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Victor Anderson Network= Solutions
4102 13th Ave Apt D6=20
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Click here to end further messaging.=
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Nov.9th Jupiter time

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Dear diary,

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For someone who sags on the couch with= snots hanging like a pocket watch during soap opera hours, I've lost count= of the notebook pages blotched by black, oily tears.

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So, dear diary, let's rewind my life i= n one go for the last time, in case someone wants to put this in the museum=

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I'm going to spoil, dear diary, Angeli= ca doesn't get the robot in the end. Can you believe it? Five years and six= seasons, and she rejected I10-99 just because society forbids human-robot = relationships. That is not my money wants to hear after spending on diluted= one-year macronutrient drinks with five receipts. Alita: Battle Angel is b= etter. 

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Ah, scratch that, I'm starting to feel= tiny flecks of heat pumping through my chest. I'm still waiting for movie = two.

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My rent terminates next year but I gav= e the exact money to the landlord this afternoon. I've been here for ten ye= ars, and her hair still cascades down like black silk to her hips. Her smil= e is always 45 degrees up and her fingers wraps around a cup of brewed oil.= I moved here seeing the same thing but lying in bed, miserable with amnesi= a.

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?Hi Ben, are you feeling any better??&= nbsp;my landlord said, sitting on a stool beside my bed.

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I will forever treasure the shocked fa= ce I made when she knew my name. I couldn't even recall the first letter of= the alphabet song. Did I meet her at the bar and did the do? If my brain c= ould hallucinate any further, my room would be the smell of straight highwa= y roads to the never-going-home destination.

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?I'm your landlord,? she introduc= ed herself and I call her "landlord" ten years from then. ?.= . I'll take care of you for the next few days.?

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My landlord registered a therapist aft= er I settled my room. I lied, dear diary. My landlord carried mysterious pa= ckages to my room while I slept all way until Jupiter occupied the sky. My = therapist is a walking architecture of art. His chest has a small turbine t= hat whirls like my computer fan. His body is made of metal, stretching like= branches from head to toe. Dear diary, I am not kidding when I say his bod= y makes music as Scottish windpipes do when the wind blows.

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?Yes, Ben. I'm a cyborg,? my ther= apist said. I was going to sue everyone for leaking personal data. &nb= sp;

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?And you are a cyborg as well.? A= h, civil lawsuit, then.

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I practiced in front of the mirror cou= ntless times before meeting my therapist.

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?Hi... uh..., Mr. Stranger? That sound= s like a superhero name... Mr. Therapist. That's better,? I said. = ;?I only remember two things: my first name and my gender.?

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Dear diary, by the fourth time I saw m= yself without a thing underneath my crotch, I wasn't so sure Biology was my= grade-A subject anymore. So when my therapist told me that I'm a cyborg my= whole life, my vocal cords suddenly sounded artificial to me. But I was re= lieved not to live on as a male human being without a vital organ.=20

?Then... is my landlord also a cyborg?= ?

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?Everyone is a cyborg here, Ben.?

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I felt like drowning, dear diary. = ;Is there a species called human, because I swear I'd aced Anatomy in h= igh school! My face grew hot and my neck twisted in a way I could= dig my head under my right armpit. I was surprised the hairiness of my und= erarm was never a sensation. Awesome! I get to be a fictional char= acter without cosplay.

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Except it's not. Awesome. I could live= with oil of different brands and cooking methods all right, my ass. After = a week, without having my memory back, I asked my therapist if restaurants = exist in this block. 

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?On Blitz, oil and macronutrients are = what we have.? my therapist patted my head and let the wind play some = relaxing music with his body.

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Now dear diary, "Blitz" is n= ot jargon from an online game, it's a planet where I live and will leave to= morrow morning. 

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?So this isn't Earth?? I said.

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?Ah, Earth,? said my therapist,&n= bsp;?that's a legend to us now.?

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Cyborgs don't get dressed. I spent 365= days feeling naked and nine years walking around, letting the citizens enj= oy the view. My landlord said that the body armor I'm wearing belongs to a = robot cop. The broad chest and strong thighs explain well. My body was neon= blue but when I run, my chest ignites the metal red like a setting sun.

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The space agency and I clicked like lo= ng lost soulmates. The interview was tedious. However, dear diary, as soon = as I met my crew, this planet wasn't black and white anymore.  

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My therapist keeps on visiting me when= Jupiter lies in front of my window. He introduced me to a drama series, Ac= ross the Black Hole, which the one I've spent five years watching and cryin= g when every episode comes. I never figure out the reason why my therapist = wants me to feel my lungs sucked out all the air and watch my inky tears ru= in another couch. But I'm obsessed with it.

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Angelica, why can't you ignore the law= and be with I10-99? Is it so hard for you to be the bad girl when you alre= ady know the law is outdated?

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Dear diary, some things sure happened = without expecting. Across the Black Hole did trigger my memory though. The = opening song was on when I was brewing oil, and little Angelica popped on t= he screen.

