Failure, procedure, and failure.  As long as I toiled with this cure turned disease that has ravaged all our remains, I have yet to discover a supply adequate to cut out this syndrome from our bodies.  It traps us inside our enclosures, our flesh tombs, to eternally die here in this place.  The mere factor separating us from the absurdity of our world has come from several thin coats of polyfiberous metal and the long-suffering generators.

When Prina arrived, I expected she would be the material to resolve all of this.  I hold her within stasis as we attempt to establish a pure clone from her.  However, chance is running dry.  My colleagues say my experiments are a lost ideal.  To extend my office, I conceded to be the last one to cull.  I will show them through rigorous methods we can certainly conceive a dependable source of washed blood to abolish this everlasting desolation.

For now, we maintain the stringent guidelines from the introduction of this wretched genesis into immortality. No touching, no injuries, all who are blemished are exiled from the haven of the facilities.  This is the only longstanding practice that has preserved purity.  It was problematic when I had observed the abrasion on my offspring’s palm.  I nevertheless regret having to cast him abroad.  We must continue the course, for the survival of mankind.

One day we will reclaim our mortality, a gift from paradise, an ultimate solution, stripped from us.  Yet even I see deep in my soul, the machines know accurately what I am undertaking and for what purpose are they allowing me to revolt against their motives.  In principle, I constantly felt as though we remain merely for their twisted entertainment.  I must not dwell on such subjects, and ultimately I cannot help but be overwhelmed with these conclusions.  Perhaps the machines are fiddling with my mind, wandering behind the caverns of my eyes and slithering on every nerve in my body.  I will kill myself, I will encounter a means.

~ Hellibor Winters

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