9. Mass Exitus

EPL- INFORMATION FOR YOUR BUILDING SOUL

And in the mass frenzy, exitus, the obscured rush pressed toward that inevitable checkpoint. Armed, contracted militia eyed the ephemeral human meat market like a conveyor belt, demanding some sort of official papers that, in reality, these men did not have the expertise to vet. So, in haste, they looked over men who were strong, or those who looked intelligent, asking what their trade was. As for the women, only the young or those who spoke with obvious, educated fluency in one of their languages—mainly Spanish, some Russian, or French—would make it past this first checkpoint. As the road went on, if it weren't blown to hell at any moment, the checkpoint siphoned into immediate wartime need. Doctors, attractive women, translators, and military retirees would live, while the rest would either be placed into a makeshift containment camp or be put out of their misery. Is this true mercy when the final bullshit hits the fan and chunks of human organs splatter on the walls of time

As arguments broke out and lives were brokered in rapid sequence, frame by frame, in moments we edged closer to the well-armed and well-guarded tyrants. In just five minutes, bottles of expensive scotch were offered as sycophants tried to buy their way in. Cryptocurrency and cash were instantly transferred over to whatever pig rose to the top of the shit heap, no matter how finite. Women were stripped, some raped; men and young children were shot, while the succeeding person next in line had to remain cool, calm, and collected as if nothing had transpired. The thousand behind them would even sometimes show papers, demonstrate aptitude, and join—typically by putting a bullet through the head of the person they had stood in line with for hours. As the sky turned sanguine, bloody tropical intermittent rain and charred dust—whatever sun there was obnubilated by war-torn skies—began to set heavy and menacing.

Tyrant at the Gate into spiraling cartoon hell:

 "Hola, ¿qué nos tienes para ofrecer a cambio; esta es una cuestión de vida o muerte?" Their hasty conversation began nice enough.

Lord and Quinn:

Hola señor, hablo español y me cuido, al igual que mi hijo Quinn; levantamos pesas, corremos, practicamos ajedrez, estudiamos música, español, y algo de ruso y francés a diario. También estamos dispuestos a sacrificar a los débiles para que los fuertes puedan seguir adelante y sobrevivir.

Solder two: 

¿Por qué no habla tu muchacho? ¿Es tonto o mudo? Tal vez debería meterle una bala en la cabeza ahora mismo y usarla como bacinilla si es que está tan vacía, ¿no?

Quinn speaks up: 

Hola señor, mi nombre es Quinn y mi padre me enseñó bien español y algo de francés y un poco de ruso. Soy autista pero no estúpido. Mi padre y yo también entrenamos a menudo y podemos cargar, disparar, traducir o incluso entrenar a otras tropas. Mi padre fue un entrenador físico de alto nivel toda su vida y sabe cómo poner a la gente en forma.

With that, Quinn proceeded to flex his massive, 18-inch, veiny arm, smiling like a young boy—yet doing so not in a braggy, assaultive manner, but in a pure, simple mode of shared camaraderie. Laughing, the French soldier, speaking some Spanish, broke in.

French higher ranking soldier:

¡Ja, ja, este chico está jodidamente construido! Si puedes hacer esto con él, entonces ¿quizás algunos de nosotros tengamos algo que aprender? Now speaking spanish the french high ranking warpig spoke candidly 

"Ahora, mete una bala en las cabezas de tantas de estas personas que están más cerca de ti como puedas si quieres pasar este puesto de control de la muerte. ¡¿Cuánto quieren vivir tú y tu hijo?!"

And the Lord prepared Quinn well for this time. In fact, this was the moment that he most impressed upon him in the time to come (now) that was inevitable. Remembering back when his father said to him, "These people will die, and it is our job in this dark universe to go on and live. They are people, but their fates were sealed long ago. The true mercy extended then is to end it quickly and move on. Look down at this bloody meat on this plate; not long ago, this belonged to a massive cow. Now, in this time, it is food—which will you be, son?"

With that, Quinn and his father, Lord, were handed pistols, as the assault rifles pointed at them, too, in slight distrust. And without hesitation, they cocked, loaded, and discharged, quickly and without hesitation, all five of the people who were standing near them—familiar now in smell and in stories overheard: an older couple, an old lady, a wayward boy of seven, and a cocky man who bragged about how he would join this motley crew militia to rape, kill, and steal. A fine line this day between master morality and slave morality; a seed of strength that needed to be planted to ensure a better future.

​And with that, the scotch bottle recently gifted to Jean-Jacques was opened, and the two were immediately given power, assault weapons, and a uniform as two drones came down to scan their eyes; they had made it in, they had shown their value enough. As the bottle was passed around and Quinn hesitantly drank the biggest slug of this polemic, throat-biting beverage, the soldiers around them laughed, welcoming them past the barbed wire and makeshift gate. Just in time, as the bombs landed first, then large attack drones mowed down the thousands as the gate was held with a single tactical nuke in between the hills where the not-so-distant transmitter commanded this attack with AI tactical precision. Lighting up the new night with a brilliant flash as carnage turned to dust, a mask was placed over Lord, Quinn, and the survivors' faces. The area had to be cleared and blown to shit as they boarded trucks that would take them underground to a new reality they only thought in their wildest dreams might have existed.

Coming out of the simulation left a vacant hole in each of them. As they blinked their eyes repeatedly, trying to adjust to the cold, forensic lights above, they realized neither spoke Spanish, much less French or Russian—the languages they had so viscerally inhabited in the world Lord and Quinn now desperately felt like returning to. Shaking and unable to lift their arms, they remained firmly held by the exotic, futuristic, bleached-white, MRI-looking slabs. Dr. Stevenson stood in a separate room, the viewing window optically dilated to ensure they could see him clearly. Around him, medical staff of Indian, Japanese, and European origin exchanged information rapidly, as if involved in some secret CERN-like gateway into another realm.

"Quinn!" Dr. Stevenson addressed him directly. "It felt pretty good to see your importance, didn't it? Your true depth was on full display."

It was impossible to simply brush off as a hallucination or a bad dream.

"We can see everything in your world because it is real," Stevenson continued. "In fact, what we have discovered here is that your experience is more firmly grounded in 'base reality'—as it pertains to all other regions of existence—than this one is. What I am trying to express to you, Quinn, and to your father, Lord, is that what you just experienced is, in fact, base reality. You are discovering who you really are, leaving only one question: 'So, what is *this*?'"