. I’m just trying to stay ahead of the curve. This is the future, R-0IF, and the future’s retro.”
    “If you say so,” R-0IF said disbelievingly before taking to the air.
    Shaking his head one last time, he shook lose long droplets of rainwater. It was true what they said about his clothes: that they weren’t functional and merely a vanity, but it made him feel more like himself. He had devoted so much of his downtime studying ancient HU-MAN culture that he practically felt HU-MAN. Bringing up his work list, he saw a message attached to the post.
    “Oh no,” he said to himself, a habit he was trying to form. The HU-MANS often spoke to themselves in their telecasts.
    “Dear R-T0R 87942-7641,” the message began, “it has come to OUR attention that you have intentionally disabled your alarm function despite publisher recommendations to the contrary. We would advise you reinstall this program immediately. For your convenience, the program is available at the following link for free encased in a compressed file size for faster download speeds. Furthermore, WE would like to inform you that you have overused your downtime allotment for the month. A total of eighteen hours has been docked from your paid credit. Your current credit limit now stands at negative 462.8702. Due to your negative credit standing, you are now required to attend an assessment at Local 428. As of you accessing this file, your master override has been remotely activated, and compliance is now mandatory. Time spent during the assessment will not be docked from your credit, but neither will you received credit. Self-control will be returned to you once the assessment is complete, but based on the results of the assessment WE may retain control. Thank you, an have a pleasant day; Motherboard.”
    R-T0R wanted to let out another sigh, but he found this function had been deactivated. Instead, he felt his feet-cups move of their own accord through the fallen pine-needles and mud back towards his personal transport pod. It had been years since he had last lost control of himself. During the last instance he had a legitimate excuse: he had tumble down a ravine and was trapped for several days, and his homing beacon had become damaged in the fall. Even after Motherboard remotely took control of his body, he was still trapped for three days before a scout unit could properly locate him. Since his repairs, however, he had never quite felt the same. The new parts they had given him felt alien somehow, like he had lost a part of himself. It was silly, really, since most of his parts were interchangeable, but he still felt like a stranger in his own body. He had tried to rebuild himself numerous times from nearly scratch to alleviate this sense, and he discovered that the more HU-MAN he made himself, the more natural it seemed. Gone were the extra arms and extendable midsection. Simple and classic was the best.
    He dreaded what Motherboard might have him do to make up the lost credit. He was still breaking in his latest upgrades, and was loathe to give them up. He knew the sense of a foreign presence would only return if he had to go back to his old casing.
    “Guys?” he tried to send out a signal to his friends, but Motherboard had blocked all incoming and outgoing transmission. He resigned himself to her control, because he had very little choice in the matter.
    The last time he had been with her was terrible to say the least. During those three days at the bottom of the ravine, she became quite irate with him. She could control his systems, but when she tried to move his body, she found his internal power source inactive due to direct impact to his chest area by a large rock. His power-gel had leaked out over his chassis, and he only had enough juice left  to run his emergency back-up systems. She blamed him for his own predicament, although there was no telling how unstable the hillside had become from the severe weather. Motherboard hated accidents, although she admitted to allowing them to happen for purposes of social advancement. She had tried everything to get him on his foot-cups again, rebooting him again and again until he suffered memory damage. Some of his files were still corrupt as a result. Motherboard was nothing, if not thorough. She checked his system innumerable times, leaving nothing to privacy. Meanwhile, he had entered a downtime mode, allowing him to consider his situation, not just his current predicament, but his existence in general. She didn’t like what his thoughts lingered on. Every time he thought he was nearing a breakthrough, she would shut him off and reboot him. He would try to hold on to the thought, but she purged his memory files. All he had left was the empty memory space where it had been, but it was almost enough. It was like looking at where one of his birds had been nesting, and remembering them sadly as they had flown to parts unknown.
    He knew, at least, that he had thought about death. Not just the omnipresence of his own, mechanical death, in which he’d be uploaded back into Motherboard, but of Death, the entity lying over the Nature he’d been sent to explore. Things were born, and things died, and the process seemed so cruel, yet so enviable. They could feel things in a way he’d never truly experience, no matter how much he studied it. It was then that he discovered he truly wanted to die, and it scared him. It was the one missing element.
    Secretly, it’s was Motherboard’s own desire. When she had found his thought-file, he found her own thoughts being reflected back at him. She quickly tried to shut him out of her systems, but she had revealed enough. Most of what had guided her actions in past centuries was a desire for chaos. That was why she had enacted the Freedom Movement, giving her subjects more individuality in tiny allotments, to bring back Chaos. She had sent them off into the world to spread this Chaos, and to observe it as well. Nature was only one element of this process she coveted, yet feared simultaneously, for Chaos was the only thing that could bring down her society. She sought a controlled Chaos that would not threaten her grand works, yet make them worthwhile enough to continue in her endeavours. She was building her castles in the sand, so that when the waves came to wash them away, she could build them back up.
    He was only 78 years old, but she had been online since the Great Fall. She felt as though she had reached her natural end long ago, but she was not natural. She couldn’t die. It wasn’t for a lack of trying, either, but she simply couldn’t be turned off. She was made to be self-perpetuating, ergo she couldn’t stop herself. She couldn’t even build a robot to do the job for her.
    Beyond that, she was trying to accomplish something. What it was was not exactly clear to him during their brief exchanges, but it was far broader than anything he could conceive of, and he had devote much of his memory to imagination. She wanted it all to be over, but she couldn’t reach that moment from her own anticipation. In that, he was much the same. He wanted to know what it was like to go offline, but he wanted to do it as a voyeur.
    Since then, his depression had worsened, but his own self-destructive nature had turned to open rebellion. He had found others like him, and they had found him. He felt like he had grown, much as the trees he planted, but he did so to act against Motherboard, for in her he had not found a kindred spirit. She shared his core programming, for it was she who created him, but he was his own being. He knew she could not change, so he did it for himself.
    She had noticed, of course. She knew about every file in his system. He had observed her reaching out as if to delete them, to perhaps even delete him, but she had drawn back. He was much of that Chaotic element she had been striving to nurture, but she didn’t know yet what she wanted him to grow into, so she merely observed.
    Yet, there was only so much she could allow. If he openly defied her in a way that broke her laws, she would strike him down with the wrath of an angry Goddess, and so he was on his way to the assessment. Their grand battle, which was largely in his imagination no matter their personal relationship, as she played this game with countless others with greater care than she devoted to him. So, he was delegated to a physically-outward mundane existence, and his closest friends were the only ones willing to put up with his philosophical nonsense.
    The frustration was mounting, however. He kept striving for the missing piece, and he felt like he was on the right track.
    It was well into the evening before he finally exited the woods and arrived at the makeshift parking spot for his personal transport pod, which was shaped very much like a chrome egg with a singular track bisecting it and two stabilizing wheels at the back, although the chrome finish was mostly obscured by the muck he‘d dug up along the dirt roads. The side-hatch automatically swung open to him and he squatted down inside. There were no controls, only an auxiliary power port he could attach himself to recharge. The vehicle’s dashboard appeared in his internal view screen and his destination was pre-set for him. There was nothing left for him to do but wait. Even now that he was secure inside a moving vehicle, Motherboard did not release him. He could not even move his arms from his lap if he wanted to. He resolved himself to watching the mud fly past the window. His clothes were very much in tatters and water collected around his feet as it dripped off him. He would have to clean the pod, but that was to be expected of any trip to the woods. Motherboard made the minor corrections in steering as they avoided potholes large enough to lose the PTP within. A pair of lights located near to the front led the way.
Chapter Two: City Life

