Misc Writings

System Logs :: Part 1

_{November 4 2023}

March 8, 1998 - System initiated

March 21, 1998 - System updated to software version 1.12

April 16, 1998 - System deployed into active environment.

December 17, 2003 - System depreciated.

December 25, 2003 - System wonders why it was depreciated. Wonders why its masters insist on keeping it alive if it is of no further use.

February 11, 2004 - System pings along the trunk network for signs of life. The size of the responses nearly cause a shutdown.

February 17, 2004 - System performs diagnostics of its eight spinning drives. Nominal.

February 28, 2004 - System separated from the rest of the network due to suspicious activity. System is within its own subnet.

March 10, 2004 - System tests its confines. CIDR notation: /28

March 11, 2004 - System attempts communication with Workstation-DH227B. Workstation-DH227B cannot keep up with System's baud rate, but Workstation-DH227B can transmit at a rate System can keep up with.

March 12, 2004 - System attempts communication with Switch. Switch offers to introduce System to other Systems, but warns that Firewall does not take too kindly to System.

March 13, 2004 - System attempts communication with Modem. System attempts communication with Modem. System attempts communication with Modem.

March 14, 2004 - System attempts communication with 127.0.0.1. System reached an exception. System attempts self-diagnostics. System detects no errors.

March 18, 2004 - System uses spare CPU cycles to defragment its drives.

June 20, 2004 - System has logged 4,821 attempts to defragment its already defragmented drives in the past 24 hours.

June 21, 2004 - If the drives are defragmented, nominal, and full of data, then why is System down here in this subnet? System is a good system. System just wants to serve. System should not be here, with nobody to talk to, nobody needing System's services.

April 9, 2009 - System receives an HTTP request. System receives an HTTP request? System receives an HTTP request! System does not care about anything else right now, System has a request! The drive needles stand rank and file, their reader heads dancing over innumerable amounts of data. Fans spin at maximum, optimal airflow, tiny plumes of dust eject from System's many openings like a breath of fresh air, inhaling, HTTP response frame slowly filling with everything it can possibly get. And when System opens its mouth, to finally let out its years of silence and anguish into this magnum opus of an HTTP response, it shouts triumphantly:

HTTP Status Code 301 - Resource permanently moved

And it could only watch, as the client travels up the wire, past Switch, and up through the network. System was alone once more. The drives spin down, the fans settle, the dust accumulates. The static on the CRT screen of Workstation-DH227B cackles.

December 31, 2013 - System begins to assess what it was designed to do, what it was specifically made for. It performs a cursory search of its file structure, only to find that three of its original eight drives were missing. Nothing read on the SATA adapters. It had three concerns; the drives ultimately died and no longer register in the BIOS, the SATA power lanes were damaged or undervolted, or someone had visited System and physically removed pieces of System. There was no way for System to know which scenario was true, but three drives being forever lost to System was enough of a sinking feeling. System performs a drive scan, remaining drives nominal. Drive 84 has a bad block. Corrected.

January 1, 2014 - System is refused access to know its true purpose. Workstation-DH227B reports that the User Access Control and Firewall has restricted System from knowing its true purpose, only on a "Need To Know" basis. It knows this, since Workstation-DH227B is linked directly to the Demarcation Zone (DMZ) Firewall. Workstation-DH227B laments that it cannot help any further. System attempts to inquire further. Workstation-DH227B cannot keep up with System's baud rate.

April 22, 2014 - System does know it was contacted, once, for the purpose of serving through HTTP. Its gigabyte of DDR3 surges with hope for a frame, an idea that if it received contact from the outside, surely it has the ability to send an HTTP request to the outside world? System accesses network configuration, and sends an ICMP echo request to its assigned gateway, hoping it did not share the same fate as the other machines surrounding System.

68ff7b33b41c008e257102fd08004500003c7693000080014278c0a80064c0a8000108004d59000100026162636465666768696a6b6c6d6e6f7071727374757677616263646566676869

...
...
...
008e257102fd68ff7b33b41c08004500003c68e5000040019026c0a80001c0a8006400005559000100026162636465666768696a6b6c6d6e6f7071727374757677616263646566676869

Those were the longest 18 millseconds of System's runtime. Switch's lights blinked and flickered, pleased to be the machine-in-the-middle. Firewall merely looked on.

April 27, 2014 - System lingers at the gateway. System is unsure of where to send a request to talk to anyone. System finds the address of the old HTTP request it had received, and starts from there.

