21st Century Charlotte [Rewrite]
When we struggle for water and bread, I lose my head. I answer the call. Sometimes you have friends whom defect, but sometimes friends were never friends. The guillotine tossed my soul into space. I saw a B2 Flying Wing on target during a nuclear strike, and protesters in the street holding signs. And people through Molotov cocktails. But my style of revolution was different. I worked on 512 AES cryptography.
Life was a very different experience living as a soul in a machine, captured by a world class radio recording device. They said they would give me a new body, but it would never been quite the same as having the body I had back in seventeen ninety two. With my new body, I could browse the web using projected holograms from my wrist; only the memories of a face slapped severed head on a stick in crowd of hungry revolutionaries was burned into my memory. It had been a few weeks since I grew used to this body, but eventually the hospital let me go. With nowhere to turn to besides these streets, with no friends or family, there was only the dust. I met a man that lived in a tint, just outside the Hooverville, where protesters were lined up. The scene brought back memories of all the revolutionary in the Parisian street, wearing wooden clogs. Many of them becoming severe heads, and others lined up for the chop.
Life wasn’t a one stop shop for worldly pleasures, it was the product of warlike engineering and elusive bankers that controlled the world with in an iron fist, their empire more expansive than even the British and Spanish that went before.
I was minding my own business, when a protester put a shotgun to back of my head. Quickly a cop pepper sprayed them, and the individual was neutralized. I was soon left with the choice between tending to the needs of the protester, or obeying the cop in some new fangled uniform far different from my own timeline. Outside, I heard Portuguese accordion, and jazz instruments in the background. Others were roasting rats by their tents. The weather was ungodly hot; on the thermometer on my wrist I checked the temp. It was around 110 Celsius. Many protesters were dropping like flies simply from the heatwave.
The cop was going to fire a lethal round.
I kicked the cop, gave him a mild concussion, and then took the protester back to the tent, where I met the first guy I had met after coming out of the hospital. “He should be OK, but maybe you shouldn’t be out in the field.”
“I should be OK, just need to get used to this body.” I said.
“Your generation is so reckless.” the doctor quipped.
“Says the one living on Walstreet. Lets check out this guy’s injuries.” The maced protester was placed on a table. “Apparently he had been continuing to fight, even with all these bruises. Clearly not your usual protester.”
“Is there a usual?”
“They’re not like ones in your previous lifetime Charlotte.”
It was true, only insofar that usually protesters didn’t take people out to have their heads chopped off by The Dreadful Climb, after rotting in a prison. But the difference between now and The French Revolution was closer too comparing the 90s to the middle ages. Even if the class disparity was far more subtle, with people not broken on the wheel, this wasn’t exactly a comfort for people that had absurdly large amounts of monthly rent to pay.
“Rest for the night here, my War Dogs are on watch.”
I rested on an old Japanese futon. The roof, other than the makeshift medical room, was filled with various antique computers. The closest to a computer in my own timeline was something that had not yet been unearthed from the sea, which I only know about from looking up on Wikipedia in retrospect. I was curious how these seemingly magical devices worked, but for now largely obeyed the doctor’s wishes not to touch anything. So I spent the largely silent night in the tent, watching over the unconscious protester.
And I hate the silence the most.
In the morning, the sun was night yet out.
“I thought you were fighting for those pigs?” the protester said.
“Nope, just got out of the hospital a week ago.” I mentioned.
“Is that what they do to injured protesters now?”
“I have no idea, I don’t even know why I’m here. I’m not even suppose to be in this century.”
“I’m not even sure what that means. Names Tony.”
“Tony, and what?”
“Martin. Just don’t call me Tony the Martian.”
“Alright Tony” said the doctor, then gave him a candy bar. “Bring your sugar levels up, and call me if anything new comes up.”
“And you Charlotte, what are you doing tonight?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know anybody.”
The next week, I spent most of the time trying to find a permanent place to stay. Sometimes I could visit Tony in his Tent, and other times saved up money from Crypto Mercenary work, so I could eventually buy a Tent for myself. All I knew is I had nowhere to go besides forward, and no place to stay, with most of my family gone from the last century.
I was 21st Century Charlotte.
When you become part of the permanent web, after being betrayed by a comrade, you don’t have to leverage a controlled opposition network like YouTube. You need one thumb on the Peer 2 Peer button, and you’re online. And let the best hackers have their chance at life. I’ve known women who were stalked daily, yet the outrage merchants don’t care. It’s only how much money they can make on Patreon, the ones that remain on YouTube. I’ve known animals whom owners viewed as their own property, yet still the outrage merchants remain silent. You might think I answer the call to see justice is made.
You’re not entirely wrong, but it’s not completely true. First I need to take of my own needs, as I’m falling apart at the seam. The new doctor thought I should be dead, tossed me for scrap, but the old doctor found me again, and explained what made my old ally in Occupy lash out. But I couldn’t lash out at the doctor. He was doing the best he could to survive. Honestly we all are, some of us are just worse at it than others. Yet now here I own, as a solitary stream network inside my own mind, connected to thousands of different peers, an old soul connected to a new internet. While the old internet simply turns to dust. I am largely rust.
But I’m not just that.
I’m 21st century Charlotte.
Bill Gates was projected on large viewing screen, after reruns of Robert Muller. The guards after me might as well have been tap dancing on a roof, with all their careless footwork. It took one belly kick into one, to send them flying to their ground below. And it was with this that lead me to remember how it was I was reincarnated into the modern century. Walking up the scaffold, the wood was cold to my bare feet. Locked into into my final doom, the angular blade slamming down in three seconds, my severed head pouring buckets of blood into the wicker basket, as my vision slowly faded to the color of a darkest cave. The sound of an alarm blared, and I saw black helicopters swarming around me. Quickly ducked for cover, took my shotgun, and aimed carefully for the blades. On target, the helicopter slowly went down.
Robert Muller had been off the news for some time, until very recently during the Russiagate controversy. I barely knew anything about the case, so I mostly kept my mouth to myself, accept when sucking the dick of my female room mate, whom I had met after I had lost track of my original friend I met out of the hospital. She herself was largely mum to the whole affair, while we whispered about chocolates and beer. So many times have went by, I no longer needed the remote controller to properly train my movements.
But I felt reality looming closer aiming toward me like a bullet.