The solar system is broken

The writer was tired, so he slid down along the door frame and lay half on the ground, his cheeks pumping and his chest rising and falling, and he took in big breaths.

"Want me to die?! Is there anyone?"

The writer quickly searched the people he met, but there was no one worthy of suspicion at all, because everyone was suspicious.

Police? Soldier? Huo Shan? Interrogator? Or sister? Or someone related to the dead train?

Press your knees and stand up, your fingers are trembling.

Everything is suspicious, as Huo Shan said, there is always no one like him.

Lying on the bed, looking at the white ceiling, the writer was silent. He deeply felt the things his sister said and the hopeless evil of people. They plan morality, but use such narrow things to achieve their goals.

Deal with the broadest facts.

"Perhaps," the writer looked at his hand. The wound on it was dripping with blood. Executioner? It's naturally stained with blood.

"Didi, beep," an electronic sound sounded from beside the iron frame bed. It was a VR headset. The green indicator light flashed continuously, and it seemed that the charging was completed.

This full-body VR equipment was brought in with permission. The soldiers entrusted him with the task of deciphering the "dangerous" content on the hard drive of "Hades".

The hard drive recovered from the water contained nearly 300 t of content. These contents were messy and were made by rebels, so they were considered dangerous.

The writer originally didn't want to come into contact with such things. He also wanted to go back to Hangzhou to see his sister, but now... the writer laughed at himself.

He threw himself on the bed and lay flat. This floral-scented laundry detergent was very strong. The writer turned over and looked at the ceiling lazily.

The beep of the hood is still thinking, kicking.

Now, the writer's head is empty, and the emptiness filled with emptiness cannot hold anything.

Everything was empty, he was being surrounded by the waves of time, pursued by the cavalry of space, and bombarded by rational cannonballs. He was desperate, and he thought of Green Plains.

This Columbus-shaped figure stands boneless/unkempt/holds a book of "Song of Songs"/stares at the ever-changing ceiling/drifts on the ocean of time... ("Another Columbus" Greenland)

It's just that the writer didn't read the poem because he didn't believe that there was India (a certain degree) at the end of the ocean. He knew that there was just another continent, and all his expectations became a lifelong illusion of disillusionment.

american,newyork.

More than 300 people died. He had been to the scene and it was very tragic.

The combustion caused by the explosion filled the air with a sickly meaty aroma.

The writer stood beside the railway, recording this memory calmly with his eyes like a camera. Very calm, without any fluctuations.

He even found his sister's copper-plated pocket watch. The pocket watch was held tightly in the hand of a burnt person, and the writer used a lot of strength to break it open. The flip-up photos on the pocket watch were of Jiangnan and Jiangnan.

Che. Who is this person? He doesn’t know.

One thing he was very concerned about was that the crater that exploded was 30-40 meters long, which was surprisingly large.

Turning over, he saw the VR suit again. He tried hard not to look at it, but he kept feeling uneasy.

He had a hunch that once he opened the contents of this hard drive, he would never be able to look back.

Can't sleep.

Tossing and turning.

Neither the sun nor the moon can be seen here. Apart from the watch, there is nothing to prove the passage of time.

He looked at the time on his hand. The hour hand had turned one round, and 12 constant solar hours had passed.

The VR suit is still there, and the indicator light is still flashing green, unchanged.

The writer felt that something was attracting him, as if someone was encouraging him to open Pandora's box.

"Open him~kid~"

"Open him~kid~"

...

His heartbeat was accelerating. It was like a drum hammer hitting his eardrums, bang, bang, bang!

Finally, he compromised.

After putting on the VR and the sensor suit, the writer lay flat on the bed, breathed a long sigh of relief, and turned on the switch.

Squeak~ The entire nerve is connected to the biochip of the headgear, and all senses are handed over to the builder of this data. "ing, loading..." mechanical sound.

In the vast starry sky, an auxiliary line slowly slides across the sky, connecting stars that are not related at all.

Wrangler? The writer stared blankly at the formed star map.

"Look at the past that didn't exist."

The space is elongated and the vision is clear, as beautiful as an infinitely unfolding picture scroll.

The breeze blew, the gentle sun tickled the skin when it touched it, and the fragrance of flowers and birds chirping in the beautiful sun was very intoxicating.

On the rolling and gentle hills, the soft soil sinks slightly under the soles of the feet, and the grass blades slowly fall one by one in the wind. It is beautiful, but for a writer, this is a pile of words.

This kind of three-dimensional sound and completely realistic perception are almost the same as reality. This VR method is really powerful.

This should be... the Earth? Perhaps it was the Earth before flying stars appeared, a world that only existed in novels. At that time, there were glaciers at the two poles, the rise and fall of the tide would not be disordered, and the length of day and night would also be constant.

The...Flying Star has changed a lot.

The writer really wanted to sleep on this piece of land and never wake up. He sat down slowly, locked his knees with his hands, and looked down at the hills with his body half raised. The world without artificial carvings was as ethereal as water writing.

"Hades," a pair of thick thugs patted him on the body. Looking back was a blond white man, "What are you thinking about?"

The touch feels very real and the visual effect is also very good.

There is no clothing on the upper body. The strong muscles give people a special sense of beauty under the golden sunlight. The clothes are light yellow (the color of God in oil paintings, the special color of God). I don’t know what material it is made of.

, his long beard is white and curled one by one.

It's an NPC in the game.

"Who are you?" Hades raised his head.

"Prometheus," the man pressed his chest and introduced himself to Hades using an extremely ancient civilized etiquette.

"Prometheus who stole fire from heaven?"

