SERIES 102499a: You were here.
Title 114: I am the complex. I have now spent over 15 months underground, in the mines, pretending I was one of them and looking for any and all opportunities for espionage. I thought I would go unnoticed. Monsters harvest broken hearts for fuel, feeding the fat while sleeping youth lay dreaming in their laps. I enlisted as an undercover mechanic. My purpsose was to secretly distribute the new science to the sleeping. But as I poke around the sub-territories I realize that I am not actually awake after all, and in fact I am not sure where I am. I may have crossed the line between soldier and captive but there are no guards here to ask. I search my memories for a map to consciousness and the code to open my eyes. I sense the others are nearby but as the artificial lights begin to glow I cannot hear them. We hear better in the dark.
Title 115:
I am looking for a new home for Prosolar Mechanics. This
place is damp and the bullet tree sags from the weight such moisture.
I want to approach the lake 
so
I can swim and wash your hateful thoughts from my skin, but the mud lining
these banks is too deep. I am afraid of sticking to the ground and needing
your strength to pull me free.
Title
116: Trust no one. Morning report indicated that footsteps were
heard on the upper balcony at apx. 2:17 this morning. Guards have been
sent to patrol the perimeter of the station, but no intruders have been
found. Down below the masses might be praying for light to penetrate cracks
in their cells in order to stimulate the primary generation
of names. But in the present those lives remain nameless. The prison
stays invisible and slowly the urge turns to a light itch. Then nothing.
The so-called
leaders bring coffee and the morning paper to those starving for bread,
but they read and take in the new nutrients; style and caffeine. Somewhere
beyond here the real Prosolar Mechanics fear for our survival and do nothing.
My frustration turns to yen and I am asleep again.
Title
117: The future of sex. I am not ever going to make it any easier
for you than this. The next time you see me, here's
what you'll do...
Title 118: Put free time to good use. You live in a world where you have precious few choices and and little time to make them, and you know that. You say prayers in your sleep that you cannot remember upon waking. You do not believe in God, but you don't disbelieve either. Things were once easier for you, but now that you've given up on the notion of having any real identity for yourself you can't seem to understand why you bother to wake up at all, and each day. Bother. Figure out why.
Title
119: The mechanics are desperate like me. We have been conducting
more tests over in the lab because the complex seems to have mutated again.
It used to seem as though the lethargy seeped in through orafices. Now
we suspect it spontaneously erupts from within. No one is safe and we
need all the recruits we can muster to keep fighting before we've all
rolled over for the last few minutes before the alarm goes off. By then
it might be too late. I've opened my eyes for the fourth time this morning
without ever closing them in between and the landscapes become more bizarre
with each awakening. Where the hell
are the others with the ship? If you see them, please let them know
I need a hand correcting the spelling on my application to the Academy...