Dreams of abandoned cities, terrible robots (and its relation to the CFS)
Dream signs:
- Science fiction
- Frustration
- Betrayal
- Abandoned cities
- Violence
Like rats shying away from predators, we were holed up on the 30th floor of The Province building. That height really let you see the city in all its abandoned, crumbling glory. Little was painted anymore; all eroded and worn concrete, chunks of plaster and exposed rebar.
Now and then, a stomper, a four-story-tall bipedal behemoth, would slowly patrol the streets below us.
Some of us would fan out from the building. Once at a safe distance, we would hide. Once we had a shot, we'd fire our light antitank weapons once, or maybe twice. A good shot would streak out and blow a hole in something vital - the power plant, or a leg, but other shots would only scar it and make it angry.
Trying to be like good snipers and hunters, we would never fire three times, or fire from close to our building - if they knew where we hid - either our fighters, or our whole community - they would turn and strafe the building with heavy shells, blowing out its side. We'd seen them do it before.
And then we broke our rules; I think it was I who fired three times from the fourth story of our building. I had the right shot you see, and it detected me on the first. I pretty much had to kill it then.
I cannot say whether my shots led them to us, or whether I'd bought us a little extra time by killing the stomper that was coming for us.
So, later, they were inside. Up the stairwell came a handful of smaller robots; only eight or ten feet tall. I was several stories under where we lived, and, hiding next to the stairwell, when I saw them pass by. Their captain was a either human built into a robot shell (once an all-American father and department manager at a Midwestern Staples?), or a human fascimille built onto a shell as a communication measure. I turned and fired, expecting to kill the leader, cripple others and after pressing the trigger, realizing that while it might warn the people upstairs, it would also likely blow myself all over the room.
There was a weak pop when it. The antitank had become a simulated antitank; our war of survival had become a war-game.
But then why didn't they fall over and play dead?
They picked me up, held my wrists out on either side and the leader ground my nose into my face, cartilage cracking and grinding.
I called out "This is not fair! I 'shot' you and you should act 'dead.'"
He responded that it didn't matter if it was fair or part of the rules or not - they had the power, and could play however they want - say it was a game long enough to survive a direct hit, a war with torture, or a game with torture the next - whichever was more convenient at the moment.
I was furious and helpless, and my friends did not come to help, or speak for, me.
They had good reason to hide, but I felt abandoned.
Waking, I saw this was an analogy for my relationship with our relationship with the CFS.
- Science fiction
- Frustration
- Betrayal
- Abandoned cities
- Violence
Like rats shying away from predators, we were holed up on the 30th floor of The Province building. That height really let you see the city in all its abandoned, crumbling glory. Little was painted anymore; all eroded and worn concrete, chunks of plaster and exposed rebar.
Now and then, a stomper, a four-story-tall bipedal behemoth, would slowly patrol the streets below us.
Some of us would fan out from the building. Once at a safe distance, we would hide. Once we had a shot, we'd fire our light antitank weapons once, or maybe twice. A good shot would streak out and blow a hole in something vital - the power plant, or a leg, but other shots would only scar it and make it angry.
Trying to be like good snipers and hunters, we would never fire three times, or fire from close to our building - if they knew where we hid - either our fighters, or our whole community - they would turn and strafe the building with heavy shells, blowing out its side. We'd seen them do it before.
And then we broke our rules; I think it was I who fired three times from the fourth story of our building. I had the right shot you see, and it detected me on the first. I pretty much had to kill it then.
I cannot say whether my shots led them to us, or whether I'd bought us a little extra time by killing the stomper that was coming for us.
So, later, they were inside. Up the stairwell came a handful of smaller robots; only eight or ten feet tall. I was several stories under where we lived, and, hiding next to the stairwell, when I saw them pass by. Their captain was a either human built into a robot shell (once an all-American father and department manager at a Midwestern Staples?), or a human fascimille built onto a shell as a communication measure. I turned and fired, expecting to kill the leader, cripple others and after pressing the trigger, realizing that while it might warn the people upstairs, it would also likely blow myself all over the room.
There was a weak pop when it. The antitank had become a simulated antitank; our war of survival had become a war-game.
But then why didn't they fall over and play dead?
They picked me up, held my wrists out on either side and the leader ground my nose into my face, cartilage cracking and grinding.
I called out "This is not fair! I 'shot' you and you should act 'dead.'"
He responded that it didn't matter if it was fair or part of the rules or not - they had the power, and could play however they want - say it was a game long enough to survive a direct hit, a war with torture, or a game with torture the next - whichever was more convenient at the moment.
I was furious and helpless, and my friends did not come to help, or speak for, me.
They had good reason to hide, but I felt abandoned.
Waking, I saw this was an analogy for my relationship with our relationship with the CFS.