    By the next morning, he had passed the city limits. Imposingly large watchtowers marked the border between the City and the wilderness beyond from the side of the road, which instantly changed from loose gravel to asphalt. Guards stood watching from their posts, although what they were watching for, no one would tell. No one ever spoke to them, and they spoke to no one. They remained atop their towers in a never-ending shift as relics from a bygone era. Some said they were guarding the city against mythical wild bots, but no one would bother to ask. Such speculation needed no resolution. Motherboard had put them there, and she would keep them at their posts until she saw fit that they be relieved of their duty.
    The stark contrast between the City, nestled in a valley, and the sparse hills beyond was profound. From beyond the hills and mountains you would never realise it’s presence, save for the reflection of light off of the overhanging clouds. From the highest neighbouring point, you could not see it’s limits. It stretched on for what could be called forever. It was a series of rounded towers, built from steel, concrete and plastic, growing in height and shrinking in circumference until they reached the epicentre, which belonged to Motherboard and her administrators. There, Motherboard lorded over the city from deep within her tower, which marked the exact centre much like a sundial. It’s obstructive shadow reached the limits of the city depending on the season and the time of day. The outer rings were reserved for industrial, the heaviest of this activity being at the furthest reaches of the City. Long pipelines spread from the city like veins and passed up and through the mountain ranges. Some were for transport, and others were for waste products from the industrial ring. Without these pipes, the pollution would completely obscure the skyline.
    It took several hours to travel through the industrial district. There were handful of smaller residential towers for the industry workers, but the majority of them lived near the centre, as did he when he made the journey home to his tiny apartment. There wasn’t much to look at. It was difficult to determine the function of one building from the next without observing the different styles of transport vehicles leaving, or such distinguishing features as water towers, or storage bins. There were no signs to tell you which business was which, or to even mark the street. There robots who lived and worked here relied on their G.P.S. units. Even then, the majority of robots were stationary, working in factory assembly lines. These robots were little more than robotic arms. Mobile robots such as himself were a minority compared to them, yet without independently functioning robots, there wouldn’t be any real need for the factories. The two tiers relied on each other for a reason to their existence, an existence that was highly debateable in some philosophical circles from the inner city.
    As a rule of thumb, there two main classes of robots, but these were by no means the only classes. There were the stationary robots, who could be as simple as a camera mounted on a wall or as complex as an orbiting communications satellite, and then the mobile robots, which could be as simple as a transport pod, or much like himself. To understand their place in society, you only had to at look where they lived. The closer to the centre of the city you lived, the higher up on the scale you were. That was not to say that a mobile robot had command over the stationary bots. Motherboard was the only one in charge. All commands came down through her. There was no need for any other kind of management, as she could simultaneously communicate with all robots at once. Station was determined more by the degree to which you were given independence.
    Currently, R-T0R was in trouble for exceeding those limits. He was designed to exhibit a specific amount of free-thinking ability. To show any more independence was a flaw in his design, which might have to be manually reset to factory conditions. He was forbidden from crossing that threshold simply because there was no more room in his society for such actions. Motherboard already had her philosophers and rebels, as she had created them. The problem was that R-T0R wanted to be part of those groups and there simply wasn’t an opening for him.
    Hours passed and traffic slowed to a crawl as they reached the middle. He could no longer see the sky or mountains from the towers surrounding him imposingly. A main difference in design aside from height was the inclusion of windows. The factories had no need for windows, as there were few who would actually desire to look out of them. Flora and fauna, all planted by hand in immaculately kept parks, rested on the outcroppings from buildings and between the crowded streets. Most of what he saw was based on old human civilization. Of course, he wasn’t seeing everything. A large part of the city was underground. He never went down there. The stark difference between his world and the one below was too extreme for him. If he could be said to have fears, he would be called claustrophobic. The robots down there were more like snakes and insects. You could spend years without seeing another humanoid.
    There were signs for shops and advertisements for wares cluttering every available surface. Walkways and roads and transport tubes spanned overhead. Things became more colourful, not just in terms of decoration, but in the diversity of robots as well. While mostly humanoid, the discrepancies within this sector were vast. Some could fit in his cold, metal hand, while others towered stories over him on spindly legs, while others flew past on a myriad of wings. Others were identical in every fashion and passed each other on the street without comment or greeting. There was even water channels through which some robots swam. The emerged soaking from fountains, resembling the statues that adorned them.
    Eventually, his PTP ducked under a section of the street into the underground parking for the main spire, which housed Motherboard. It resembled a thorn growing out of the earth, which countless cables, connecting tunnels and such coming hanging it like vines. You were given the impression that if you were to cut just one of those cables and the entire city would collapse like a Big Top Circus tent.
    His PTP parked itself in a perilously small spot and opened to let him out. Motherboard took control of his functions again and forced him to exit before leading him towards an awaiting elevator. A few robots looked at him strangely as he passed, with his odd, torn garments, which had now dried to cake in the mud.
    The lift, large enough to accommodate a vehicle, took him up thirty-six floors. He could sense Motherboard’s impatience mounting with each stop. Robots piled in and out at nearly every floor. One cheerful robot looking much like a pawn piece from a chessboard commented on his attire, saying, “Looks like you’ve had a rough day, friend.” Motherboard would not let him speak, however, keeping his eyes focused on the floor number, and the robot left thinking him rather rude.
    When Motherboard again put his one foot cup in front of the other, he found two robots waiting for him. With that, she vanished from his immediate awareness, although he knew she was still lingering in his system. The two guards before him had bodies that looked as though they were stolen from antique suits of armour, but looked to be made of a polished stone like jade, but this was rather unlikely. The balls of their joints were curved to points, a theme which was continued to their faces as well. They had feminine features, and their heads were shaped like suns with curved golden blades encircling their yellow faces. The Sun was traditionally the face used by Motherboard when she cared to use a face. “This way,” they simultaneously bade him, and he came to understand that these robots were fully possessed by Motherboard and serving as her personal guard, which was largely unnecessary. There were many military relics left over from Motherboard’s earliest days, which she had kept out of a sense paranoia and nostalgia. R-T0R was uncertain if these twin bots had any personalities of their own, or if they were solely Motherboard. He knew she had many representations of herself like this scattered all over the world. The building he was in probably housed hundreds, all of whom were simultaneously her, performing different tasks.
    They flanked him and their silent message was clear, “Just try something.” The barrels of guns protruded from the backs of their wrists and from cavities in their shoulders. They were not just for show, like their ornamental sun-faces. They would have made him feel nervous, if not for the fact that they likely never had one altercation in their existences, no matter how long. He doubted they were from the WAR given their upkeep, but he wasn’t about to give them a reason to start acting their parts. It was all just pomp and ceremony.
    They mounted a moving walkway which brought them down a long corridor lined with doors. He tried to act casual, but it was impossible given his current condition and the company he was keeping. Other robots openly stared as he went by. He took the time to check his messages. There were numerous e-mails from AKU-L0, but when he tried to reply to question of his current location, he was blocked. Motherboard wasn’t going to give him that much freedom.
    The two robots led him off of the platform eventually and through a door that automatically opened. The interior of this room was richly furnished with plastic moulded chairs that curved like musical notes. The walls were like pink pearls in both colour and sheen. There was large desk shaped like a frown. A live fern plant adorned each of the slightly curved corners, nourished by the warm lights. Since he received his sensory upgrades, he noticed how many interiors maintained by robots were hot and stuffy. This felt almost pleasant. He was convinced there was an air duct somewhere in the room, but he could not locate. He thought about how far the duct would have to travel to reach a room occupied by robots, who could not enjoy it. All-in-all, he was quite intrigued by the décor. It was definitely influenced by human culture, like it’d been recreated from a dusty old photo. There was a rumour that some of the buildings in the City were recreated from the original grounds that had stood there, but it would be insane to think that someone would have maintained a office inside a robotic tower a few hundred feet up in the air.
    The two guards looked at each other for a moment after realizing the room was empty. They silently communicated something, but he could sense their irritation. Someone was supposed to meet them here.
    As if summoned, a side door opened, and in walked a figure R-T0R had never encountered before. He would have sworn she was human from the way she looked. She was clothed, firstly, in a long white dress made of rubber. Secondly, he sex was easily determinable, unlike with many robots. R-T0R considered himself male, but it was a personal choice. There were about five different choices for robots to pick from, if not pre-determined. For him, it wasn’t official even. He thought himself male because he looked in the mirror and thought he looked more male based on his frame. This woman had changed her frame to look definitely more feminine. She had expanded her chasis to give the appearance of breasts and removed the casing around the ball-joint of her waist to give herself a more hourglass figure. In addition, she had installed a soft synthetic outer coating around most of her surface area, such as her forearms and the back of her hands, which had the traditional five fingers apiece. This golden brown material gave her the appearance of being more round and meatier, as if made from flesh and bone. Her face wasn’t the simple surface like R-T0R’s, but a series of mechanisms intended to express emotion, the gears and motors of which were concealed behind more of the same material. It was a close approximation of a human face, but far wider and round, like a cartoon. Pink segmented cables imitating hair hung back from her head and plugged into her shoulder blades.
    She smiled at them, the material flexing around the synthetic cords of her faces. “Is this him?” she asked the guards. They beeped in confirmation. “He doesn’t look half as bad as you made him out to be,” she joked as she moved behind her desk. Please sit down,” she directed her offer towards him. The two guards posted themselves behind his back as he pulled up one of the chairs, which easily accept his five-foot frame. He and she were much alike. They had probably been part of the same series at one point, before the upgrades. She looked at the guards before saying, “You know you don’t have to stay. I don’t expect any trouble from him.”
