Blockchained is a short story set in a dystopian one-world-government future where blockchain technology has been used to enslave the people of the world.
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
I hate this place. The black and white checkered floors make me feel dizzy, and the excessively bright lighting stirs that dizziness into a feeling of nausea. Art was always a passion of mine. So you would think that the many sculptures and paintings that adorn the walls and ceilings would at least provide me with some comfort. But that would be a good thing— and there are no good things in this world. Not anymore.
This building is a murderer. My interest in the arts is but one of its many victims. My predilection for creativity was stolen from me within two days of working here. When heading deeper into the tower, each piece that once comes across is infinitely more disturbing than the last. Creative they may be, but I care not for the paths my imagination is ushered down upon viewing them. I often worry that looking at their so-called works of art for too long, may result in me becoming like them. It was the way a painting could make me feel that spawned my love for art. Now, thanks to this place, I despise it for that very same reason.
I'm able to find a small measure of solace in the emptiness of the ground floor. The thought of sprinting down the hallway to the elevator crosses my mind. That would narrow the chances of someone I'd rather not see emerging. A stupid thought. God only knows who is watching me right now. The building is riddled with cameras and other surveillance equipment. Running to the elevator would more than likely provoke a controller to come down and interrogate me.
Instead, I put on a mask of calmness and attempt to casually walk down the corridor towards the lift. My eyes stay glued to the doors of the elevator as I desperately try to avert my attention from the perverse imagery that surrounds me. Some days I am lucky, and I'm able to focus on the doors well enough to hide all other visual stimuli behind a protective blur. Today, I am not lucky.
Half way down the corridor, my peripheral vision is invaded by large, curved, goat-horns that seem to be reaching out towards me like predatory tentacles. I know that they're not really moving. because they are part of a nine-foot statue of a half-man, half-goat deity. A momentary viewing of the horns is enough to bring an image of the entire sculpture to the forefront of my mind. My imagination elects to pay attention to the one part of the depiction I wish to forget— the human leg that hangs from the mouth of the beast.
I quicken my pace and shoot up the hallway, hoping to leave both the statue and the thoughts it provoked behind me. Unsurprisingly, I fail. The mental image of that leg becomes so potent that I struggle to see the elevator a few feet ahead of me. If it was just the average human leg, I could probably bear this. But it's so much smaller than that of an adult. Smaller even, than that of a child. The limb must belong to a baby.
It's just a statue. It's not a real kid. It's true, I tell myself. It is only a statue. But why is it there? Why did they choose to put it on show? And why have I heard the waling of infants emanating from the thirteenth floor on several occasions?
This is why I try so hard not to look at those damned statues and paintings. I had managed to convince myself last week that the thirteenth floor is a hospital for the controllers, and the crying I heard was the delivery of new born babies. Now, as I make my way into the elevator, I am once again considering the absurdity that they might just be eating children up there. What the fuck is wrong with me?
The doors of the elevator close behind me, and I turn and place my palm on the access panel. The chip in my hand determines that I am heading for the twelfth floor, and the lift begins to ascend. With some level of desperation, I attempt to push the thoughts of a thirteenth-floor feast from my mind. I fail, yet again, but am quickly rescued by the sound of the doors opening in front of me.
Stepping out of the lift, I scan my surroundings to see if anyone is around. Thank God. The only thing that could make this day any worse would be an appearance from Lady Gotha or Lord Rockefeller. It's a rare occasion for any of the controllers to come down to the lower levels, but every time they do, it ruins my entire week.
Glad to be alone, I let out a sign of relief and march over to my desk. I hang my coat over the rack and sit myself down on the cold metal seat provided for me. Waving my hand in front of the centre-screen boots up all the monitors and grants me access to the blockchain explorer.
A second sigh escapes my lips, this time indicative of my exhaustion. Just 12 hours to go now. Then I get to return to another place I fucking hate.
Lucky me.
