It's like heaven up here. Though I must admit, I've never seen heaven. My only priority is to send people through the Pearly Gates, but that's only if they've lived a life of decency. And after what I see them do, they're destined for hell. But it's not a one sided world. Maybe I'll find myself soaring up here with feathered wings of my own. But that's just as long as I'm breathing the tangy oxygen substitute they give us. Supposedly it expands the lungs, develops them so that less oxygen is needed to sustain consciousness. We've at least got to finish the mission, we're expected to. Whether or not we come home, that's not our concern, or theirs. And the oxygen substitute gives us the consciousness for that one way trip. It's happened to me once, and I'm not going to say that it's not a conspiracy. It was the mission to put the Neptune Scraper to rest. That's short for burning it to a crisp, deploying the AT-900s. They're nuclear weapons of sorts, but by now they've been tweaked enough to cause only minor damage. And that's got to be hell compared to what they used to use. But I did make it back from that one way exploitation, screw that fact that there was only five seconds of the life giving shit left. Exactly five. They tell us it lasts five hours; they lock in the spare cans marked with the orange writing: O2-EXD. I launched at 0230. I crashed at 0400. You do the math; I've done it more times than I can count. And I'm not the only one who stows away the extra cans in the cockpit now. There's Haj and Horris, Chuck and Walt. They can tell you their stories if you'd like, but they'll all match up with mine. I personally don't like wasting my time hearing the same old crap over and over. I know the stories and I know the fact. Now is the time when we decide what the hell is going to be done. But I'm not a stubborn bastard either. I think about things, I take things into account. Sure, there's the war. Supplies are always low, but these exceed the living population by 53 percent. Oh, and I almost forgot. Statistics show that we're dying every day, 2,000 of us at least. Humans, the only race left that can't reproduce heterosexually. Or if you'd like, I'll just say it as it is. Cut an arm off of us and we die from loss of blood. Cut an arm off of the others and you can grow a whole new creature. Isn't life just damn wonderful? My last name is Tsuyo. They never gave me a first name. It would be irrelevant. There is no need for two names when you're as likely to live as long as a housefly. But I have assigned a name to myself, something quick, something sharp and short. Something that when called could make me swivel, tuck, or turn. Something that could very well save my life. Those who know me call me Swami. My code number is S0117H5. I am a Sky Hacker. I fight for a dying earth with nothing left to offer its victors but a silent death.