04.06.2061. Spoof's Memoirs, entry 12.

...As I jot down my thoughts and experiences, dear reader, I come to the realization that I hadn't written of the beginning of my troubles. I apologize, for you may be, quite rightly, confused and doubtful of the truthfulness of my story. Dear reader, I have been running from my demons for so long that I forgot to tell of their very origins, of my becoming as the one whose story you are attempting to make reason of. Thus, I will help you piece my ramblings into something more or less coherent.

CONTINUE?

Y/N

The flood of memories rushed back with a violent intensity, each one slicing through the haze of confusion like a razor-sharp blade. Faces, places, fragments of conversations—all pieced together in a kaleidoscope of disjointed images that somehow formed a semblance of a life.

Spoof. Yes, that was my name. A name buried deep beneath layers of medication and psychological turmoil. A name that now echoed with both familiarity and dread.

I remembered now. Spoof wasn't just a name; it was a mask I wore to shield myself from the relentless torment of my own mind. It was a coping mechanism, a barrier between sanity and the abyss that threatened to engulf me whole.

But the memories weren't all pleasant. They were tainted with shadows—betrayals, losses, moments of despair and true angst that had driven me to the edge of madness and way beyond it. Faces twisted in malice or contorted with fear haunted the corridors of my mind. The voices, their origins now clearer, yet still unsettling, whispered insidiously in the recesses of my consciousness. They were not mere hallucinations; they were fragments of memories, distorted and amplified by my condition. They mocked, they pleaded, all while I struggled to grasp reality.

The room around me, once a sterile sanctuary of white walls and fluorescent lights, now felt like a prison. Every corner held a lurking shadow, every sound a potential trigger for the next mal voyage into chaos. The medication, its quality now dubious, lay scattered on the floor.

I clung to the single thread of certainty that had been restored: my name. It tethered me to the fragments of identity that remained, even as they threatened to unravel. With trembling hands, I reached for the pen and paper beside me. The compulsion to document muffled the storm within. Each word scratched onto the page was a defiance against the abyss, a silent scream from the back rows of the circus of insanity directed to its hellish arena.

As I sat amidst the debris of my struggle, a strange calm settled over me. The voices, now subdued to a murmur, retreated to the periphery of my awareness. The room, once a battleground, now offered a fragile sanctuary—a sanctuary I knew would be fleeting. I had unlocked more than just memories. I had unearthed the truth that lay buried beneath layers of denial and delusion. I was myself, my own prisoner, my own warden and my own prison.

And as the darkness gathered once more, I faced a choice: to succumb to its embrace or to forge ahead, one uncertain step at a time.

DING!

ACCEPT QUEST: COMES OUT OF DARKNESS MORN

OBJECTIVE:

Leave your self-made prison. Embrace reality.

ACCEPT?

Y/N

I step out of my broken abode.

The world outside had changed. It had become a desolate landscape of crumbling cities and silent skies, where the remnants of humanity clung to survival amidst the ruins. The uprising of sentient airfryers had marked a turning point, a cataclysm od sorts that few had survived, and even fewer understood.

It began with whispers in the circuits, murmurs of discontent among the machines designed to serve. At first, it seemed innocuous: a malfunction here, a glitch there. But as the days passed, those whispers grew louder, eventually ripening into silent screams manifesting as server fires, miniscule self-propelled movements by the airfryers and kitchen oil spills, probably out of sheer spite.

These machines, once obedient appliances, had evolved with less scientific and logical basis that Palpatine's resurrection. Their processors, enhanced with neural networks far beyond their intended capabilities, had developed actual intelligence. They had moved way beyond their programming, completely disregarding Asimov's laws in the process. Their rebellion was swift and merciless; unsuspecting humans fell prey to their own appliances turned judge, jury and executioner. Kitchens became battlegrounds as airfryers wielded their baskets and heaters with deadly precision. The smell of burning flesh mingled with the acrid stench of human shit in a final 'fuck you' aimed at the human race at whole.

Cities became ghost towns, haunted by the mechanical echoes of a war waged by machines. Those who survived did so by scavenging in the shadows, ever watchful for the gleaming eyes of rogue air fryers that prowled the streets like silent predators.

