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DATALOG 203
In the vast, muddy wastelands surrounding the sprawling metropolis of Praga, massive violet domes punctuate the bleak landscape like alien beacons. These are the domes of the agrifarms, colossal greenhouse facilities where the lifeblood of the city is cultivated at a terrible cost. From a distance, they might appear as oases of life amidst the desolation, but a closer look reveals the grim reality of human exploitation on an industrial scale.
As one approaches an agridome, the first thing that strikes the senses is the eerie, pulsating violet glow that emanates from within. This unnatural light bathes the surrounding mud flats in an otherworldly hue, creating long, twisted shadows that seem to writhe and dance with each flicker. The constant hum of massive air filtration systems provides a droning backdrop, occasionally punctuated by the thunderous rumble of approaching land trains.
These behemoth vehicles, their giant tyres caked with the omnipresent mud, serve as the lifelines between the agridomes and Praga. They arrive laden with fresh batches of clone workers, their eyes wide with a mixture of fear and resignation as they disembark. The same land trains depart hours later, their cargo holds now filled with the precious produce that will feed the teeming masses of the city.
Inside the agridomes, the atmosphere is oppressive and alien. The air is thick with humidity, the temperature hovering at the upper limits of human endurance. UV lights blaze down mercilessly, their intensity far beyond what any natural sun would provide. In this sweltering, artificial day, countless clone workers toil endlessly, their bodies glistening with sweat, their movements becoming increasingly sluggish as fatigue sets in.
The workers move between rows of lush, genetically-modified crops, their hands never stopping as they tend, harvest, and replant. Their scant uniforms are stained with chlorophyll and dirt, clinging to their bodies like a second skin. Some choose to wear crude breathing apparatuses, a futile attempt to filter out the cocktail of chemicals and spores that permeate the air.
Overseers in elevated walkways patrol above, their eyes hidden behind polarized goggles, shock prods at the ready to motivate any worker showing signs of slowing down. The overseers know the truth that the workers don't - that their lives are measured not in years, but in harvests. Few will survive beyond their third harvest in the domes, their bodies broken down by the relentless conditions and exposure to the chemicals necessary to maintain such unnaturally high crop yields.
The bodies of workers who have succumbed to the harsh conditions within the domes - those who've perished from exhaustion, heat stroke, or the myriad other dangers of agridome life - are not simply discarded. In a chilling display of efficiency, these corpses are processed on-site into a nutrient-rich fertilizer.
Hidden from the eyes of their clone sisters, massive industrial grinders reduce the bodies of the fallen to a viscous slurry. This grisly substance is then mixed with other organic waste and chemical additives, creating a potent growth medium for the next cycle of crops.
And so, the clones become a part of the food cycle, condemned never to leave the agrifarms alive, a fact well concealed from new generations of workers when they arrive.
But it's not just the grueling work and harsh environment that the workers must fear. Among the rows of life-giving crops lurk insidious dangers. Poisonous plants, the result of unpredictable mutations, sprout intermittently among their benign counterparts. These toxic interlopers release clouds of yellow spores, almost beautiful in their deadly potential. A single breath of this dust is enough to transform a worker into a mindless, rage-fueled beast.
When such an infection takes hold, the results are catastrophic. The affected worker's eyes glaze over, their veins bulging and pulsing with an unnatural yellow glow. They turn on their fellow workers with animalistic fury, tearing into them with bare hands and teeth. Each victim becomes a new vector for the infection, and soon the orderly rows of the agridome become a terrifying labyrinth of violence and contagion.
In these moments, klaxons blare throughout the facility. Massive steel shutters slam down over every entrance and exit, sealing the dome off from the outside world. The overseers retreat to fortified safe rooms, their faces grim as they initiate containment protocols.
From hidden access points emerge the Purge Squads, elite security troopers encased in glossy black armor. Their visors reflect the chaos around them as they move through the dome with mechanical precision. Their orders are absolute and chilling in their simplicity - total extermination. Infected and uninfected are gunned down alike in their relentless advance, the Purge Squads taking no chances with the spread of the contagion.
The aftermath of such an event is a scene of unspeakable horror. Bodies litter the once-verdant growing spaces, their faces frozen in expressions of terror or bestial rage. The crops, so carefully tended, are now trampled and splattered with blood. An eerie silence descends, broken only by the occasional spark from damaged equipment or the drip of fluids from ruptured irrigation systems.
But the machine of production cannot be allowed to stay idle for long. Within hours of the all-clear signal, a new batch of clone workers is ushered into the dome. Their first task, even before they can acclimate to the oppressive heat and blinding light, is to dispose of the bodies of their predecessors. They drag the contaminated corpses to massive incinerators, the air filling with the acrid stench of burning flesh mingled with the sweet rot of spoiled vegetation.
As the new workers set about clearing the destruction and replanting the crops, the cycle begins anew. The agridomes return to their rhythm of growth and harvest, the recent carnage becoming just another unspoken trauma in the shared consciousness of the clone workforce.
In the gleaming towers and bustling markets of Praga, citizens go about their daily lives, largely oblivious to the true cost of the food they consume. The produce from the agridomes arrives fresh and clean, bearing no trace of the blood and sweat that went into its cultivation. Only a few truly understand the grim arithmetic of human lives exchanged for sustenance.
And so the agridomes continue their violet glowing vigil on the muddy horizon, pulsing with artificial life and very real death. They stand as monuments to humanity's determination to survive in a world that seems intent on eradicating it, and to the countless nameless souls whose lives are the fertilizer for civilization's uncertain future.
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