Chapter Five: B.Net 1.984
(A story of the future of Battle.net)
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. Stumbling quickly across the dust covered patchwork streets, Winston)Smith approached a rusted and wind-battered shack. His head was tucked deeply inside a heavily worn gray coat, sparsely sheltered from the dirt and debris the all too frequent gusts of wind would toss at his tightly closed eyes and mouth. He fumbled with the door – the knob was loose and desperately needed a replacement – and lurched inside.
The shack consisted of a single tiny room, sparsely furnished. A flimsy desk sat somewhat erect in the center, accompanied by a lopsided stool, while a single grimy mattress hugged a shadowy corner. A dull and dusty screen was built into a side wall, easily overlooking the entire room. It was turned on, as always, projecting a simple middle-aged man reading a list of names and numbers. Pasted roughly against the far wall opposite the door was an enormous and intimidating poster featuring a well-groomed and bearded face. Underneath was a message written in big bold letters. “ACTIVISION BLIZZARD IS WATCHING YOU.”
This was home. There were many more just like it. They littered the colorless and dusty streets, sprawling eternally across the flattened soil. No one knew where these shacks began, or where they stopped. A common rumor, a widely held belief was that there was in fact no end; that the shacks continued on and on in a massive circle, covering the surface of the land and back again. And each person had his own shack. Or, rather, each person was allotted a shack. It would be wrong for him to call it his “own” – a crime, even. For nothing belonged to him. The shack, the single mattress, the tattered clothes on his back, the very creations of his fragile mind; none of it was his.
Each shack was the same. Each contained a single mattress, desk, chair, screen, and poster, and each reeked of sweat and despair. The only difference was the doors; upon some, a glaring red “X” was painted. No one knew what this meant, but it was in one’s best interest to ask no questions. There were no two room shacks or three room shacks. The rule was strict and simple: one shack, one body. More than one body would lead to conversations, gossip, idle chatter, and more than one conversation would lead to sloth, lawlessness, anarchy. Silence was a virtue. The walls, flimsy barriers against the endless rain and sleet and snow, were curiously reinforced to withstand one thing – sound. To discuss matters of business, one had to trudge on foot for miles, possibly, to find a coworker. No local area transportation network existed. It would be too exploitable, the party said. And so, an eerie silence hung over the wretched streets and shacks, only broken intermittently by the lonesome howl of the wind or the distant scuffle of well-worn boots.
Winston)Smith looked up at the screen. The program had changed; it was now flashing a black and white war film, and the sound of muted gunshots and explosives reverberated softly inside the silent room. Eurasian bodies, riddled with bullets and shrapnel, littered the battlefield as a calm and even voice steadily narrated the scene. Something about victory in Europe or Asia or Oceania, somewhere so remote and far away, no one really knew if it existed at all. In fact, nothing was known outside this single territory of scattered shacks save what was shown upon that dusty flashing screen. But Winston)Smith wasn’t listening; his thoughts had drifted to what had happened at work this peculiar morning...
Sparsely scattered amongst the sea of shacks were enormous grim factories abutting coal mines and brimstone quarries. Towering smokestacks sprouted from the rooftops, belching cloud after cloud of grime and smog above the windowless concrete walls. Each was given a name such as Medivac Alamo or Lurker Sigma, and each operated with the same raw efficiency, consuming the same amount of coal, and generating the same amount of energy, regardless of the strength, determination, and competency of the throng of faceless men that tended to the smoky beast from within. Among these was Winston)Smith. Or Winston)Smith.491, to be precise. For names were not unique; uniqueness was a sin, an evil that bred corruption and discontent. There was no place for such radical and dangerous ideals.
As the clock struck twelve, an obnoxious-sounding siren blared from the speakers spread throughout the complex. It was time for the Two Minutes Hate. The massive screen on the front wall of the factory flickered, projecting a blood red backdrop. The workers gathered round like blind and faithful sheep flocking to a crimson shepherd. To Winston’s immediate left stood a short and fervent shrew of a woman, one of those who worshiped the party with all of her heart. To his right was a massive man whose face radiated a quiet and reserved intelligence ill-suited to his grappling physique. His name was Rotick, a prominent figure of the party, an overseer of this sector who ever so rarely would drop by for an inspection. But, Winston knew deep down, instinctively, even, that there was something unsettling, something not quite right about this man. Something more. The siren stopped and gave way to a calm and droning voice that belonged to a curly haired man who now contrasted sharply the red background. His nose was pointed and angular and his mouth was contorted into a silly, stupid smile that matched his bright and beady eyes. He was ranting about the insurgency and the lies of Activision Blizzard, advocating dangerous rebellious ideals: freedom of speech and freedom of thought. But nobody was listening. A great hissing erupted unanimously from the faceless crowd, with scattered boos tossed around with the utmost zeal. The droning voice was quickly drowned amidst the tidal uproar as fists of outrage were raised and small objects were hurled at the screen. Marching boots and deafening gunshots joined the din, resonating from the battalion of twenty foot Eurasian soldiers that had appeared on screen behind the massive profile. Several of the crowd, including the tiny woman to Winston)Smith’s left, shrunk in fear. Others, consumed by blinding rage, yelled and swore and went into a frenzy. Even the giant Rotick to Winston’s right, normally calm and collected, was choked with anger, his face veined and purplish red. And, as the head on the screen gradually mutated into the grotesque visage of a Zerg overlord, Winston found himself inescapably drawn to the rage and hate that suffocated the entire building. Was image on the screen a face or an alien? Winston could no longer tell, so blinded by emotion was he. And who could resist? For so fearsome a power bonded the souls of the frenzied workers and kindled and stoked the wildfires that enflamed their hearts that they kicked and shouted and screamed as one fearsome beast, one single wild and burning conflagration guided by hands unseen.