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?Daddy,? she said, ?Is it tr= ue there's another galaxy behind the black hole??

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?Of course there is, Angelica,? I= said, mixing the oil with macronutrient, ?It's already a fact since 3= 020.?

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I got suck into a flashback with three= people chatting in a blurry background.

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?It's a one-way ticket,? said a b= earded man, which I recognized as thirty-year-old human me. ?None of u= s are going to make it alive.?

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?I agree with Ben,? said a petite= woman, my wife, Angelica.

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?The Mirror Black Hole Theory has won = The Shaw Prize,? said one of the crew members. ?There is indeed a= nother solar system across the Black Hole.?

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?There's no way back, Angelica. Your h= usband's going to be a hero when he comes back.?

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?Except he's not,? I said. The do= or sign crashed to the ground.

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Dear diary, in case someone finds you = on the desk and decides you be one of the milestones in cyborg history, The= Mirror Black Hole Theory explanation is below this sentence.

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Some brilliant scientist believed that= the Black Hole serves as a bridge between two galaxies. Both galaxies are = reflections of each other. During the Shaw Prize speech, the scientist prov= ed that both galaxies contain the same amount of solar systems. All planet = masses and the distance between one another in the solar system are the sam= e as their counterparts.

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The only thing I could remember during= the speech was the name of Earth's counterpart, Blitz. The next year, the = space agency sent five astronauts to space to prove the theory. I was one o= f them; however, it wasn't until the last day with Angelica that I figured = out this trip might be a death trail.

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The oil left my right foot a stigma an= d I missed out on the whole episode. I ran to my therapist and then to my s= pace agency on Blitz, bursting out all the information my brain contained u= ntil my body spasmed. The next five years until Across the Black Hole ends = were the years for me to get back to Earth and for them to prove the theory= right. 

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I never recall the memory during the t= rip inside the black hole. As far as my body tells me, I feel the tremors a= nd the pressure every time my eyes closed. It's like my body squeezes out a= ll the oxygen and the blood stops circulating while being pressured and dic= ed into small molecules repeatedly. My therapist and landlord said the citi= zens found me breathing while half of my body was gone. My human nerves wer= e black when they attached the body armor with my head.

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Five hours until Jupiter sets. I'm goi= ng to feel that sensation once again. Maybe it will feel good if the destin= ation is Earth. Somehow my stomach starts churning when I imagine getting t= ogether with my Angelica again.

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Dear diary, sleep tight. I am going ac= ross the Black Hole tomorrow.

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It was one of those days where nothing= was supposed to happen. Or at least, nothing out of the ordinary. The firs= t rays of the sun were peering in from behind the greyish-white clouds. I h= ad my morning cigarette tucked in the corner of my lips, the tobacco smoke = tickling my nostrils with familiar warmth. A pair of birds flew twittering = over my head. I cannot recall exactly what they were because I didn't reall= y care much for birds, but I hoped I had looked up.

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At least, I would have noticed that ea= ch bird had four wings instead of two.

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And that the sun's rays were emitting = a pinkish haze, and the faint smell of jasmine was drifting through the air= I would have, once again, noticed, if I had not been smoking.

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Instead, I was bent over, slowly preen= ing my potato plants, rubbing beneath the waxy leaves to check for mealybug= s or aphids, or whatever other critter decided to drop by without paying. I= will not stand for that. This plot of land had been watered with my own sw= eat, tears, and blood, and no multi-legged or winged creature was going to = live off it.

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Not when I am still alive and kicking.=

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And then I heard it.

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That child-like giggle echoing around = the garden as if it was an enclosed cave with the acoustics of an ancient c= athedral. I nearly whipped my neck when I turned to see where it was coming= from, and then I laughed it off, taking the half-finished cigarette from m= y mouth. "Hmmph," I shook my head at myself. "Looks like the= y were talkin' sense about one smoke too many doin' numbers to yer brain. S= ee, Jed, yer old head's hearin' kids now. And you hate 'em, barkin' kids.&q= uot;

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I snuffed the cigarette's glow out wit= h my calloused thumbs and chucked it away, and continued scrubbing the bugs= from my plants. For about a few more minutes, nothing much happened.

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And then, as I groaned as loudly as I = could as I pulled out the eighth cluster of pigweed from the plot, crushing= it in my gloved hand and staring at the soiled remnants on my palm, I hear= d it again.

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That giggling, now growing louder and = louder, as if some bugging kid was just by my side.

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"OI!" I bellowed as I swirle= d around, armed with my rusting shovel and my bucket with its blue paint pe= eling off more than it usually did, like a weary knight in battle. "Ge= t yer arse o'er here before I call your parents!"

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Of course, there was no response.

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I sighed and shook my head again, and = decided to walk away from my potatoes and towards my shed, where my old col= lie was fast asleep in a bed of grass. Her snout was almost fur-free now af= ter she was attacked by a rogue rat, and as she slept, her tail twitched an= d she pawed at the air, grunting softly. She slept most of her days away no= w, a shadow of her former, hyperactive self. At least, there was no strain = on my aching hips anymore from running after her. Smiling at her, I gently = pushed open the door of my shed and walked in.