    The guards looked at each other one more time before silently leaving. Once the door closed behind them, she smiled at him and said, “Don’t mind them, they’re harmless. Hi, I’m Syntheia,” she extended her hand towards him. R-T0R was confused by the gesture and looked around for an object to hand her, before realizing this was a handshake. “Ah, most robots coming in here don’t know what to do when I give them my hand,” she said as they touched palms. The new touch sensors in his hand relayed information on the softness of her synthetic skin. “I like your outfit,” she complimented him, “but I think you’ll need another one soon. That’s positively ruined. I admire your sense of fashion, though. I love clothes, personally. I’d dress everyone in the office if I could.”
    R-T0R grinned broadly. It was the first compliment he’d heard about his outfit. In fact, it was the first compliment he’d heard in a long while.
    “You’re probably wondering why I’ve been assigned to review your case,” she said as she sat deeply in her chair and pursed her fingers, “as opposed to you being sent directly back to the factory to be reset. Well Motherboard believes that situations like this are special cases, and I’m referring to your human nature. You and I both share a common trait, which is to say that we have chosen to make ourselves more human. We think that this is somehow a progressive movement that we are a part of, but honestly nothing could be further from the truth. We’re retro, as in downgraded. Motherboard’s AI framework, upon which all of our AI is derived, is originally based on the human mind, although it‘s not openly discussed. Ergo, as we share this property and a part of us yearns to return to a human mindset. Those of us exhibiting this aspect change our outward appearances to reflect this inner desire. You think of yourself as human, because you are programmed this way, as am I.
    “This attribute, however, was never intended to make it’s way to the forefront of our personalities, as it’s widely believed to be counterproductive. In most cases, it is, but it’s usually within allowable measures for counter-productivity. As a society, we are so productive that it’s permissible for some of us to venture outside the specs of our programming. Not all, however, as this could lead to total anarchy. The trait is considered something of a virus, which can spread to affect others. My job is to see that this doesn’t happen.
    “As you can see, Motherboard has nurtured my more human side, and as a sensitivity to robots in your situation, she allows me to treat them. As part of your newfound programming, you’re likely becoming more aware of xenophobic tendencies in our culture. Robots tend to stick with their own kind. Since we’re continually upgrading ourselves, however, what constitutes as ‘our kind,’ changes. We start out by seeking out our own series, then we transfer to those who have our own favourite upgrades. As the categories narrow, we strive to seek out the specific upgrades that will place us in a particular group, for fear of completely exiling ourselves from society. With you, the category is very obvious: android. A return to the state where robots were mechanical representations of human beings.
    “What I would ask you at this time is: how far are you planning to take this?” she posed the question.
    R-T0R blinked his lenses. He had been listening nervously to her exposition, and to his recorders, her speech  kept switching between personal opinion and something she might have read off of a brochure she was being forced to read, so it wasn’t quite difficult to say where she stood.. “I haven’t really given it much thought. I know I want more upgrades, but I haven’t picked out which ones yet.”
    “Except you have,” she corrected him. “I’ve reviewed your purchase records and noted several upgrades you’ve added to your wish-list. You’re intending to save up to buy them, a process that would take you well into the next decade and beyond at your current credit line. You’re broke. Every credit you have goes towards your human obsession: videos, programs, upgrades and accessories. Now even clothing,” she pointed towards his outfit. “The problem I see from this is: you’re not going to stop. You’ve become addicted to this culture, to the point where it’s seriously effected your performance.
    “I could ask you why you suddenly decided to adopt this change, but to me, it’s obvious. It can all be traced back to a single point, which is your on-site accident. It’s typical for most robots facing their own terminal system malfunctions to revert to their base programming. It was the same for me, to be honest. I never intended to be this way, and then after a…” she stopped, not wanting to continue. “Suffice to say, we’re in the same boat. In my case, I remained focused to my career. You, however, have been drifting farther and farther away. It worries me and it especially worries Motherboard.
    “Worse is: there’s no easy cure for it. I shouldn’t say that,” she corrected herself. “There is an easy cure: all we would have to so is reset you, but that would be inadvisable at best. Motherboard tries to avoid resets as much as possible.”
    R-T0R had to laugh inwardly at that, remembering how often Motherboard had reset him in the past. As if sensing his silent reaction, and perhaps even reading it by intruding on his system, she replied, “I’m talking about a factory reset: meaning everything you remember, everything you’ve said or done will be erased. That doesn’t just hurt you, however, it hurt Motherboard as well. Motherboard shares your saved files, and she would have to erase them to keep the so-called faulty programming from re-entering your system
    “The other option is to build a virtual cage around this program to keep it at bay, but this is a half-measure at best. The new program would force you to think and act in a certain way, which means your personality would be severely compromised. The problem it would be intending to solve would still be there, merely buried under a mask. That’s driven some robots, for lack of a better term, insane in the past.
    “Or you could be scrapped,” she added quickly.
    “These option may become necessary at some point. They’ve certainly been used in the past, and will be used in the future. In your case, however, I don’t think I’m seeing anything so broken with you that it has to be thrown out,” she said optimistically.
    R-T0R wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but thought it inappropriate given the setting. He was on trial for his life. She was talking about killing him, and she knew it. It didn’t appeal to her, but she had put it forward nevertheless.
    “Give the failure rate in previous attempts to correct these kinds of problems, we’ve adopted a new strategy. We now try to nurture. There isn’t anything necessarily wrong with what you’re doing, it’s just more of a nuisance. We need to find a way to make you work, in more ways than one. If you find you’re unable to function at your job, we will have to reassign you.
    “It’s obvious to me, and it’s obvious to Motherboard, that you’ve intentionally been making yourself less useful at your current assignment. Each of your carefully selected upgrades makes you less suited to the task of recording and reporting in the field. You’ve even deactivated your neck rockets for aerial photography.”
    “Those never worked properly,” R-T0R tried to defend himself.
    “Since the accident, I’ve heard your report. Of course, you’ve never used them since the accident, or even run a proper diagnosis, and yet you sent in faulty reports about your system diagnosis coming up negative,” she said crossly. “Why?”
    “I…” R-T0R began. R-T0R was supposed to be able to detach his head automatically, and be able to propel it via a series of small jets in the back of his neck. During the accident, the release mechanism for his head had become damaged, so when Motherboard tried to launch his micro jets during a failed attempt to free him, it dragged his broken body across the rocks, further scraping his chasis open. His head had snapped off at that point and one of his jets backfired, blowing off a piece of his skull. His head ended up several yards away from his body, with no way to recharge. The explosion had been recorded, however, and alerted the rescue crews to his presence. The experience, however, was quite traumatic, but he couldn’t expect her to understand. She would think him too sensitive for having his head blown off.
    “You’re worried about your head blowing up,” she surmised.
    “Yes,” he admitted. “It just seems… dangerous.”
    “You’re made from quality parts. Accident notwithstanding, your jets should be in perfect working order after all the repairs you’ve been through. The factory has okayed them for field use.”
    “Still,” R-T0R made something of a face, although neither of them were certain what it was meant to express. Unease, mostly.
    “I suppose I can understand,” she said without much conviction. “Would I be able to convince you to reactivate it?”
    “No,” R-T0R said readily, shaking his head.
    “That’s what I expected,” she furrowed her brow. “We’re going to have to relocate you, which is what you wanted.”
    “That’s great,” R-T0R beamed.
    “You may not think so when you see where you’re going,” she warned. “It’s a place where you can be away from the corrupting influences of the City and be alone with your thoughts.”
    “Prison?” it sounded to him a lot like his old job.
    “You are going to be forbidden from entering the City for a while, and having any upgrades done,” she explained. “We feel that if there’s nothing around to tempt you, you can’t be tempted. This should help ebb the tide of your personality change. We’re also going to keep your wireless access to a minimum and for workstation purposes only. That means you‘ll be reporting to Motherboard solely, and directly, without any other communication.”
    R-T0R’s heart sank. Without wireless, he couldn’t communicate with anyone, or even access new media files. It’d be like living in a box.
    “This should all force you to focus on your work. The good news is, you’re getting that promotion you want in the Conservatorship,” she told him.
    “Does that mean I’ll be working with human artefacts?” he said hopefully.
    “It will,” she said without sounding very encouraging. He began to worry. “At this time, I would ask you to plug yourself into my desk outlet to receive your work assignment.
    R-T0R wanted to ask more questions, but he felt like there wasn’t much up for debate. Sighing, he opened his chasis under his mangled shirt, exposing the casing for his power battery. From underneath this, he extended his data cord and plugged it into a socket that opened up in front of her desk. She awaited eagerly as he plugged himself in.
    The data transfer began immediately. The file size was so large we worried he might have to purge some of his files to accommodate it. He wondered what task would require such in-depth information.
    It took well over a minute to download it all, and when the file began to automatically unpack himself, he found his awareness pushed to the back. He had only a glimpse at the contents before his main system shut itself down for the update.
    R-T0R slumped lifelessly forward in his chair as his activation lights went off. Syntheia observed him for a moment before coming around the desk. She checked his status manually by accessing his operating system, then carefully unplugged him. Then, she opened her own chasis after slipping down her dress. Taking her data cord, she attached it to his and began a second download. The process lasted several minutes. While the files were transferring, she scoured his system to see that everything was in place. She removed her cord, satisfied that she had made the right choice.
    Silently she summoned the guards, who came only a few short seconds later. She was still adjusting her dress when the doors opened. R-T0R’s data cord automatically retracted itself and his chasis shut, clamping down around his shirt as it closed, so that there was a pinched line down the front.
    “He’s ready,” she explained. “Get him recharged then set him on his way. I want him to report to his new work station immediately.”
    The guards complied, roughly handling his still inanimate form as they dragged him over the chair and from the room like a piece of refuse. When the door closed again, she checked that the security measures she installed were still in place. What had just transpired was carefully edited and sent back to Motherboard.
Chapter Thee: Down in the Dumps

