《克兰西的日记》更新:022 03MOON 17
8 min read

《克兰西的日记》更新:022 03MOON 17

昨天的更新是一张 Trench 地图,大陆上的是 Trench,旁边一个岛屿是 voldsøy(暴力岛,island of violence)。这篇日记描写了主角短暂获得自由后加入了《Scaled And Icy》专辑发行直播演唱会,以及《Saturday》音乐录影带的演出,这个故事线结束之后主角流落到了 voldsøy 这个小岛上面生活。

《克兰西的日记》更新022 03MOON 17 http://dmaorg.info/found/15398642_14/clancy.html

另:《The Outside》音乐录影带会在今晚12点释出。

前情提要:昨天的更新是一张 Trench 地图,大陆上的是 Trench,旁边一个岛屿是 voldsøy(暴力岛,island of violence)。这篇日记描写了主角短暂获得自由后加入了《Scaled And Icy》专辑发行直播演唱会,以及《Saturday》音乐录影带的演出,这个故事线结束之后主角流落到了 voldsøy 这个小岛上面生活。

3月16日 dmaorg 网站更新的地图照片

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很长一段时间我没有能力写作,这段时间长的像是一辈子。这种短缺对我的影响最大。不是食物的欠缺,或者景色的改变——他们不让我写任何东西。

嗯,至少他们在这里的时候不行。

那天的记忆很新鲜。他们先是放我出来。即便走廊还是灰蒙蒙一片,这种体验对我还是一种冲击——跟平常的监禁截然不同。我努力地跟上守卫的脚步,我们的脚步声在长长的走廊里回荡。我紧紧跟在他后面,好像我别无选择一样。冰冷的混凝土包围着我们,好像给我们下了一种魔咒,让我们陷入这种人为的平静之中。服从。

我们到了一扇蓝色的门前面。这跟身后的混凝土迷宫形成了奇怪的反差。当我走进门的时候,我发现自己又进入了另一间灰色房间,就跟其他德玛的房间一模一样。唯一的区别是谁在里面等候我。

他们当中的四个。我不认识其中三个,但一个显然是凯恩斯。我知道他的声音。

他们提出了一个想法。一个电视节目——或者他们的什么叫法。我不知道我在自己的牢房以外也有人认识我,但他们告诉我,因为我的出逃计划和情绪爆发而让自己获得了恶名。他们想利用我的面孔来给德玛城带来一些好处。他们递给我一支笔——一件熟悉的工具。但是在我使用这支笔的时候,他们必须要在场。

他们想要管控我的想象和视野。尽管我被束缚住了,最起码我可以再一次创作了。

于是创作议程开始了。

每一天,我的牢门会打开。我跟着守卫穿过熟悉的走廊,走进蓝色的门,坐在桌椅旁边。

为我准备的创作空间——完美地摆放在他们的视线正中央。有时候三个人,有时候八个人——没有一次是全部九个人全都在场的。他从没在这里,如果他在这里我会感觉到的。

每个创作议程结束,凯恩斯都会带走我的笔,整理好我的写作内容,把我送回牢房。这样持续了几个月。

我们在创作些什么?我不清楚。一个带有歌曲和演出片段的综艺秀?这个窒息城市的统治者真的在给他们的人民提供娱乐节目吗?

我所创作的一切必须是“为了德玛市民的利益”——这是一个我经常听到的词汇。我没有质疑他们——我很高兴能走出牢房——并且在纸张上写下词句。

最后一天,当我写下最后一段,我被问到要把它取名叫什么?这个问题让我措手不及。这好像应该是一个他们做的决定。

演出日:他们把我打扮好,让我笑起来——这个可怜的伎俩是为了尽量掩盖我的睡眠不足。一切都五颜六色的,好像是为了补全这座城市的灰色一样。

一切都是模糊一片。在我意识到之前,这场演出结束了,我被送回了自己的牢房。我只能够记住片段——只有色彩和喧哗的模糊幻觉——像一场梦。这一切的困惑在我头脑里回响。这是为了什么?