But as Winston hurled flaming verbal javelins at the gruesome specter that still grinned stupidly from the screen, it dawned upon him that his cries of anger and hate and incredulity were directed not at the infuriating propaganda, but rather at the party itself. He hated the slummy and unkempt streets, the never ending food rations, the dingy shack allocated to him. He hated the oppressive silence, the mind-wrenching rumors and secrets, and the furiously mundane life he lived. He hated Activision Blizzard. And so he welled up all of the remorse, despair, and fervent passion that dwelled within his breast and, in this single minute, unleashed it upon the world.
Finally, the grotesque figure softly melted into a calm and reassuring face that exuded peace and stability, the same face plastered across the countless posters that littered the populace. A wave of relief swept across the crowd, and an audible sigh could be heard. The crowd applauded and cheered, and the shrewish woman to Winston’s left curled up in a small ball and burst into tears. Their savior had come. Slowly, the crowd broke into a low chant. “A-B! …A-B!” And Wilson followed suit. But something caught the corner of his eye, a glimmer perhaps, or maybe just the simple certain and inescapable feeling that his attention was required. He turned, half-expectant, to meet the intense and probing gaze of Rotick, staring straight into the depths of his soul. Those eyes, two glassy portals into worlds beyond comprehension, reflected wisdom, knowledge, and understanding. Grasping Winton’s burning mind, those yawning pupils pulled and tugged at Winston’s desires and fantasies. And for once, he dared to dream. For the first time, he saw the world with clarity. Europe and Asia and Oceania, they really existed. The party was on the cusp of a new local area transportation network that they had long ago tossed with the ideological rubbish of the past. Though they lived in the gray twilight hours, a new and golden dawn awaited just beyond the horizon. And with it lay change and freedom and a new beginning. Soon, the world would be silent no more.
The morning shift came to a quiet and unremarkable end. Winston and Rotick parted without exchanging a single syllable, for such was the silent bond between the two men, the unspoken understanding that transcended mere words. They were brothers for the same unmentionable cause, fighters wrapped in the same unremarkable drab and colorless guise of a comrade of the party. Change was just around the corner.
Winston snapped back to reality. It was a mere hour since those events transpired, and the eyes brimming with forbidden knowledge still burned clearly in his mind. He looked with utter disgust upon his repulsive soiled cot and ramshackle furniture. A cockroach scuttled across the bare dirt floor, just out of Winston’s reach. The stench of sweat and despair was suddenly painfully noticeable, choking his mind and clouding his senses. He flung himself outside in a coughing fit, stumbling painfully across the scattered litter and debris. Looking up to the cloudless gray and open sky, he fancied a bold ray of sunshine pierced the impenetrable layer of smog that hung so stiflingly overhead. And for the second time in his life, Winston)Smith dared to dream. He saw the imminent change, the incredible future, the wonderful truth suppressed beneath a layer of oppression and silence and solitude. A burst of inspiration seized his fevered mind, penetrated the core of his frontal lobe, tugged at the fringes of his sanity. Inexorably, his mouth opened, and a rumbling overtook his vocal cords. He knew what was coming and couldn’t stop it; he didn’t want to stop it. It was inevitable. With a mouth open wide, he mustered all of the hope and dreams that resided in his soul. “Down with Activision Blizzard! Down with Activision Blizzard! Down with Activision Blizzard…”
No sooner had those words escaped his lips than a dark and heavy hand fell upon his shoulder. A shiver shook his entire body as he twirled to confront this unsuspecting assailant. And he met a countenance so horribly contorted, an expression so astonishingly twisted that, upon first impulse, he believed this disfigured face to be the face of a complete stranger. The face of Rotick. His pupils, once unfathomable pools of knowledge, now radiated only mindless rapacious hunger, an insatiable desire for unimaginable suffering. A spasm of pain shot through Winston’s shoulder, and he dropped to the ground in a fetal ball and saw no more.
It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen. The wind howled furiously, battering row after endless row of dilapidated shacks that stretched for an endlessly across this gray and sullen expanse. A massive and well-built man, dressed smartly in the tidy but colorless garb of the upper party, trudged through the filthy streets. His cap was pulled low to screen the dirt and dust the wind flung mercilessly at his shadowed face, and his gray cloak was wrapped tightly around his bulky figure. Passing an unremarkable shack, he paused. Its door bore a blood red “X.” The door that once led to the abode of Winston)Smith.491. The dark man gave a slight nod of approval, and a tiny grin crept across his stolid countenance, for he knew that inside fluttered a single piece of paper, upon which was written “BANNED.” And he walked away.
