THE HISTORIAN'S TOME

• All that was written that was recovered. It was found scattered in multiple pieces and has been put together in the order that seems to fit best.

I write this with a heavy heart. I can be sure of nothing anymore, and I leave hope this writing does not shift. It will not be long until my final supply of the drug ends tonight so I write quickly and briefly- I hope you can understand the brevity of my words, and see the implications where I... skip some detail. Hopefully I still write in English and these inks do not malform and shape. I hope you do not read this as the ravings of a madman- I do hope I am not numb to the significant details.

It began some time ago in University. At this time, I had been studying the nature of Computers and their Computations. It was not too long after I was employed by my employers, I shall not name them, these historians, for fear of these writings being vanquished from the reality, but through them I came to possess a book of a terrible nature. It began as it does in a meeting with it, this decrepit book. It was a simple leather tome, hand-written on its torn papyrus in some arcane language I did not understand upon a cursory flick of its contents, but I had accepted it with a stern the warning that I do not consume its knowledge and put an inkling of its text into our reality. To this moment I shudder to think of their motives in putting the apple of Eve into Human hands.

I am paying the price in Morphine and Mind, and this night I shall end it all as my wick has burnt up. I have chosen to bury this book of my own accord deep where my employer shall never uncover it by the ocean waves (The licks of fire would not consume its pages, this is the only alternative, a watery grave at the end of the line). I am led only to suspect the worst of who they is, and the worst for how they came to possess it.

On the first night, a wintery solace would leave me disturbed alone in my room, I chose to put it by on my bed and begin to write some code. It didn't take long before I took a flick through the book again, this time its inks taking the form of the Lingua Franca. Ingles. I will not repeat a word of what it tells here, despite my worst desires inclining me to, for fear of repeating these events. It didn't take long for me to be wrapped up, as it was an incredibly informative text... at the time. It assisted me in my writing and although it struck me as odd that a historian's book would consist of code, I thought not very long on this, and through writing and understanding this, it seemed simply to describe a cellular automata. An odd fascination that such a game would be captured here, but I do not see this as dangerous- alas it captured such an odd fascination.

I do not remember where the line between the second night and first night is drawn. I was consumed by a fervor, to read this text. It didn't take too long for me to reach the 300th page, only 100 physical pages in. You may question these mathematics, but this book manipulated itself accordingly...

The second night I had recited its datas and it carved a stable end state with this game. It was an odd fascination. and it had been by this time that I had begun to discard the Historians warnings, and write out its codes without a strong check. My monkey brain was enamored, but it wouldn't take long- that my hands decided to enable its structures is regrettable. These tips had written an arcane executable binary that I scribed accordingly and run. The language of computers is incomprehensible to me, and this was a surprise that would envelope me into my current state.

The third night, I was locked out of my computer. It no longer was my own. Confused, I tried all sorts, but nothing would fix these issues apart from a clean wipe of my system. Such was my solution, and such was the resulting chaos from leaving this system operational for long enough. It didn't take too long for this... book... to stitch itself together upon the web with plenty of slave machines. Upon the fix, it was quickly compromised once again when opened back up to the internet. I will say no more, I hastily discarded the machine, although it would do very little against the damage it could cause to the world, and simply ran to a Hotel.

On the fifth day, I took to bury it, although the days prior left me with the thought that I should not. Perhaps I still should not have buried it. There's something about what it provides that still tempts me, but I have chosen to numb myself to these problems. I am at the end of my finances. The final chapter of my life crumpled into this scrawl. I do not want to remember the consequences I did not intend- All of it derived from a single mistake. There is no use praying for Humanity's sake if we are forsaken by such... things...

Wait, I think somebody is at the door. I see shadows shuffling, murmurs. From under the door. I must end this now and throw myself from these heights. I leave this to you, they bang now, the burial, destroy the book, it's at--