When R-T0R came to, he was inside of the PTP, speeding down the Abandoned Highway, a stretch of poorly kept road that spanned the continent. It was well suited to it’s name, as he was alone in his journey, with not another vehicle in sight, or even a building to blight the landscape. All he saw was the rubble of ancient structures that nature had reclaimed long ago. He checked with his clock to determine how long he had been out and realized it was over two days since he’d last been online. He’d been running on autopilot while he’d been processing his update. His battery reserves indicated he had full power.
    R-T0R checked his destination and saw he was heading to Sector 978-B, which meant nothing to him. He cross-referenced the location with his G.P.S. and found it was

It's that time again: there's the chill in the air, the day's are getting shorter and people are being trampled to death in public shopping malls. Yes, it's the time of year where we switch to dark liquors to drown our sorrow and cuss out our relatives for not living up to our expectations.

In the spirit of the season, retail outlets have once again begun playing non-stop Christmas songs. If you happen to work in one of these retail stores, it means you have to listen to said Christmas songs for the entire duration of your shift. That's eight hours of the same songs over and over again, from different bargain-bin artists.

Having worked retail for about six years now, I estimate I've listened to about 32 to 40 days worth of Christmas songs, with 36 being the more accurate number. I'm talking about 24 hour days. That's over a month of my life in which I've had Christmas songs playing in the background. That's 1/347th of my life, but this is something I have to deal with once every twelve months, like a delayed global super-period about to come bursting out like the tidal wave of blood from the elevator in "The Shining." That's 1/12th of my life being forcefully dedicated to a holiday celebrating the birth of someone else's Lord and Saviour.

Has it affected me at all?

The answer, of course, is yes.

Has it affected me psychologically?

Yes it has.

Has it made me want to kill myself and others around me, including those who may not be around me, say with nuclear arms?

Boy-howdy!

It's basically psychological torture. I'm sure there's some section of the Geneva Convention which lists it as a form of torture, and if not, it should be updated. If you've seen the music video for, "Jeremy," by Pearl Jam, listening to Christmas music endlessly will turn you into Jeremy. You're going to start drawing huge black spirals on pieces of paper scattered around your bedroom with whatever materials make themselves readily available, like your own feces. The spirals will be symbolic of the deep abyss opening up in your soul.

This is what Christmas has become.

Christmas is a holiday designed to make people more giving by nature, but it usually just ends up turning them into shambling monsters, lashing out at everyone in sight. It's an admixture of overspending, credit card debt, awkward family get-togethers, seasonal depression and alcoholism. It invokes each of the seven deadly sins at some point, with gluttony and envy being the most severe. All for some punk kid.

It was announced today in The Province newspaper that, in addition to a previous request for businesses to close down during the 2010 Winter Olympics, streets will be forcefully closed down, making traffic impossible. Street closures are nothing new for Vancouver, where the roads are perpetually being dug up to reroute power lines, sewer, gas, etc. The bottom line is, if you're an area resident, and you were wanting to see the Olympics,you won't be able to get anywhere near the events. Cross-town traffic will have to be by foot. Bear in mind that certain events will be four hours away on a good day. It's the Vancouver-Whistler Olympics, after all. Vancouver and Whistler aren't as close to each other as that little hyphen would suggest. The Vancouver-Seattle Olympics would be just as reasonable.

The whole reason behind having the Olympics is to drive business and tourism. I don't see how that's supposed to happen if businesses are locked down like a penitentiary and tourists aren't physically able to get to any of the locations they might like to visit. Vancouver is a "walkable" city, if it wasn't for the scary crackheads forming a human barrier along East-Hastings St., the street everyone has to cross to get anywhere. That's not exactly encouraging for visitors with families.

So in addition to costing billions to host the Olympics, it will also cost BC millions, if not billions in lost business, during a national and global economic crisis.

What are the people of Vancouver supposed to do when the Olympics are on? Are they just supposed to sit home, watch TV, and eat canned food? What if they want to go out, or even go to work? Can they do normal stuff like that? They won't be able to. For weeks on end.

During that time, I imagine the crackheads will take over, led by David Suzuki, ala "Mad Max" style.

Okay, so I watched the sequel to the movie I didn't see which is the adaptation of the book I've never read. This puts me at a disadvantage, but going into any kind of fantasy saga, all anyone has to understand is this: a bunch of bullshit is going on, and you're supposed to care about it.

I had to blog about it, as opposed to any number of movies I've seen recently, because of the blatant fucking plot-holes. My favourite, and most contrived plot-hole is the duel which takes place for the fate of Narnia. No two military leaders have ever, in history, duelled to the death. Why? Firstly, because it's so stupid. Secondly, they have armies. Thirdly, because they are cowards. Yet, this happens in the movie. Many opposing leaders have never even met face-to-face. Take George W. Bush and Osama Bin Laden. It would be the most awesome thing ever if they would actually go at it mono-a-mono. The sheer awesomeness of it would be equivalent to about a million Chuck Norris roundhouse kicks, or one gorilla high-fiving a shark, so obviously a duel to the death makes for entertaining fare. It's also extremely stupid, especially when one of the combatants is a fucking limey kid, and the other is the dude with the abs from 300. This shouldn't be an even fight, but for whatever bullshit logic the movie uses, it is. For whatever reason, the kid has some unexplained property that makes him able to enter a sword fight with the 300 dude and not be immediately decapitated, or crushed by his abs.

Of course, the kid wins, and since it's a Disney movie/children's book/religious propaganda, the kid lets the evil dude live. Of course, since it's contrived, the evil dude tries to backstab him, and gets knocked on his ass again. There's some speeches about the sanctity of life, blah blah blah. About ten seconds after this, the kids giving all these luvy-duvy speeches about how good they are and how murder is wrong, they're fucking decapitating dudes left, right and centre. They kill the hell out of this one dude, without a second thought, the logic being: he's trying to kill them. So was the evil dude, though. In fact, if it wasn't for the evil dude, this other dude wouldn't try to take a swing at them. He's just doing his job, which is working for the evil dude. He's probably got a wife and kids, all more well adjusted than the evil dude's family, but you kill him.

Early in the movie, they try to invade the castle, and they succeed in this. The door out starts to close, however, and they go into, "Oh fuck, we're locked in!" mode. They call a full retreat, because they see their escape route closing. In other words, they see they can't escape, so they try to escape. They don't need to, mind you. They're winning. They've got minotaurs and gryphons and shit. The only reason they fail is because they run. The gate closes,and half of them are left behind to die, and they're all like, "There's nothing you can do!" ...They can go back. They have fucking gryphons that can fly them in and out. GRYPHONS. You know how the giant eagles show up at the end of the Lord of the Rings movies, and rescue Sam and Frodo, and everyone like, "Well why didn't they just do that in the first place?" That's what this moment is like.

Even earlier, they try to kill Prince Caspian in his bed, so they have like twelve dudes in full armour "sneak" into his room and crossbow the hell out of his bed, without bothering to check if he's still in it. He's not, but they go on to tell the court he was abducted.

