Happy Life
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The thing is different here, Elsie. You see, you were all being trained to be astronauts.
There were supposed to be dozens, hundreds of millions of astronauts – everyone who dreamed of it. You don't think children decided for themselves that they wanted to be astronauts, do you? A three-year-old can't wake up one morning and decide they want to fly into space. Children were told what they should dream about. It was part of the training. Some grand operation – colonizing deep space, genocide of aliens. Then, of course, someone smart came along, the plans changed, and you became unnecessary. At first, they wanted to eliminate you – World War III, Darth Reagan, the Zabrinski of the dead man. But then someone smart appeared again and suggested keeping you as a backup. Of course, no one bothered with retraining – it was an unnecessary expense. Whoever survives, survives.
It's like in the movies about cyborgs, raised by mad scientists and left to wander around when the Pentagon stopped funding the program. They roam around huge parking lots near supermarkets, looking for something in the sky. You're trying to understand why everything is so absurd and inconsistent, why you crave football and want to jump off the balcony. It's just that you were prepared for something completely different. They took away your ability to love, leaving only the instinct to reproduce – when several dozen people are locked together in a spaceship for months, extra conflicts are pointless. You need G-forces, intense radiation, water from urine – that's why you work so hard to harm yourselves. You bump into every corner of this world, scraping your face and knees raw, and try to find your place by scent.
Navigators have become programmers, pilots drive around in tinted Ladas, and specialists in non-humanoid intelligence write blogs. And nothing can be done anymore – the intervention was at the DNA level. Your children will be astronauts. Your grandchildren will be astronauts. You write books about astronauts and for astronauts, and all the paintings, all the movies, all the music – they are all different stories about Gagarin, who overslept on April 12th. The deaf Tsiolkovsky and the dead Gagarin – they are the ones who rule your world. It's strange that you're still alive.
There were supposed to be dozens, hundreds of millions of astronauts – everyone who dreamed of it. You don't think children decided for themselves that they wanted to be astronauts, do you? A three-year-old can't wake up one morning and decide they want to fly into space. Children were told what they should dream about. It was part of the training. Some grand operation – colonizing deep space, genocide of aliens. Then, of course, someone smart came along, the plans changed, and you became unnecessary. At first, they wanted to eliminate you – World War III, Darth Reagan, the Zabrinski of the dead man. But then someone smart appeared again and suggested keeping you as a backup. Of course, no one bothered with retraining – it was an unnecessary expense. Whoever survives, survives.
It's like in the movies about cyborgs, raised by mad scientists and left to wander around when the Pentagon stopped funding the program. They roam around huge parking lots near supermarkets, looking for something in the sky. You're trying to understand why everything is so absurd and inconsistent, why you crave football and want to jump off the balcony. It's just that you were prepared for something completely different. They took away your ability to love, leaving only the instinct to reproduce – when several dozen people are locked together in a spaceship for months, extra conflicts are pointless. You need G-forces, intense radiation, water from urine – that's why you work so hard to harm yourselves. You bump into every corner of this world, scraping your face and knees raw, and try to find your place by scent.
Navigators have become programmers, pilots drive around in tinted Ladas, and specialists in non-humanoid intelligence write blogs. And nothing can be done anymore – the intervention was at the DNA level. Your children will be astronauts. Your grandchildren will be astronauts. You write books about astronauts and for astronauts, and all the paintings, all the movies, all the music – they are all different stories about Gagarin, who overslept on April 12th. The deaf Tsiolkovsky and the dead Gagarin – they are the ones who rule your world. It's strange that you're still alive.
My sword, my trusted ally, unphased by my aspect.