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The knob was far rustier than I rememb= ered, but I did not give it any more thought.

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"Hmm," I wondered to myself = as I walked in, my boots creaking against the soggy, wooden floor. Around m= e, vines of ivy and morning glory were also bursting through the cracks as = if they had been waiting to do this their whole lives. I tended not to give= them too much attention for their presence failed to bother me. There were= also a few new cobwebs in corners of the shed, and one of the spiders was = feasting on a fat bluebottle. There was also a new hole in the roof of the = shed, where a palm-sized section of wood had rotted and fallen away, allowi= ng the critters from outside to realise that they now had more space to roo= st.

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That explained the barn swallow nestin= g in the upper corner, its tiny chest puffing with every breath it took.

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"A bird's got nothin' on me"= , I remarked and moved on, further into the shed. "Huh?" I stoppe= d when I saw that the table where my tools had laid was now nothing but a b= lanket of powdered rust and blackish mould, the type you see growing around= sinks and shower where water had been left to fester. I saw the bright red= handle of my new handsaw and rubbing my eyes with the back of my right arm= , I picked it up.

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I held back a gasp as my handsaw, bran= d new and barely a week old, fell to dust in front of my very eyes, with on= ly the plastic of the handle left in my hand. The metal was gone, rusted aw= ay into brown dust that floated and settled on the ground by my feet, as if= I had picked up an ancient relic instead of my new handsaw.

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Heck, even those iron swords my little= girl saw at the museum in Sweden once belonging to Vikings seemed to be in= better shape. And those were from some many thousands of years ago.=

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"What the?" I nearly dropped= the plastic handle in shock as my shed keys, which I was holding in my lef= t hand, also suddenly dissolved into brown dust, and I was now grasping at = air.

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My heart and my pacemaker were beginni= ng to race in my chest, as I turned suddenly, my hips hurting and my knuckl= es gone cold for now reason whatsoever. "Okay," I called out, &qu= ot;whatever yer joke was, I'm done. I'm a sorry ol' man and tis is no way t= o treat yer ol' men..."

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There was no response that came but a = bludgeoning, deafening silence that gnawed at my ears like the woodworms in= the old shed.

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I began to walk towards the door and t= he stopped. "Ah, I know, tis is a dream. I will wake up soon." Th= us, I took in one deep breath, clenching and opening my fists to keep my kn= uckles from freezing over, and sat down, crossed legged, on the very floor = of my shed. I had survived three surgeries and two car crashes. No way a st= upid tobacco fuelled dream was going to stop me.

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And with my hands on my knees, I breat= hed in deeply and closed my eyes.

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A passing wind will come

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And iron and wood will rot

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What seen once you shall see twice=

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There will be naught where once ha= d been

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We see all and we hear all

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For a decade passes yet another

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We shalt take what is ours

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And never look again away.

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The girl stared long and hard = into the slip of paper in her hand, squinting at the strange words. "W= hat do they even mean?"

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"Why ask me?" The be= spectacled, suited man next to her shrugged. "It is all they found her= e twenty years ago."

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"The old man who lived he= re? What happened to him? Did he leave?" The girl looked up, tilting h= er head ever so slightly that her pigtails danced in the gentle, blowing wi= nd.

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"Yes, my dear," the = man replied, gently brushing away a strand of her strawberry blond hair fro= m her face. "It is said that he left without a trace."

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"Did he die?" The gi= rl's voice trembled slightly and the man just smiled.

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"No, my dear," he re= plied. "The man just left to serve the land."

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"Serve?" The girl as= ked again, clearly not satisfied, and her eyes suddenly lit up at something= that caught her attention. "Oh! Sir, sir! Do you smell it? It is the = flowers again! Jasmine!"

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"Of course my dear," the man= replied, a grin plastered across his thin lips. "It is spring and the= awakening had begun."

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"Oh, what happens at the awakenin= g?"

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The man smiled, and he blinked, slower= than how one usually blinks, and when he opened his eyes again, they were = the same blue as they had been, except that he had no longer had irises. Hi= s hands had turned a ghastly, pale white, nearly as white as the frost in w= inter, and the veins against his skin were as blue as his eyes. His hair wa= s now grey as slate, and he bent to plant a kiss on the girl's cold cheek. = "Now, we wait, my dear, for our turn."

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The girl looked up at him, her face an= d hair also morphed, and flashed him a toothy, ivory smile. "I am hung= ry."

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The man only smiled as the door of the= shed creaked open behind them, and a young woman walked in, puzzled at the= rust dust left on her hand after touching the knob.

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And then he stood and brushed the rust= away from his doublet. "Come, my daughter, it is time."=20

The girl nodded and grabbed his hand, and as the next gust of wind blew in fr= om the top of the shed, the feast had begun once more.

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