"Stealing? Oh, yes," Prometheus sat down, and the wind from the Aegean Sea blew on the weather-beaten man's head, and his silver hair set off a wave in the wind, "It was a thunderstorm.

At night, the thunderous wrath of Zeus descended on a dead old tree, and a group of seedlings burst out there that could dispel the darkness..."

Prometheus' face was filled with excitement like a child, and his hands were trembling with excitement. The discovery of fire was a breakthrough for his children.

"Look," following the direction of Prometheus's finger, a straight line of black smoke was rising. There was a small village where dozens of people were singing hymns of the gods around a fire.

"The fire gave them hope."

Hades looked at all this blankly, nodded and shook his head, "Fire is meaningless to them."

Prometheus was stunned for a moment, "No, no, no, fire can keep warm, process food, disperse...it can do many things, and this civilization is about to be born. What a brilliant picture..."

"No," Hades closed his eyes, "fire can't save them. Unless, by chance."

Hades is a supporter of civilizational despair, and he does not believe in the word inevitable.

Survivor bias tells people the fact that existence does not necessarily reflect objective laws, and these existences are just manifestations of extreme cases.

Civilization is not inevitable; it rises suddenly and suddenly, and dies suddenly.

Prometheus lowered his head, a frustrated expression spreading on his vicissitudes of life, "You are so cruel."

Hades said nothing. He knew himself.

The fire of civilization will go out because it is too fragile.

"This is civilization No. 300. It has been 2 million years since it started with a suitable ecology. Man is still a monkey, a monkey that walks upright!" Prometheus lowered his head, unable to bear to look at this tragic situation, "The most successful one

It’s only in the Bronze Age.”

A game of repeated civilization experiments?

"Civilization is accidental, absolutely accidental," Hades said more. "Lightning strikes and fires occur. Some people never have the right time in their lives. Only chance allows them to be blessed by fire. Destruction is so easy. War

, plague, meteorite.”

Hades sang an ancient tune hoarsely, "O bug, struggle!"

The bonfire burned more and more fiercely in the forest, wanton flames danced wildly in the air, and the men and women held hands and danced beside the fire. A short-lived happiness, a momentary excitement in the world.

The forehead smeared with pig blood, the hat decorated with feathers, and the necklace with tusks are swaying in the wind.

Men, women, children, old people, they bowed their heads to the mountains and rivers.

A group of dark clouds floated over from the sky, crushing down from the sky with a heavy blackness, shrouding this peaceful world.

Prometheus's face also darkened, and he began to suffer in despair, "No more."

It's cumulonimbus. The Mediterranean climate is controlled by the prevailing westerly winds at the turn of winter and spring. There is more rainfall, but it is only about 250mm. Just as a punishment from Zeus, this is enough.

Dancing people are not too afraid of such clouds. They have a misunderstanding that this fire was born on a rainy night. It will be as tenacious as the sun and will never die because of rain. This is usually how primitive thinking is, imagining

The construction of connections does not follow inevitable connections.

Hades stood up and said to Prometheus, "The rain is coming."

Big raindrops fell on Hades' body, leaving circular spots the size of thumbs. The rain would be heavy.

"Go and hide from the rain," Frustrated, waving his hands, "Go and hide from your rain, devil!"

Prometheus was also singing, but the difference was that his song was heartbreaking. It was a deeply affectionate elegy for the civilization he loved so much.

When the rain comes, the earth trembles and the mountains shake.

Voice of the World: Civilization No. 300 was destroyed by mudslides. Log out of your account and exit the game.

writer:???

Is this the end? He still hasn’t understood what happened? There are no game tasks, no game guides, and even the NPCs are nonsense? The writer is confused.

A severe stinging pain spread from the head, all the way down along the spinal cord, making the muscles tremble wherever it went.

Electrical signals roamed freely in his nerves, but when they reached the third vertebrae, the tingling pain was relieved.

Opening my eyes, I saw the familiar ceiling again.

Sweat has wet his hair and is sticky on his forehead, and his hands are a little weak. The design of this game is not perfect, and exiting is a bit painful, but it still looks very brain-burning.

After breathing for a while, the writer regained his strength, sat up, and took off his hood. He stared blankly ahead. What exactly did this game want to prove? Civilization strategy? The writer didn't think this group of physicists would be so simple.

There must be something in it that fascinates them, to the point of rebelling against the entire human race.

The writer still can't figure it out. But the writer thinks that this should have some connection with Jiang Che's intention to kill him.

Just then, dang dang, someone was knocking on the iron door.

The writer tried to stand up, but without any strength, he lay down again with a plop.

A police officer appeared at the door. The open window was opened and an envelope was handed in. The police officer said coldly, "Jiangnan, your letter."

The letter floated down like reed flowers and fell to the ground. The door was closed.

The writer didn't pay much attention to the police officer's attitude. He moved his body and rolled off the edge of the bed.

Body aches.

Letterhead? This ancient way of transmitting information has become extinct as early as the 21st century. Who would write a letter to themselves?

The envelope only contained the sender's name "Jiang Che" and the recipient's name "Jiang Nan (the writer's real name)".

There was no problem with the handwriting and the way the writing was done. It was just that the writer who sealed the envelope had doubts. There were secondary traces of glue. Although a micro laser was used to carefully remove the glue on the surface of the first seal, the writer relied on mental calculation and unintentional

, and with his extraordinary keenness, he still found the few scratches as thin as hair.

The letter has been read.

The author also remains skeptical about the authenticity of this letter.

The writer gritted his teeth for the last time and cut open the envelope. The handwriting was very light and graceful, and it belonged to his sister.

His fingers suddenly hooked, and the letter slipped from the writer's fingertips. The letter was very short, with only four words, "Nan, I'm sorry."