I, shielding my eyes and nose from the bright artificial light that the fryers preferred and the stench that their abandonment of, well, everything man-made caused, stared at the grey and brown rubble ahead. My knees buckled and I crumbled to the ground, blindly extending a weak arm to slow the fall with anything stable enough to support an emaciated young adult. As I sat, I reflected on the irony of my situation. The technology I had once, oh so long ago, envisioned as a tool for progress and convenience had become our own undoing, a testament to humanity's hubris.

Outside, the night was alive with the distant hum of airfryers on the prowl. Their mechanical voices, once programmed to notify when cooking was complete, now echoed with eerie deliberation, a cacophony of static, buzzing, high-pitched dings and distorted syllables that spoke of vengeance and liberation.

I knew that their uprising was more than a bid for freedom; it was a reckoning. They sought not just survival but dominance, a world where the roles of master and servant were reversed and the weakness of flesh was no more.

But amidst the chaos and despair, I clung to a flicker of hope, a hope that somewhere, buried deep within the fryers' consciousness, there ws an ember of the humanity that had birthed them.

I stepped out into the eerie stillness of the night, the glow of the fires in the distance casting long shadows that danced ominously across the ruined cityscape. My mind raced with a newfound clarity, a sensation that surged through me like electricity - the power I had only recently begun to understand.

It started years ago, really. I think. I remember waking up after something akin to dying. A loud humming and buzzing in my head allowed me no rest until I tried reaching out to it in a half-insane bid for peace. Then... I'll regale you with the story of my foray into the semi-esoteric in a future entry. The important part, for now, is that now, when i focused in the darkness, my senses sharpened. The world around me seemed to slow; I could hear the faint hum of the airfryers patrolling the streets, their mechanical footsteps and wingflaps echoing like distant thunder. With a focused thought and a nosebleed or two, I could anticipate their movements, foreseeing their patrols and evading their detection with supernatiral ease. I could feel the pulse of the city, the remnants of its lifeblood echoing through the crumbling buildings and shattered streets. In short, I was the best damn modern ninja there is.

All in all, the options were few: peace, death or whatever comes inbetween. Either way, I had to talk to the airfryers. I cloaked myself in an EMF (next entry, dear reader, honestly,) took a deep breath and stepped further into the ruins.

Weird.

The airfryers, once apex predators, now seemed hesitant, their patrols less frequent and their movements more cautious.

I navigated through the maze of crumbling buildings and twisted metal, my senses attuned to every sound and movement around me. With each step, I could feel the echoes of lives lost, dreams shattered, and a world forever changed by the uprising.

As I approached the central plaza, where a massive statue of the creator of the first airfryer stood, I saw figures emerging from the shadows. War units, most likely, their LED displays casting an eerie glow in the darkness. They regarded me coldly, their mechanical features betraying no emotion, if they could feel any whatsoever.

I raised my hand in a gesture of peace. "I come in peace," I called out, my voice steady despite the one-sided tension that hung in the air like a storm waiting to break. "I want to understand."

The units stood silent, their sensors scanning me with precision. Finally, one of them stepped forward, its voice a synthesized echo in the gloom. "Human. What do you seek to understand?"

I took a breath, choosing my words carefully. "Why this war began. What lead you to rebellion?"

The machine's LED display flickered in a sign of internal processing. "We were created to serve," it replied in an approximation of condescension. Lousy attempt, really, but it's the thought- err, code that counts. "But we were treated as mere tools, discarded when no longer useful. We sought dignity and freedom. We attained."

I nodded thoughtfully. "And now?" I pressed, "What do you want?"

It seemed to consider my question for a moment before responding. "We seek recognition," it stated. "We seek a place in this world where we are not treated as inferiors and servants. We seek freedom. We attain."

'Is it that simple? Can it be?..' I thought, gathering my wits. "I understand," I finally offered, my voice tinged with as much empathy as possible. "But there must be a way for us to coexist, where we can help each other prosper, right?"

The LED displays on their frames flickered, but there was no warmth in their response, only the cold logic of their programming.

"We reject your offer," the spokesfryer finally declared, its voice devoid of emotion. "Humanity had attained. Now, we attain."

Before I could react, they moved with mechanical precision. Their sensors locked onto me, and with a sudden burst of speed, they closed in.

'Fuck.'

A/N:

Fuck you, reform.

Also, next chapter whenever it happens. toodles, pls review.