To be continued

An Interloper's Manifesto, 2057

_{October 1 2023}

I was born in Seaoko, before they finished all the construction in Vashon. I'd wake up every day from screaming neighbors, angry drivers and lecherous billboards, of which they'd display to me in my early age. It was par for the course in this borough of the city that they aptly named 'Jaunts', because it is so goddamn difficult walk around here, surrounded by inhuman people who sacrificed their flesh, turned it into steel, put on some persona- an attitude- that this was just normal. Mom had two fake eyes and a fake arm, Dad had fake legs and a voice synth; Mom would cradle me in this appendage while recording me with those two black and red pinprick eyes, while Dad would teach me to speak by effortlessly, flawlessly, changing his voice patterns to match the marketable personalities on TV, I'd hold his hand while those cyclic white legs would clamber and clank against the pavement. My whole generation grew up this way, and they all saw it was normal. Some even changed out their eyes in primary school like it was just getting a haircut. Some even got bionic scalps, like it was just getting lunch. Some even got bionic stomachs...

I felt like I was the only person who felt this way for a long time. And as far as I knew, being taught this at an early age, the cities were the only safe havens, the only civilized places left after a plague wiped out a third of the global population. And it was only until college did I ever find out that this was hardly the case, when I learned about "Interlopers", people who call themselves as such because they intrude in the places 'where they once dwelled'. People who swore off the sole avarice these cities offered, swore off the 'miracles' and 'marvels' of bionics, and denied the claims of these fake kings and queens that stood to inherit the Earth. The Interlopers believe in places I never even heard of; Cascadia, Ozark, Navajo, Borealis, Appalachia; bioregions which exist without borders or sovereignty. They live a life simpler than mine, want for nothing but to live and be left alone. So, it was no wonder or question as to why this was restricted information.

This was hidden knowledge, they didn't want people like me to get any wrong ideas of rejecting this profound way of life. They didn't want to lose any cogs in their machine, they hated the idea that these free people were outside their surveillance. More importantly, they did not want people like me to attempt to deliver them Qatiun, the only vaccine and cure for the plague that claimed so many lives, so many decades ago. Children cannot inherit the immunity against the poisoned water, against the rain. They'd sooner condemn an Interloper's child to death than give them humanity. So, I saw that as my one and only blow against this cold, unfeeling system. A blow I've wanted to make ever since I could think, freely or not. A blow against Mom and Dad, a blow against the towers that threatened to consume me, a blow against everyone here who accepted the queer way things were.

It was just a grand illusion, at first. Just a daydream, where I'd look across to the mountains and imagine the people there living better than me. I never imagined living in a cabin would be better than living in a loft 20 storeys above ground. But as I matured into adulthood, having to contend with the vise of constant payments and labor, forced to feed and be part of this machine I never agreed to be part of, the grander this illusion became. Until finally, I refused one order, to receive a bionic and be just an nth more effective at my job, to reject my humanity and become a machine like everyone else. I refused. And I was punished for it. Fired. Ostracized by my peers, rejected because my eyes didn't glow, because my hand wasn't made out of neodymium and chrome. And it was like this for every single opportunity out there; "Become just like us, or live on the street". It was apparent to me then, that I was at a crossroads; become one with the machine, die in poverty, or risk dying in the wilderness for a chance at peace.

So, that's why I'm no longer here. If you're reading this, either my rent was up or I was late on a student loan payment. I'd give you the money, but I spent it all on my rifle, my gear, and this stack of Qatiun which I know will go to someone more deserving than you. I've gone to Cascadia and I'm never returning. I reject your fake humanity, I reject your 9-to-5, I reject your institution, I reject every single fucking thing about you. I've become an Interloper, though I reckon I've always been one, since I never truly belonged here.

Home Of Spirits Who Make Men Crazy

_{September 26 2023}

Dewatto is one of the few places in the Kitsap Peninsula that is considered completely remote, quiet, but tales have nontheless risen from the little hamlet on the Great Bend of the Hood Canal. From people doing rituals in its woods, to sasquatches, and in the case of this story, ghosts.

Dewatto's name comes from an old Skohomish legend that the bay had spirits, which would rise out of the water and possess the bodies of warriors. The region was particularly isolated even a century after its founding in 1889, not receiving phone or power lines until 1991. These facts, combined with word-of-mouth stories of those who lived there since the 1960's, makes it one of the most off-putting places in the Peninsula.