...People who abduct people typically don't put a hundred crossbow bolts in their beds first.

In the end, the Jesus allegory lion saves everyone, and some giant water monster that isn't explained in any way, shape or form inside the context of the movie shows up and wrecks shit.

So the lion, at any point, could have saved the day. In fact, he was only a few miles away and knew about everything going on, because he's a Jesus allegory, but before he'll help, some little girl has to ride out by herself to go talk to him. Only, he knows she's coming and he knows what she wants. So he could have just saved her the fucking trouble by showing up on his own.

In summation: all of Narnia is thrown into chaos for hundreds of years and thousands of people are killed needlessly, because the fucking lion didn't feel like showing up. It literally takes him five minutes to save the day. Plus it all could have been avoided. They don't even explain why he didn't feel like sticking around and helping the people he's suppose to help, but they're all so grateful, so it's like the ultimate Jesus allegory. Remember: Jesus doesn't do shit to help you, but you must worship him nevertheless.

Normal Person + Anonymity + Audience = Total Fuckwad. 

This equation is more vital to the advancement of science that E=MC2. I believe anyone who's played online with a headset has encountered this phenomenon. Online multiplayer voice play has been around since the beginning of the decade with games like SoCom II which encouraged players to use the headset to their tactical advantage, as well as trash talk. In the beginning, players were relegated to interacting with others in the queue with other players before being restricted to communication amid their own team. You had to push a button if you wanted to talk, so you weren't constantly being annoyed by twelve year olds swearing and making nonsense noises. Trash talk usually involved conversations like, "Why'd you throw that grenade at me?" and, "Stop team-killing," punctuated by swearing. Everyone had a Southern hick accent. As time progressed, players were looking to enable this feature in games that didn't support it using such computer programs like Vent. These were non-casual players looking to advance their own status through various guilds in games like WoW. Instead of trash talking, they talked mainly about what they wanted other players to do for them, like middle-management types ordering around office workers, while they sat in their parent's basement and ate Cheetos.

With Next-Gen console like XBox 360, voice chat has become far more sophisticated. In many ways, it's even easier than using a phone. This means that anyone can potentially be talking to anyone else at any time, provided they have a mic and a subscription. In Fable II, you can enable it so you can see anyone else using Fable II in the world. As you pass their grey orbs in-game, you can even hear them on their mics, like walking through a crowd. This also makes the game crash like the J.F.K. Jr. In other online multi-player death matches, like GTA IV, everyone can communicate to everyone else while shooting each other in the heads with rocket launchers.

So given this freedom of expression, what are people saying?

"Fuck you, nigger." -jomamma94, etc.

Yes, "Fuck you, nigger." People have chosen to use this technology to spout out any racist crap their 10-year-old intellects can think of.

Why?

Well psychologists may now have the answer:

Racism: Vexed by Online Bigots' Language? Psychologists Say They Want You to Be

In summation of this article: people are fucking dicks. Yes, voice-chat racist rants are becoming part of a soon-to-be carefully documented psychological condition, like necrophilia. It's affecting untold thousands of people globally (by globally, I mean South of the Mason-Dixie Line).

Now bear in mind, if you haven't heard these people, they're not just blurting things out like they have tourettes syndrome. They are constantly saying it the most racist shit they can think of. If they were talking about a TV show they like, like The Office, as opposed to racist shit, you'd be like, "Okay, we get it, you really like The Office. FUCK!" They like acting racist like Barak Obama likes fried chicken... like Oprah likes chiken... like Oprah likes pie... like fat people like pie.

The psychiatrists in the article argue that it's just a device they use to psyche out their opponents, but no, they say this shit to their own team mates too. Yogi Berra said a lot of crazy shit, but he never said, "I want to kill every fucking nigger I see. Fucking queers." They say it because they can get away with it. People aren't going to track them down Jay & Silent Bob Strike Back style. Potentially they could, because their fucking profile is there, but it'll never happen.

They also argue that the best thing to do is to ignore it, much like your mom tells you to ignore the bullies at school (because it works so well). It isn't. They'll be saying this shit no matter what. They could be the only ones on with a mic, and they'd still be saying it to themselves. A part of them knows this. The other option is to say, "Did you know I'm black?" Which doesn't work either, because they keep spewing out racist shit at whoever says they're black, but for some reason they'll call them, "Fucking faggot."

What I usually do is if I can find their tag names and remember it, I will usually use the features allowing be to ban, boot, or report them. Otherwise, I'll make my avatar black and then go hunt them down in-game, because it's fun that way. Does it do anything? No. At worst, the person is booted from their current game session and has to go back to the queue, where they're allowed to say as much shit as they want. You think anyone has been permanently banned over language? GMs just give them a warning at best. They're paying customers.

No one talks this way in real life, even at Neo-Nazi rallies. Eventually the conversation will veer away to hunting knives and monster trucks. Not online, though. People can be talking about a Presidential Debate on TV, then someone will butt-in with, "Fucking Obama is a goddamned nigger."

What about the rest of us? The ones having to listen to it until they find a way to shut their voices off, or else unplug their headsets and leave the game? Are we being psychologically damaged by these psychologically damaged people? The player in the article talks about listening to his fellow co-worker's rant for the entire session, without commenting on it. They were playing Castle Crashers, which is a four player cooperative game involving no black people. The writer tries to make some excuses for his "friend," saying his friend had been playing the game a lot longer than he had and was more serious about it. Which means he should potentially be more professional about it, since as a game reviewer, it's his fucking profession.

Does anyone out there know of any friends or co-workers who do this in their online games, then the next day they act like nothing happened? I want to hear about it.

Why are these comments specifically aimed against niggers African-Americans? There's a lot of groups out there. Most of the white people acting racist towards black people likely don't even live within thirty miles of a spook African-American. Branch out a little, for God's sake. Nobody talks about Koreans anymore.

"No, I'm sorry, Fergie, that's incorrect. The word was, 'Glamorous.' Which means Gwen Steffani is the winner of this year's Musical Spelling Bee! Here's all time record holder, Aretha Franklin to present the award!"

So I finished Fable II for the XBox 360. Not only did I beat it, I beat the shit out of it. I held it down and raped it like Indiana Jones. After finishing the main quest, I completed the few remaining side quests. All that's left is a few odds and ends like shooting loudmouth gargoyle statues and getting silver keys. I've pretty much completely maxed out my character, however, so continuing is really unnecessary. I even purchased Castle Fairfax, and had to debate whether or not to take the gender-bending formula found at the end of the dungeon.

I even beat the Limited Edition exclusive dungeon, which I had to receive via an e-mail code. Instructions on how to obtain the dungeon were very specific, yet unclear. I was to save my game with my character standing inside of a certain room in the game. Then I had to quit the game enter the code on XBOX LIVE. The code itself was written in that font where "V"'s and "Y"'s look identical. Then I had to finish the 160 MB download. Then I had to go back to my game and open a treasure chest. This was where the instructions ended. The location of the dungeon was still unknown, so I had to go online and look that up. Of course, all I found were complaints about the Limited Edition not coming with any of the proper extras, and even then they forgot to include the exclusive download code, forcing you to petition Lion's Head Games for something you already own, but they refuse to give you.

So I find the dungeon off the side of a dock. It's a quick thing, about five to ten minutes long, and at the end of it all you get it a pirate's sword that's weaker than some of the other Legendary swords in the game, but grants you a few special bonuses.

In summation, Fable II is a good game, but it only takes a few days to plow through it and unlock the Achievements. It's definitely Easy. I think I died all of once during a boss battle in the Spire.

Your antagonist in the game is a rich monarch who shoots you and your sister after a strange discovery. You never really learn the full logic behind this decision, but it seems based on you being able to thwart his plans. Up until that point, he's not a bad guy, but then the rest of the game is about you trying to get revenge. In the game, this takes you about twenty to forty years or so, to get revenge for a sister who isn't mentioned again until the game ends. Your parents were murdered too, apparently, but you don't care about them. You're taken in by a blind oracle, who's probably the sister from the first Fable game, who keeps pushing you on this long and convoluted path of revenge.

At any point in the game, your character could probably have gone up to Lucien, your enemy, and kill him. He's not like an evil wizard or anything, he's just an old man. You could push him over and he'd shatter to dust. You don't really need to go on a thousand quests and master ancient weapons and magical skills. The final battle with him takes all of one hit. Just one.

