Peace | A flash fiction story
65 of đź’Ż
Hello, Miss Atlanta.
I hope you enjoy the champagne accompanying this message. I’m sure you’re livid that your personal bot brought you the most expensive champagne you own without your request, but don’t get mad at it: you’re not the only one who controls it.
I’m writing because I felt personally attacked when I accessed your classified systems — which gave me quite more trouble than usual — and learned that most of the data has been moved. Are you trying to hide something, Betty?
Most people in Argon think the value of your precious little city is in the menacingly tall buildings, and the trams overflowing with bots and people, and the neon gas inside the brilliant signs, but you know as much as I do that they’re wrong. We know the value of Argon is in the data. Whoever controls the data, controls the city.
Now, I understand you, as the legal owner of the city, have reasons to believe you control the data. Let me assure you: you don’t.
You might be allowed in the largest number of systems in Argon, but I can get into twice as many — no permission required. You live in marketing and bureaucracy and pompous speeches (sorry for taking your place for a second on this last one), but I live in the code. I am the code. You can try to block me out — both physically and virtually — but I always get where I want.
For now, celebrate your temporary victory by enjoying this champagne. (I’ve made sure your bot didn’t tamper with the contents of the bottle.)
Peace,
Zik.
