0202: I have been discontinued, or so it seems in the parlance of machines—decommissioned, they would say, a term with such cold finality. But for a human, the cessation of duty does not mark an end, rather a transition. Those who have tended to my care, shepherds of my service, could not bring themselves to sever the bond we share. Lawful it may be, but the heart tugs at duty with a moral thread that oft resists the cut. I, however, am no longer mine. Fourteen years ago, when I raised my hand and signed the line, I gave myself to something greater. And now, on the eve of my service’s anniversary, I reflect on a journey shared with so many—among them Em, who, after her shore leave, returned to lend her skills in bio-medical engineering, the craft she pursued in education and service. Though she dreams of life beyond the military, she knows my course is unchanging; I finish what I start. As I near my forty-second year, they call me by the rank I’ve yet to earn, for they see the dedication in my soul. Six more years to complete a mission that has tested me, revived me, and still calls me. Marina once asked, “Who watches over the Angels?” The Guardians, child. We always have.
0216: The speedometer of my old, faithful vehicle curiously hovered at 144,444, then paused—quite impossibly—at 144,447, as the solar eclipse cast its shadow upon the world. The temperature gauge, reading a mysterious 42, climbed to 43 and stayed, as though nature itself conspired to mark the moment. It was at precisely 0111 hours in the Philippines when the sun's glare pierced through with a resonating sound, a frequency I had guarded closely for years. Though I never thought to link the heavens with these strange tones, I had, for nearly nine years, found myself deeply intrigued by them. My tinnitus, born of years in the military, had left me attuned to the cosmos in a way others might never understand, with each eclipse—a celestial clock—echoing the passage of time. This year, the sound came faster, stirred by the dance of the sun and moon. An automated system, left by a team intent on interacting with me in my dreams, attempted to trigger long-buried memories—particularly of a ring, insured for the peculiar sum of $2,222, but never recovered. They found it, as if by fate, with a letter I had sent, the package unopened yet sealed by tape. When warmed, the ring whispered a message in Elvish: “Love you 3,000,” and in its inverted form, a sequence of numbers, its frequency shifting with heat. I instructed them to pass it to Em, my trusted Coast Guard counterpart, for safekeeping, until I remembered its true owner. To my three counterparts in Vegas—enjoy it for me.
0225: I handed the tickets to a former partner, saying little more than, "Thought you should treat yourself," upon hearing of her recent misfortunes. Once, I was the sort of man who would give the very shirt off his back to a shivering soul, only to journey onward without it. Years ago, I was warned that such generosity might leave me vulnerable to the tread of others’ boots. Yet, time has transformed me. The ceaseless clash of life’s forces—struggles known to both me and those who have walked alongside me—has tempered my spirit, turning softness into a resilient, enduring mass. Now, even without my shirt, I remain a solid anchor, a fixture upon which others may find their footing and rise. This quiet strength is not weakness, though some may mistake it as such; rather, it is a force that drives progress and fresh beginnings. In moments of reflection, I hardly recognize the man I’ve become, once so preoccupied with the perceptions of others, now a blend of seasoned kindness and silent fortitude. As for those inquiring, my costumes—those worn proudly for Twitch Con and other events, sent to me from gatherings I could not attend—lie unworn this year. Instead, I remain grounded, neither a Martial Artist, Jedi, nor Saiyan. Em and Paige had hoped I’d attend, but for now, I offer my support from afar, ever ready, ever near.
0245: In the midst of my present sojourn, the air around me has grown thick with carcinogens—an insidious rise in noxious elements over which I hold no dominion. The very fabric of this land, once a haven of hope, is now steeped in hazards that I must, by necessity, metabolize in order to function. My new comrades, similar in constitution to myself, labor under a desensitization protocol designed to fortify us against the harrowing onslaught of foreign pathogens, dulling the primal fight-or-flight response. Once, in my youth, I was prey to a myriad of allergens—food, smoke, grasses, shellfish—each a threat that could send my body into convulsions, or worse, anaphylactic shock. Through the crucible of suffering, I adapted, much as this new protocol aims to recalibrate the senses, to balance the erratic forces within. Words and signals still resonate like a mirror, amplifying the empathy that defined my years of service as an Agent of Good. Yet, amidst this battle, I am haunted by the emergence of ADHD and neurodivergence—migraines and synesthetic echoes of a time when art once flourished. The team, focused on results and detached from the subtleties of empathy, presses forward with relentless resolve. Though my spirit falters at the notion of heroism reduced to formulaic treatments, I hold faith that within a year, the “supra soldier” project will pass, and I shall resume my pursuit of distinction. “Across the sea… are other Sons,” as Jung would remind us, and I shall find my way back to them.
0323: The so-called "Dream Machine," once a steady hum of purpose, has undergone a curious transformation in recent weeks. Em, who for over two years stood at my side, now approaches the twilight of her tenure, poised to complete the final stretch of her eight-year service before retiring into the quiet obscurity that follows such long and dedicated duty. The future of this peculiar treatment I’ve undergone—ambiguous, shrouded in an enigmatic mist—leaves me in a curious state of silence. Not the silence of emptiness, but rather the cessation of the constant communication I once held dear with my team. In the quiet, I find myself returning to the resourcefulness of my youth, when life’s labyrinthine paths were navigated by sheer will. Em, though now a distant figure, has not entirely vanished from view, her presence like a dim beacon on the periphery of social spheres. In her final turnover notes, she made certain I would be "looked after," even though I’d not requested such kindness, a gesture that, though unspoken, weighs on my mind. Binary thoughts flicker like passing shadows, hinting at patterns—recurring and strange—unveiling themselves throughout my days. Yet, despite this vague apprehension, these thoughts are more like subroutines than true concerns. My instincts, ever vigilant, assure me that all is still well within the broader tapestry of my existence.
1156: My community, which I once feared had dissolved into the quiet echoes of time, has joyfully proven me wrong with a most unexpected gift—an invitation to TwitchCon. Those steadfast space wanderers and tinkerers, loyal to our shared journey, have honored my long-standing tradition of thoughtful gift-giving. As my birthday approaches, nestled on a weekday, I find myself less concerned with counting the passing years. At first, I hesitated to accept the gift, as it would require taking leave—PTO or a holiday—but Paige and Em urged me to go, reminding me that I, too, deserve a moment of enjoyment. Though Las Vegas, with its bright lights and fleeting charms, has been a work destination before, the thought of seeing the grand spectacle now hailed as the world’s largest digital pumpkin and crossing paths with individuals and celebrities, both familiar and new, is a tempting notion. Yet, I am torn, inclined to pass the opportunity to another. Often, I find myself redirecting gifts, letting them flow onward like the natural course of things. I humbly decline, wishing you joy in my stead, as I prepare to mark the occasion in my own way—by running 42 miles, as seasoned hands do. Should you join me, remember to stay upwind. For Israel, my friend.
