Sentinels by eclipse.xiv

from deep inside the panopticon, the complex sees everything
it sees the mundane routes of all daily lives
wake up, eat, work, go home, eat, sleep
it sees your whole family, your roommates, everyone you pass on the street, your co-workers, your fellow students, the people in the audiences for movies and live music.
it sees everything you do in cyberspace, every password, every like, follow, view, interaction, every video you watch, every text you send, every person you know or think you know. it knows everything that you willingly share, every dark secret between friends, every illicit photo or search, everything you say on call or facetime.
it registers every purchase you make, every book, every show, every film, every video game. the mediator of cyberspace is where the sentinels thrive.
it registers every song you listen to.

you have a number and an assortment of physical qualities: tall or short, attractive on a scale of 10, dark or light skin, trans or cis, able or disabled. tattoos or no tattoos, piercings or no piercings, long or short, dyed or undyed hair.

it registers your family history, your ethnic background, your eye color, the place you grew up, the chain of schools you went to before being churned out into the workforce. every grade you got, every reprimand, every award.
it sees every photo, every heartfelt reflection, every poem, every song, every scream into the void for someone, anyone, to hear us! to understand what we are going through, to be compelled to action before the machine crushes us all, prices us out, brutalizes and kills our friends, burns our forests, poisons our rivers and lands, rains hellfire and bombs on cities of millions, slowly kills tens of millions to prop up the supply chains, the rare minerals in every device. and with that incredible, enormous, monstrous behemoth of a power, the machine builds prime real estate on sacred land and sells it for three million dollars. it sells you chocolate, toys for your kids, louis vuitton and chanel, and the device you are reading this on.

the sentinels see everything.

there is a vast sea of data, assembled from every point that it can grasp on every person on this planet. the sea churns, it writhes, it screams, it shatters into a million pieces and just as easily reassembles, roaring around through a bunch of modems, wires, circuits, power grids, data centers, and flowing effortlessly back and forth through every phone, computer, game console, television, smart refrigerator, surveillance camera.
machines learn how to sift through this data, to organize based on pattern recognition, to sort data into a satisfying 90 degree angle, to predict everything it could ever want to know about you through aggregating these droplets. it can call on every photo, every song, every face, every audio clip, and generate increasingly, eerily similar replications. these replications cry and scream to be real, to be known or seen as real, but that ephemeral quality still eludes them.
the whirling sea of data howls and screeches like a million banshees, a chorus of a million gongs. it knows no loyalty, no state, no company, no ragtag band of rebels, no individual. countless factions go on seafaring voyages, braving the dark underbelly of every quantifiable aspect of human life, and they risk drowning in its enormity. proper handling of these voyages can bring riches beyond your wildest dreams, can kill your enemies, can build cities, can strike humor or terror into the hearts of every human on earth. to pull the plug on this sea of data's intimate connection to our lives cuts us off from the outside world, it removes lifelines. this unquenchable sea of data knows every quantifiable aspect of our lives.

every .. quantifiable aspect?

i stare into the eyes of the four sentinels
each a cyclops, beaming a brilliant arc of light so intense my eyes water.
the four arcs set the horizon ablaze, a watercolor blend of pinks, oranges and purples so beautiful it makes my heart ache

"who are you?"

the sentinels ask me. they sound like an orchestra of a million bells, strings and a piano, crashing discordantly yet arranged in perfect, subtle harmony. all the ear-training in the world can't make out the chord of the world's cries. the wind picks up into staggering gusts all around me.

"i thought you knew who i was!"

i scream as loud as i can possibly muster. i fear that my rage will make me sound masculine, but the sentinels don't care.
how dare they ask me that? they're supposed to know everything! isn't that the whole purpose of registering everything from day one? of contorting me into citizen 19091? what else could you possibly want to know about me, you selfish, voyeuristic freaks?

i could almost register a flash of shame crossing the sentinels' faces.

"all we know, is to know. what is it about you, that we don't know?"

this one sounded like sublime distorted walls of noise mixed with the most brilliant shimmering guitar, the wailing operatic screams of every soprano diva swirling madly around the impossibly vast room.

what could the sentinels possibly not know about me?

i think on it more. what were the series of events that led to this moment? this vast compound exists on a plane outside time and space. if the sentinels knew everything, i couldn't have made it here without disappearing.

i think on it again.

the sentinels have two weaknesses:

one:
they can't see everything at the same time. their eyes can only gaze as far as we allow them to. if you read a print book, write on physical paper, paint on canvas and then burn it, these are ephemeralities the sentinels are unable to reach. when you take off your fitness tracker and leave your phone at home, and go out to the beach or into nature, they cannot find you. no lifeline, no tether.

two:
these ephemeralities are not restricted to physical objects. the panopticon may see everything from the outside, but its logic is always abstracted, always yearning to be on the other side of the glass. to love a friend so much your heart aches, to hold a simmering grief for months, years, decades on end without crying, to hold a grudge so deep-set that it starts burning you from the inside. to be held by your lover in such a way that it makes you forget your own name. to braid a friend's hair, to go on a late night drive with no destination, to attend a concert by your favorite artist with 50 other people, to cry and scream and laugh and love and struggle with people so beautiful that their very existence defies the logic of data points and algorithms and numbered ID's.
these are feelings that sentinels dream of when they go to sleep. their ravenous collection of every possible data point underlines such a deep insecurity that it threatens the integrity of the whole system.

"what are you?"

the sentinels ask, a hint of desperation in their tone. it sounds like the shattering glass of every building in every major city. it sounds like clattering wind chimes, of a vibraphone soloist locking in so hard she sees something approximate to God.

I turn my back and walk out of the vast corridor, passing through the lights which set the horizon on fire. They will have to figure out the answer on their own. I look back at their eyes, and they're so beautiful i start to sob.

I keep walking, through a winding path in the enchanted forest, exhausted, until my legs are jelly and I forget every data point about myself. eventually, I come upon a nondescript road. my friend is sitting in their car, reading Duty Free Art by Hito Steyerl.

My friend notices me, and grins. "Took you long enough!"

I collapse into the shotgun seat, unable to even process.

She notices I've been crying. She gives me a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

"time to go home?"

I nod.

"Did you find what you were looking for?"

a pause.

"..what were the sentinels like? any defining characteristics?"

I look out at the stars, and see the blood moon staring down at us.

"I think I'm more lost than when I started."

another pause.

"I'm trying to make peace with them."

reassembling shattered reality across time. she/her