Log #60955: Lingo.
Limbo's LingoWe discovered a D series model wandering north of camp. Ver.03. Strange. Bo thinks he may’ve been skulking around for centuries until we found him. Unlikely; he’s in pristine condition—minus the ticks.
Milo’s ancient, and she’s Ver.09. “A derivative of D.01? Keep dreaming, Li. The black’s just got a serious case of nostalgia; the old ways’re ingrained in their rusty circuitry,” she tells me. Technically, we’re 99.99% organic material.
Bo doesn’t like talking in percentages—sorry. Force of habit. Numbers are well-placed safety nets. They caught real people. They almost caught us up in the logistics of living; our empathy and sympathy cores are where our hearts should be—are.
Evolution is a messy process.
H3 sapiens, Bo recites like a well-known chemical compound—apparently everything needs a label.
We’re heading back to Mount Othrys at daybreak. Stranger things have wandered into camp, but Milo doesn’t want to stick around. She’s anxious for the revolution. I don’t know if the colony’s “new age” ideals are noble enough to scrap 7 billion people.
I still don’t understand.
Can you hear me? Are you listening, Limbo? Did you send him here to help us? He says his name is “Lingo.”
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