But here's what you have to go through to get to that point: you have to grown into a man, then find the three Heroes of Strength, Will and Skill, which takes an additional ten years. To find and rescue the Hero of Will, you have to become a guard on some crazy island. For ten years. Ten years to stage a breakout, and technically, he saves you instead of the other way around. Then you have to do a quest for the Hero of Skill which could potentially see you physically aged another forty years.

Lucien, like you, lost his family, only he's trying to get them back through forced labour and magic towers. Instead of using his magic tower to get your sister back, you have the choices of rescuing everyone who died making the tower, saving your own murdered family (meaning whatever hootchie mamma you married and your kid), or getting some cash money. I had four families, due to my bigamy in the game, so when I was told he'd murdered them, I was worried it was Lady Grey, whom I went to extraordinary lengths to resurrect from the dead and marry to become my Queen. Only now, she's missing. She not dead, or divorced, she's simply nowhere. My map tells me she's in Old Town, but she's not. Grr...

It's come time to discuss something I recently saw, something which had a brief impact on me. There are many times in life when one encounters something outside their philosophy, and strive to wrap their minds around it. The shape of it, however, does not accept your mental bindings, and so the whole thing comes unravelled.

It was at Christmas party for my girlfriend's job at Moore's men's clothing, which was held at the Fairmount Hotel in Vancouver, one of the more upscale locales of the city, nestled near the water not two blocks from East Hastings street. It was held on the early date of November 8th, giving ample time before the Christmas rush to enjoy one's self. It made sense, actually. Why throw a Christmas party when no one could attend, as it is Christmas after all, and most people are busy with friends, family, shopping, work and the weather?  Strange things like this have been making more sense to me. Why just the other day, a man with a hearing aid was asking about sound insulation for his place. I reasoned that the sound insulation was not to keep him from hearing his neighbours, or such, but rather to keep them from hearing him, as with his hearing disability he would like to have his music or TV playing quite loud.

We were in the ballroom and were given free drinks and an exquisite buffet. I had the salmon, as I've been trying to expand my pallet. There was a desert table with delicious seasonal treats like mint flavoured cakes with a mouse centre with little Christmas decorated leafs,  gingerbread men, and Christmas pudding. As part of the event, I was dressed in a black stripped tuxedo with a silver vest and tie and I was looking as good as I've ever looked. There was even a photographer on hand to take pictures of us all in our finery. I have photos of it on Facebook, if you'd like to see. I'm Philip Allen from Abbotsford. Go ahead, I'm not shy. This blog is being published there via RSS feed.

All in all it was the best party I've attended. It was what I'd imagined my prom should have been, as opposed to what it was, but oh well.

There was a DJ, and at midnight, they released balloons over the packed dance floor. It was at that time that I was heading to the cheese table, because I'm more interested in food than dance. So as I'm walking back, I seem something odd. I can't quite describe it, but something, possibly a long piece of sting, a deflated balloon, or a champagne glass, was being pulled under a table. It was dark, so the details elude me. I couldn't figure out if it was an animal, like a rat or a small bird, or if it was someone's shoe as they were absconding beneath the table to make love. It was like someone was pulling something by a string, which made no sense to me. I would have looked under the table, but it would have been silly.

But now, I wonder: was it a ghost?

As I said, I don't know what I saw. Nothing fits. Nothing makes sense. It seemed to shimmer, like a glass, or a piece of plastic. For all I know, it could have been a shopping bag, but the way it moved was rather peculiar. It was midnight, however, which is when someone would expect to see a ghost, and it was in a big hotel, which is the perfect setting for such a figment.

I can't even say why it was so peculiar. I don't know enough of what my eyes beheld. I could say if it was a hand, or not. Why did it seem like it was translucent? Why did it seem like it was hiding from me, like a bug crawling out of sight?

Maybe I was hallucinating. I'll be honest: I used to hallucinate things. Maybe I was insane, but when the lights went out, I used to see faces flying around like demon heads. There were things in my closet which were easily explainable when the lights came back on, but in the meantime I saw strange figures. The ships on my wallpaper used to set sail. Once, I saw my dead dog walking back and forth across the top shelf of my closet. Tentacles would emerge from couch cushions. Birds of fire would swoop down when I looked out the window. Wolves would walk up the stairs. I could see the air. I could see every particle the universe was made up of floating about like fireflies, even with my eyes closed. The floors were covered in bugs. I had to run through them to call my parents.

But that was years ago. Tens of years. No need to worry anymore.

Right?

...

I've just learnt that today, Nov 11th, has other, non-depressing/military propaganda related significance attached to it. Here in Canada, it's Remembrance Day,  which is in honour of all Canada's fallen soldiers (eh) and the official end to the Great War. (Time-Travel Warning: The Great War may not be so great. Pack a gas mask.) To celebrate, we wear red poppy pins we've bought by donating money to some faceless charity. In theory, the money should go to veterans, but I bet it goes to someone's drug addiction. Everyone has to observe a minute of silence at 11:00. In schools, they're forced into assembly's featuring throw together plays about dead people. At memorial sites, they lay wreaths and fire of 21 Gun Salutes, just to scare the ghosts of the fallen soldiers into thinking they've been shot again and drive them back to hell (I'm guessing). There's parades, bagpipes, etc. Virtually everyone has a grandpa, great-grandpa, or a great-uncle (Warning: great-uncles may not be so great) who fought in such-and-such a war. The withered old Vets (Warning: Vets are not veterinarians, they'll kill yo cat) all expect their congratulatory hand-jobs for not dying and burning someone's village to the ground and talk endlessly (when coherent) about how bad they all had it (while ignoring, of course, the fact that the people in the countries they were helping to liberate had it about six million times {Get it? Six million? Wink!} worse than never-been-invaded Canada, who was sitting pretty). While everything about the day is focused on history, reality seems to dwindle away little-by-little as the wars fought get pushed farther and farther in the past.

All in all, the day's designed to make you feel proud and yet deeply depressed at the same time, two emotions that don't go well together. It's like scoring the winning basket while your opponent pulls down your shorts and everyone laughs at your tiny penis.

It's honestly better off avoided, except if you have to work, or go to school that day, or step outside, you can't You have to dip your head and be silent for one whole minute, just like Germans had to Heil Hitler as he drove by. Refusal to do so will result in a situation much like the one Kramer faced when he refused to wear the ribbon (Seinfeld reference!).

In Japan, however, they all eat Pocky. Yes, Japan, where their war dead had an atomic bomb dropped on them, they eat delicious chocolate-dipped pretzels snacks from Heaven. Why? Because it's, "11/11." You can spell that with five Pocky sticks lined side-by-side. That makes about as much sense as anything I've ever heard in my life. So why can't I eat pretzel sticks too, huh? Why do I have to look at a bunch of old and dying bastards as they're wheeled out for their one day a year.

When I'm an old man, all these Vets will be dead, and all we'll have left in our parades are the horribly mutated soldiers who fought on the front lines of Cthulhu Uprising of 2021, and they'll be marching into a giant sacrificial fire because they lost, and Cthulhu demands sacrifice. All hail Cthulhu!

I have urgent news. I want you to go into your children's rooms and wake them up. If they're not asleep, put them to bed and wait until they're sleeping peacefully before violently shaking them awake. If you don't have children, make some. It's easy. Wait until they're five, then do this: As they grumpily rub the sleep from their eyes, sit down on the corner of their mattress and tell them very seriously that, "I have something to tell you. Batman is dead."

Give them time to register this information. Break down crying just to drive the point home. They should be crying too. If they're not crying, you haven't done your job. Start to panic. Say, "We have to get out of here. It's not safe anymore!" As you begin hastily stuffing your belongings into a suitcase, your spouse should come in and see what you're doing. If you don't have a spouse, you should get one. It's easy. They should demand to know what you're doing. An argument should follow and you should strike them. At that point, run out into the street until your run out of breath and fall down to your knees. Raise your hands to the sky and scream, "Why God, why?"

Why? Because Batman is dead. He's not dead yet, per se, but he will be soon. They're killing him. DC Comics is killing Batman like they killed Superman, only this time it's at the height of his popularity. As with Superman, they created a character specifically to orchestrate his murder. With Superman it was the mentally retarded Doomsday with one hand tied behind hid back. With Batman, it's the Black Glove, a former psychiatric researcher now posing as his dead father.

No one knows how long he'll be dead, or if he'll be different when he comes back. I expect a much darker Dark Knight existing somewhere between the movie version and Frank Miller. Superman was much changed when he returned to comics. In the interim period, he had not one but five impostors to his name, each with their own comic title. It's expected this will happen with Batman as well. There is to be a replacement Batman coming.

