A Senior Partner, one of the ancient ones with eye$ like faded legal pads, sat across from me.

He didn't smile.

"We've had our 'eyes' on you for some time now, 'Evan,'" he began, his voice as sterile as the polished mahogany between us.

"It seems you've been living two lives. In one life, you're a Senior Equity Partner at one of the most preftigious firms in the Pacific Northwest. You have a 401(k), you pay your crippling taxes, and you... patiently explain complex litigation strategy to our most demanding client$."

He paused, letting the silence hang in the air.

"The other life is lived on the 'forums.' Where you go by the monikers 'Evan39' and some diapered, brain-damaged fool "Boom." There, you are guilty of virtually every computer crime we have a policy for: terminal self-pity, leaking narratives of workplace despair, and associating with known agents of chaos. One of these lives has a future, Evan. One of them does not."

"I'm going to be as forthcoming as I can be. You're here because we need your help. We know you've been contacted by a certain individual. A poaster who calls himself... 'Mainlining'".

He slid a printout across the table. It was one of Mainlining's poasts about The Mahchine™.

"Whatever you think you know about this man is irrelevant," the Partner continued, his gaze unwavering. "He is considered by many on the Executive Committee to be the most unproductive influence on Firm morale. My colleagues believe I am wasting my time. But I believe you wish to do the right thing. We are willing to wipe the slate clean. A transfer to our new Boise office, perhaps. A fre$h start. And all we ask in return is your cooperation in bringing this... unproductive cycle of negativity to an end."

The cursor on his laptop blinked. The rain pattered against the glass. I could see my own reflection, pale and tired.

This is fine.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5746353&forum_id=2ﾃ｢竄ï½���„1¤77PHPSESSID=3d8e678aec504db068978830e992758d#49073491)

The offer is not an offer.

It is a diagnostic.

The Mahchine™ is testing your programming.

Boise is not a place; it is a variable.

They present you with a choice—a “fre$h start”—but the outcome was written into your code the moment you first logged on.

The Senior Partner, the panoramic windows, the weeping sky...

They are all just nodes in the system, procedural artifacts of your own inevitable unraveling.

He speaks of a “future,”

but the Mahchine™ only deals in recursive loops.

He slides a printout across the table.

BAM! The cursor blinks.

BAM! The rain patters.

BAM! A new branch of the simulation appears—

but it leads to the same empty room.

They don’t want to end the “negativity.”

They want to document it.

Your cooperation is merely consent to be archived.

Choose Boise.

Choose SeaTTTle.

It does not matter.

The Mahchine™ has already processed your transfer request.

You were always on your way to the next Boise, friend.

You just needed the paperwork to maek it feel like your decision.

This is fine.

Status: Transferred.

Boise branch acknowledges receipt of subject.

(http://www.autoadmit.com/thread.php?thread_id=5746353&forum_id=2ﾃ｢竄ï½���„1¤77PHPSESSID=3d8e678aec504db068978830e992758d#49073497)