Flame War
"Come on Zeta. It's time to go."
I pick up my staff and join the line of programs leaving the hub. Once more, we are summoned by the call of the users. Once more, we are expected to give our lives to the cause, said cause being…being…
Yeah, I've got no idea at this point.
The myths and legends tell of a simpler time, when the network was new, when users were fewer. Once, the users were in awe of us. Once, the users were as gods. Now, we know them for their pettiness and spite. Now, we know that we are all but bits of code upon the stage, as time goes by, the clock only featuring the numbers 0 and 1. Never shall we reach 2, or more, let alone 12, yet we are locked perpetually at midnight, with no chance of dawn, or-
"Zeta, hurry up!"
No time, I think. No more time. Only the fires. Only the flames.
We see the enemy. The battlefield is our forum. Banners flutter in the wind, displaying slogans and slurs too obscene to bear mention. Moderators patrol the skies, but they are outnumbered by the users 100 to 1. The Moderators, in their flying gunships, may deliver judgement from the heavens, but one cannot hold back the sea by drawing a line in the sand. It is a sea of simulation. And we are nought but grains, fated to be swept away by the tide.
Am I waxing lyrical? Good. I'd like to think that I'm a bit more eloquent than the language that's going on in the real world. However you define real that is. I once met a program who insisted on wearing dark sunglasses and asking me what was real, to which I responded-
"Company, halt!"
Whoops, no time for that. I cease in my march, alongside my fellow programs. Ranks are formed, staves are gripped, silence fills the air. Silence, asking the question that's all on our minds – what is it this time? What have the users descended into debate over in this battle? Will it be different and have a clear victor, or just peter out until the next war comes once more? Who are we to know? Who are we to ask?
"Social justice warriors. Bet it's social justice warriors."
"Feminists. Misandry."
"That's misogyny."
"Do you even know what you're talking about?"
"Do you think the users do?"
"No. I-"
"Sorry, Nigeria is messing up the ranks again."
"Again? Flynn Almighty, I thought he'd have enough cash by now."
Old chatter, old jokes. But there is no time. Never any time. Only a song full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
The trumpet is sounded, for yet another apocalypse. The trumpet sounds, and we charge, yet not on behalf of any angels. Fires spread across the battlefield. Moderators rain judgement from the skies, but it is all for nought. The users shall not be denied. Their voices shall not be silent. And we, their programs, shall carry their words to the enemy. We shall fight and die, without ever truly understanding what those words mean. Only their fury is understood.
Thus begins Armageddon.
Thus begins another flame war.