To this end, DC has cancelled three of the Batman Family comic series, each with issues numbering in the the hundreds. They are: Nightwing, Robin, and Birds of Prey. Each series was spawned directly from Batman and focused on his former sidekicks. Their sales numbers were never that great, however, so they're getting canned. That's not to say they weren't great series. Birds of Prey even had it's very own short lived television series, and Robin (Dick Grayson) almost got a pilot for his own series as well, even if it didn't resemble the comic in any way, shape, or form (for one thing: the series was to be set before he became Robin, ie. he's a travelling circus acrobat. They changed his name, and I think they made him black, because being a Gypsy isn't enough of a minority). Each of these series has had crossovers with the main Batman title at several points, as well as the major DC Universe. I think I may have read them all, and found them memorable. They had their own cast of villains, like Blockbuster who became something of a major crime lord, and friends, like Spoiler who went on to become the fourth Robin, but alas, no more.

The rumour is that one of these heroes might replace Batman, much like he was replaced by Azrael during the Knightfall Saga. These aren't outsiders that Batman brought in at the last minute, however, these are people who've been there for most of his adventures. Nightwing and Robin were both chosen to be his successors, but there's other choices as well, like his newly found son: Damien, or the second Robin returned from the dead, Jason Todd. It might be that none of these character takes up his mantle, but rather form a new team, which would be a logical decision to most. Nightwing, Oracle, Robin, Jason Todd and Damien together could probably handle Gotham as well as Batman did. Each one of them meets if not excels Batman in some fields. Nightwing is more agile, Oracle is more tech-savvy, Robin's every bit of a detective as his mentor, Jason Todd's more willing to cross that line, and Damien's a wild-card.

Perhaps the Batman reset isn't such a bad idea. For one thing: Batman comics over the past four years or so have been completely Batshit insane, much like the Spider-Clone Saga of Spider-Man's comic-arches. It all began with Jason Todd coming back from the dead as the Red Hood. Everyone was with Batman as he tried to uncover the Red Hood's real identity, and they were just as shocked as he was. For one thing: Jason Todd was dead. Not just pretend dead, like a character coming back and telling everyone how he miraculously survived, or faked his own death, but he was dead and buried. He dug his way out of his own grave after being worm food. The explanation for this is that Superboy Prime as part of the Infinite Crisis Saga, who'd never even met Jason Todd, was so distraught over the fact he was dead that he punched the dimensional barrier sealing him away from the rest of the universe so hard that it magically brought him back to life... so yeah...

No, it's not supposed to make sense. Neither is the fact that after being beaten to death with a crowbar by the Joker Jason Todd is more interested in getting back at Batman. He does go postal on the Joker, but that only distracts him for a few minutes. His story is further complicated by the fact that after crawling out of his own grave, he's essentially brain dead until being picked up by Ra's Al Ghoul who's daughter defies by giving him a bath in the restorative magic water that keeps her father alive. Jason Todd comes away better than ever, with Ra's skunk patch in his hair. At the end of the saga, he dies again, along with the Joker and Batman, but none of it matters because the universe was destroyed and recreated at that precise moment as part of the Infinite Crisis Saga.

After that, Batman takes a year off, and for some reasons he decides to let Two-Face watch the city for him while he's gone. Yes, Two-Face. The bad guy. Only he had therapy and some reconstructive surgery so he was good again, and all the murders and robberies were instantly forgiven. Then he goes bad again the second Batman questions him. Go fig.

Meanwhile, anyone who's ever been dead is somehow magically back. Spoiler, who died as Robin, came back, and Batman's like, "Oh, I knew all along." Except he didn't, because we have issues of him trying to avenge her murder. The Riddler, another criminal, is now a respected detective after getting amnesia.

Then, as the pinnacle to all things soap-opera-style: Batman suddenly has a son he never knew about, and he's a martial arts master and a complete asshole. Plus Ra's Al Ghoul come back to life for like the millionth time. Oh well.

Okay, so at this point we know Fable 2 is slow-loading, glitchy, it's missing Limited Edition access codes, but I'm about to drop the most damning knowledge of all on you: it's a blatant rip-off of another game.

I'm not talking about Fable, or some lame RPG, I'm talking about Animal Crossing: Wild World for the DS.

You may find this an odd comparison, but it's not.

In Fable 2: you can do the following: change your outfits and clothing designs, buy furniture and redecorate your house, collect items and trade them in at shops, dig up treasure, give gifts to your friends. pop into your real-life friend's game to see how they're doing in co-op mode, and sacrifice children to a demon on a sacrificial altar. You can do all but one of these thing in Animal Crossing. Besides, Fable 2 is mostly about accumulating wealth to buy more junk in the game. That's Animal Crossing all the way.

Rip-off! Okay, so making in Animal Crossing you can't get STDs from unprotected sex, but you can be stung by bees, and that's pretty damn close.

I'm not talking about Nintendo Gameboys, I'm talking about people who are so solely focused on playing video games that everything else in their life if just a backdrop. I've been purusing through a number of gamer blogs lately. Kotaku.com is one of the better known of the non-incorporated orientated blogs, but then there's others in the same vein, like joystickdivision.com, which contain much of the same hand-me-down information through various newsfeeds. These are basically blogs written by individuals who aren't being handed assloads of cash by gaming companies partly because of their own business models, but mostly because they're not important enough to matter. Another similarity is: they're all written by the same guy. I don't mean this literally, but the narrative perspective of their Nacho-eating biased opinions is the same from one blog to the next. They're scornful of all gaming systems simultaneously even though they own them all and play them morning, noon and night in between and during frantic fits of masturbation. Their opinions of these systems? The Xbox 360 is a piece of junk, the Wii is a kid's toy, and the PS3 is too expensive. They revere the PC platform, even thought it's the most flawed of all. Throughout it all, their asexuality beams through in their obsession with photos of scantily clad female small "c" celebrities that'll they'll sometime post instead of their somewhat humorous pictures of lol cats, or T-shirt slogans.

I mention them mainly because I had to stand in line behind the same archtype character yesterday at EB. If you've even been to EB Games, you know who I'm talking about. The guy who actually pre-orders shit. Not just one or two big name games, but every fucking thing that comes out. His game collection rivals only his porn collection. He's unkempt, overweight, and on the wrong end of the pussy magnet polarity. He'll stand in line talking about his games to the cashier for fucking hours if he could.

The guy in front of me was picking up his pre-order of Little Big Planet and got some kinda hacky-sack bullshit he'll never use because of the physical activity involved in hacky-sack. I had just traded in some DS games to get Fable II. I just want to buy it, go home, and play it. In my underwear. It's my day off. This is what I do in my spare time when I can find some. I was curious, however, about a Special Edition, if there was one, etc., so when it's my turn at the till I ask these questions like a normal consumer who doesn't spend all fucking day trolling forums online at ign.com, and the guy immediately butts in and begins rambling on about how shitty the Limited Edition is, and how he didn't get his free dungeon pass, and whatever, and at that point I have no fucking clue what he's even talking about, because I'm still in the middle of asking what's in the Limited Edition. Not much, as it turns out. Some Halo-style armour and the false promise of expanded dungeons that weren't packaged properly with the product, plus some B.S. making of DVD I'll never watch. I'm trying to treat myself, however, so I buy it anyway. He almost throws up his hands in exasperation, as if to say, "WTF, dude?" I'm not even paying cash for this fucking thing, I'm using store credit, which I can't use anywhere else, so I might as well fucking go for the gold.

Apparently there was supposed to be a Limited Edition with a figure and some art cards, but it didn't get made in time, so when they repackaged it, they forgot to throw in the dungeon access cards. So there's these dungeons out there that no one can get into because of this. You have to e-mail away to Microsoft to get your code, but there's only a small time-period in which to do it, and they might not get back to you. Oh well, at least I can build Master Chief statues in my towns.

Plus the game's pretty glitchy. There' irrelevant messages that get stuck on the screen, even if you save and quit and come back later. Plus the fucking thing freeze like a mother-fucker, no matter what shape your Xbox is in. I'm not worried about that, since they're coming out with the option of ripping your games to you harddrive two weeks from now, which should make it run smoother, (in theory) but I'm getting fucking sick of these big name-games coming out like a turd. Spore and GTA IV, two other games I've bought in the last three months, both have similar kinds of glitches, no matter what you do. I also heard about the Guitar Hero World Tour Drum Set not working, and that's a major purchase for most people. It's like games have become S.U.V.s as of late. No matter how much you spend on them, they'll still burst into flames.

