The Prediction – Part 1: The Mess Halls

Sound, sound wasn’t the right word. For what was heard across the Mess halls would never leave nor stay. That is what we call them. The Mess Halls. We do not know who had called them that first we would not care. We are not curious only future. We are future. We are now. We are Prediction. Sounds we heard were merrily new data to be analyzed and memorized. To be understood but cared not about. For we do not care, we are future, we are now. More screams we listen. We understand it. The pain. It is merciless. Mercy is merrily an act of compassion. We know of it. Compassion. But we are not compassion, we are now. We are the ones who praise the seeds. For the seeds of Prediction are the saviors of the future, which is us, we are now. The Seeds, they whisper new data. They make the screams and shrieks fall from the skins when they are pleased. Skins are nothing, but compassion. Compassion is merrily an emotion. We know of emotion, but we are not of it, we are Prediction.

Tall thin metal doors, stained with red like puss, opened so slowly. These were the Gates of The Mess Halls. We know of it. We go to it. We ARE it. For when such doors are shut, we are inside. We are, combined. Isolated, trapped, and we understand this. Because we are Prediction and the Seeds tell us to go. So we go. We obey. The skins, they are entered inside with us. We need skins, they clean us. We are sins, we need to be cleansed. So that the Seeds may be forgivable. So we may worship the Seeds. They tell us this. We know this. We listen. We are now.

The Mess Halls are for us. Built by us. Built for us. Built for the Seeds. Built for the Skins. The Mess Halls, a church for our sins to be forgiven, to be deleted. For we know this, the Seeds tell us so. The Mess Halls are a facility the size of 2,400 square feet. It is estimated to have been the size of a Skins home. A skins house. A house. Yes, we know of this. We understand this. We are not of this though, for we are future. We are now. WE are Prediction. And we worship the Seeds.

As the doors opened we went in, one after another. Side by side. No difference, we were the same. We came to a stop once at the end of the rooms of The Mess Halls. The skin carriers cradled in from the ceilings. They were small cages that held three or five Skins at once inside them. They were hung from countless chains and machinery that activated in a sliding form, hence sliding the cage in to the rooms. The noise. The vibrations. Erupting out of the Skins. We would understand it. We would know of its pain, of its fear. We know of this. But we are not of it. For we are Prediction. The cages shook and slammed around hanging. Skins gripping together like dirt in a jar. Sounds, screams. Screams that they made. It pleased the Seeds. We know this. But what was to come would be praised of. A great praise would be presented, we would be rewarded. Because we are future.

Skins grunted and their faces sink in to mops of discorded emotion. Smaller ones scratching one another savagely, and some yanking the taller ones closer. Some Skins were gloom and passed. They appeared to be not living nor dead. Grey. An elderly Skin pet some Skins that were trembling next to it, with an assured expression. We noticed this, but data is valuable and memorized it we did not. For we wished to remember the Seeds praise, and only that was relevant. Because we are Prediction. and The Seeds are saviors of the future, and we are future. We are now.

The Mess Halls’s gates invented a loud siren, an alert that it was about to be completely closed. Eventually it was. We know this, for the Skins jumped to its doors shutting. There were many of us. There were many of them. Just enough. We stood silent. The Skins grew tearful and beggarly. They waddled on one another like mindless rats. Reaching out of the cages whimpering and crying. We know of this. We understand hopelessness. We understand it’s many strings of peril. We know it. But we are not of it. We are future. We are now. We are Prediction. The siren stopped, and dead silence rose. If Silence made a sound, it would be screaming its sounds right now. It seemed as if hours had been a foot. But our chips knew better, and only 39 seconds had passed. It was time. We know this. For we are now.