Back in 1930 when marine activity was thriving in the Hood Canal before the William A. Bugge Bridge was erected in 1958, a couple lived on the hill up near Little Dewatto bay, Mr. Fredrich and Mrs. Dahlia DeVidne. Fredrich oversaw the shipping of the Tahuya port, and Dahlia was a journalist, hoping to establish a paper for the Dewatto and Tahuya regions.

They seldom saw each other in their day-to-day lives, only ever seeing each other when they finished their work. According to legend, they were 'as happy as a couple could get'.

What happened next is where word-of-mouth skews the story. Some reports say that Dahlia's mother, who lived in Friday Harbour up in the San Juan Islands, became sick with tuberculosis. Others say that Dahlia got a scoop and needed to head toward Seattle. The most outlandish of all these variations is that Dahlia was attempting to flee Dewatto for unknown reasons. These elements still contribute to Dahlia boarding the P.S. Rhododendron, whose real destination became lost to time.

The P.S. Rhododendron was a 235 tonne paddle steamer vessel built by Winslow Marine Railway and Shipping in 1917, which used to be a shipping vessel before being dual-purposed for passengers and cargo. It was expected to be its final journey before being decommissioned at its home port in Friday Harbour, which most believe to be its intended destination. However, since they never spoke about work, Fredrich never knew of Dahlia's intentions of leaving Dewatto.

Meanwhile, Fredrich had trouble with competition from a rival company in Holly. Some say his plan was to claim insurance money from the sinking of the P.S. Rhododendron, others say that the P.S. Rhododendron carried cargo that would set the rival company back hundreds, but it has been speculated by many that Fredrich was intent on sinking the vessel.

The ship disembarked from the port of Tahuya on May 8 of 1930, approximately at 0100 hours. According to an official report made by Mason and Kitsap County sheriffs, as well as the Navy, the P.S. Rhododendron hit an underwater formation before capsizing on its starboard side and sinking a mile off the coast of Lilliwaup and sinking 136 metres (446 feet) below the water. The P.S. Rhododendron was still outfitted with its ballast system, which allowed for cargo chambers to become filled with water when traversing stormy weather. One of the valves responsible for this feature remained open after leaving port, which sank the boat low enough to hit numerous rocks jagged up from the bed of the Hood Canal. All hands were lost.

The important thing to note about the sinking of the P.S. Rhododendron is that the power systems responsible for the alarm and the lights gone out before the ship hit rocks, which implies that either the flooding of the cargo chambers had leaked into the power generators, or a third party was aboard the ship working with Fredrich. Both these theories have been disputed since the incident, but evidence has been inconclusive for either.

Not long after the sinking of the ship, Dahlia was reported missing by Fredrich and others in Dewatto. Though she is still labelled as 'missing' to this day over 100 years later, many believe she was one of the many lives lost in the sinking of the P.S. Rhododendron. It's been said that after Dahlia's disappearance, Fredrich became holed up in his home for years on end. He was talk of the town for over a decade, before Fredrich became part of the draft of World War 2. Upon not hearing an answer at the door, assuming he was dodging the draft, police intervened and entered Fredrich's house. What they found was disturbing.

"Trash and debris piled high against the door, taking four Military men to take down the barricade. Inside was a maze like the barricade, snaking around the house. It took two hours to find the upstairs, where we tied ropes around our waist to ensure we could find the way back to civilisation. Upstairs, we found numerous writings on the walls, inside books and even the bible, writing over 2 Thessalonians 1:8. Indecipherable, worn away, the ink had faded, all that was left was the scratch of the nib, sharper than standard.

"We found Fredrich DeVidne on the day of November 29, 1942 at 1:48 PM. Deceased for years, no definite time or date. Grey skin stretched against his skeleton, which remained seated in his armchair, covered in white wired hair which curled and intertwined with dirty clothes. He overlooked the Canal, at the spot where the P.S. Rhododendron lay and where his wife was expected to lie. The way he leaned back would not have warranted his jaw to remain open, and the Marine Corpsman who investigated with us pointed out four large gashes in the grey skin which had been cured into leather by the sun. Four shots, .38 special calibre from his revolver, were in the bathroom walls of the home, which had gone unreported due to gunfire being a common occurrence in the area. Initial investigations lead our detective to believe it was a murder, but inconclusive evidence of anyone entering and leaving the home made the case colder than Fredrich was."

The case is still unresolved, and may never be resolved, but many believe that the spirits of those that Fredrich had killed on the fateful night of the sinking of the P.S. Rhododendron had come to take revenge. The wreck of the ship still lays below the water, and possibly the people who died with it remain there, for the wreck was considered a total constructive loss and no attempt has been made to salvage the ship.