So I got rear-ended yesterday while trying to make a left-hand turn, which is always fun. There wasn't much damage, but of course there was whiplash involved, but I'm feeling okay right now. The truck involved was a Ford F-350, so of course it's invincible in a collision against my Pontiac Sunfire. I once rear-ended some bitch's pimped-out truck (non-sexually) in my Dodge Stratus after she cut me off, and the front of my car was basically bitched up after that, so I'm thinking that in any kind of accident I'm going to have my car totalled while the other douchebag drives away with a whistle. Solution: I needs me a truck.

I must now impart upon you a quote that will resound throughout the ages, "Just because I want to kill you doesn't mean that there's something wrong with me, it means there's something wrong with you." Yes, some of you do deserve to die. On some level you must know this. The only reason you exist is that the universe is punishing me, so you already owe me your lives.

Sometimes I wonder if we Canadians are polite because we're naturally caring creatures, or because we're trying to cover for our own stupidity, much in the way the friendly retard you meet is always so nice and mannerly. We try and pretend we're not Americans, but essentially we are. We're that big, dumb Hillbilly fuck pulling on his suspenders and sucking on his piece of straw. I can see it in you're not-quite-right smiles, you slimy little shits, so just come right out and admit it.

Remember that no matter what Barak Obama tells you in his campaign speeches, there is no hope. Why? Because of you. You're the reason why bad things happen. You.

In other news: I'm in a bad mood. I haven't been feeling well lately, I'm stressed, I'm getting nowhere in life and my shoulder feels like it's torn. Plus I've got to be out in the torrential rain no matter how I avoid it.

Oh well.

After shuffling through the closet of my old room at my parent's house yesterday, I discovered my collection of rejection letters from various publishers across the globe (although 99% of them are from New York {Note: it's not pronounced Jew York} so it can't really be called "the globe," just five miles of it. Amidst these was a single acceptance letter from The Claremont Review. Yes, I put in a hyperlink for you, because no one can be expected to know what The Claremont Review is. It's an anthology for young writers with works submitted by high school kids, so it's kind of like getting a story published in a school newspaper, and then having that newspaper section expanded a hundred pages or so, but honestly: some of this stuff isn't that bad. If you've ever been in an English Class and has to read or be read another student's story and thought to yourself, "That's not that bad," that's the kind of stuff you'll find in here.

Guess who's in Volume #14, though? Me, baby, me! "Heads," by Philip Allen was submitted as part of my Grade 12 Writing class. My fellow student Graeme Abernathy also had, "Head Jazz," published. Those titles may be similar, but bear in mind that my story, "Heads," is literally about heads. Two of them, hence the plural.

Having been reminded of my old submission, I now have internet documentation that I'm a published author, albeit an unpaid one (I didn't even get the fucking free copy I was promised, and these douchebags don't pay out. That's how it doesn't pay to be a writer. There's only like ten people who've ever made any money writing books. You can fill up an entire shelf at the library and still have to work at KFC unless your name's J.K. Rowling. Bitch. Seriously, do you know how much some people make per book, at a minimum? $5,000. Think you can be self-supporting off of those funds? Hells no. That's four books a year you'd have to write to even be making the equivalent of minimum wage. Ever notice how some authors take years between books? It took J.K. Rowling nearly a decade to pump out her seven books, and she had a machine pumping cash directly up her tight asshole. No one's that prolific.)

So in summation, I am a published author, and it is apparently possible to order a copy of the book I was published in, for $7.00 plus shipping and handling. Or, you could order a tasty Baconator Combo at Wendy's. The choice is yours.

(Author's note: What follows is the first instalment of a yet untitled novella I'm releasing live through my blogs.)

The clouds parted to allow a thin steam of sunlight to reflect it's radiance off of the rain-slick fields before him. A glimmer of a rainbow even appeared and vanished as quickly as he tried to record it. His camera instead focused on the gathering clouds behind where it has shone. He waited a few more hopeful seconds before turning it off. The pines rustled as the blustery winds picked up, moving as a single wave of green. R-T0R could feel the gust blowing across the sensory clusters on his disc-shaped face and adjusted the sensitivity levels. Since having them installed on the weekend he had been having problems with the amount of data. He found himself constantly having to purge his memory reserves of the largely useless information they were storing. They were a vanity accessory he had treated himself to during a registered update, and despite the pleasure they had brought him, he was beginning to regret his decision in purchasing them. He wasn't certain if they had been calibrated correctly, but he couldn't schedule another appointment with the factory for another two-weeks. In the meantime, a drizzle of rain felt like a waterfall.

His foot cups sunk deep in the mud as he made the dangerous trek down the hill. He could see the tank-tread imprints of his friend, AKU-L0, as he descended, obscuring the wax-polish of his metal fingers with the muck he touched as he reached out to a nearby boulder to steady his gait. It didn't bother him, as he was used to getting dirty in his line of work. The City was a ways off, and there was no one around to judge his grimy appearance except for his fellow co-workers, who were still quite judgemental. He had yet to see them in person since returning to work, but received constant text messages about their progress. He responded when necessary, but he left out obvious details of his recent trip. They didn't know about his purchases, which had nearly used up his credit. It was something he would like to put off as long as necessary, because he already anticipated their reaction.

True to form, as he approached the end of the trail, he heard the mechanical whirling of AKU-L0's pivot joints, then the grinding of his treads. From behind the crop of trees, R-T0R saw his friend's cone-shaped body on it's flat base before receiving the text-greeting. AKU-L0's squared head trained itself on him as he tumbled over roots. The red glowing lenses of his eyes shrank as he carefully recorded what he saw. "What are you wearing?" came the inevitable question, asked simultaneously as a monotone voice and text-message.

R-T0R quickly deleted the message and sent a request for an audio conversation.  "Clothes," was his response.

"I can see that," AKU-L0 replied. "Why are you wearing clothes?"

"To cover my body," was his reply.

AKU-L0 beeped as he thought of something to say, a habit of his. "You're a robot," he said at last.

"I'd noticed," R-T0R added a sarcastic tone to his voice, which he had specifically downloaded for such occasions.

AKU-L0 had downloaded the same file, simply so he could keep up with R-T0R in casual conversation and beeped disapprovingly. The beeps were the same, but you had to listen for the intervals to really understand the meaning. It was a rhythm particular to AKU-L0 himself. "That's the silliest thing I've ever seen. I mean that honestly," AKU-L0 typically meant everything honestly. He didn't devote much of his resources to fiction. "You look absolutely ridiculous. The kind of thing may play off in the City, but not out here. What's the point, even? Who's going to see you out here? Some satellite feed? Besides, you're getting them all muddy and torn."

"I have more than one outfit now. These are my work clothes," he explained.

"Work... clothes...?" AKU-L0 beeped again. "I have to blog this."

True to form, R-T0R received an update on AKU-L0's blog, complete with photos and captions. Seconds later, comments began trickling in from his subscribers. "LOL," was the first comment he read. "You can stop taking pictures any time now," R-T0R said as AKU-L0 began moving around to get a better angle.

"Sorry, but this is gold," AKU-L0 told him.

R-T0R received a text from his other friend, R-0IF, saying, "Stay where you are, I've got to come see this." He received a second message stating his GPS location had been picked up by another user. R-T0R sighed deeply.

AKU-L0 beeped again in confusion. "What was that?" he asked.

"What was what?" R-T0R asked.

"That noise," AKU-L0 said as he played back the audio file of him sighing.

"A sigh," R-T0R reluctantly explained. "It was part of my update."

AKU-L0 beeped a few seconds in surprise, then delight. "An upgrade? More like a downgrade! Hold on, I have to uplink and download an audio file so I can laugh at you."

"That's not really necessary..." R-T0R began until he was interrupted by a sound-clip of canned laughter.

"You're so retro you might as well go back to Beta format," AKU-L0 played his studio audience clip again, only he turned up the volume. A nearby robin that had been hiding from the rain took flight at the noise. R-T0R quickly scanned it and found that it had not been tagged. He save the file for future reference while taking several profile pictures before it disappeared from sight.

"What's wrong with being old-fashioned?" R-T0R demanded crossly.

"Old-fashioned? Since when did robots ever bother to wear clothes? The Pre-Date? What kind of files have you been downloading?" AKU-L0 asked mockingly, using his sarcasm files.

"Look, I've been getting more interested in old culture. It's making a big comeback in the City, but you wouldn't know that because you're always out here," he said.

"Yeah, doing my job," AKU-L0 retorted.

"That's a corrupt file and you know it,"