……但这还没完。

我猜这次演出进行得足够好,以至于他们想要我做更多演出。我对德玛很有用,我的创作力以全新的方式被利用——他们想让我成为年度集会荣耀的娱乐嘉宾——这是一场在海里举行的、为德玛的杰出市民而举办的表演。

我知道船上的不是真正的主教。

我要快点入场——我要跟上火炬手,

在演出当中,我们被水中的什么东西攻击了。我不知道什么迫使那种生物来攻击我们,但这次攻击感觉很怪,而且感觉特别有意而为。许多人在这次攻击中丧命,而我被冰冷的海水反复击打却存活了下来。这个“冰冷”保全了我吗?为什么我能幸免于难?我写下这些的时候仍然感觉好冷。

这个地方感觉很陌生——跟 Trench 完全不像。在寒冷的海面上,这里的空气比周围的水更加寒冷。

我有一个奇怪的感觉,这个岛会给我带来答案。

我必须走了。

——克兰西

英文原文来自 https://pastebin.com/Q2cX7ZgN

I haven't had the ability to write for what seems like a lifetime. This deprivation is what weighed on me the most. Not the lack of food, or the change of scenery - they wouldn't let me write anything down.

Well, at least not without them present...

I remember that day vividly. First, they let me out. Even though the hallway was still gray and drab, the new experience was a shock to my system - significantly different than usual captivity. I tried to match the rhythm of the nameless guard's footsteps as we echoed down the long corridor. I followed close behind, as if I had no choice. Cold concrete encapsulated us and seemed to cast a spell of synthetic calmness. Obedience.

We arrived at a blue door. It was an odd contrast to this concrete maze. As I went through the doorway I found myself in another typical gray Dema room. The only difference was who was waiting for me.

Four of them. Three of them were unknown to me, but one was clearly Keons. I knew his voice

They proposed an idea. a television show - or whatever it was. I had no idea that I was known outside of my cell, but they informed me that I had garnered notoriety for my schemes and outbursts. They wanted to use my face for the benefit of the city. They handed me a pen - a familiar instrument. yet they must be present when I use it.

They wanted to manage my imagination and vision. although shackled, at least I could create again.

Thus began the sessions.

Everyday my cell door would open. I followed the guard down the familiar hall, through the blue door, to sit down at the desk and chair.

My designated creative space - perfectly centered under their watchful eye. Sometimes three, sometimes eight - not once were all nine present. He was never there. I would have felt it if he was.

At the end of the session, Keons would take my pen, gather my writings and send me back. This went on for months

What were we creating? I wasn't sure. A variety show with songs and set pieces? Were the rulers of this stifled city actually attempting entertainment for its people?

Everything I created had to be "for the benefit of the citizens of Dema" - a phrase I heard often. I didn't question them - I was happy to be out of my cell - and putting words to paper.

On the final day, after I wrote the last line, I was asked what to name it? The question caught me off guard. This seemed like a decision they would make.

Show Day: They dressed me up and asked me to smile - a poor attempt at hiding my sleep deprivation. It was all so colorful, as if compensating for the grayness of the city.

It was a blur. Before I knew it, it was over, and I was back in my cell. I can only remember fragments -only blurred hallucinations of color and chaos - like a dream. The confusion of it all hangs overhead. What was it all for?

.... but it wasn’t over.

I guess it went well enough for them to request more of me. I was useful to Dema, and my creativity was exploited in new forms - They wanted me to be the entertainment at the annual assemblage of the Glorified - a performance at sea for the premiere citizens of Dema.

I knew those weren't the real bishops on that ship.

I'll quicken the entry - I need to keep up with The Torchbearer.

During the performance, we were attacked by something in the water. I don't know what possessed the creature to attack, but it was odd, and felt incredibly intentional. Many lost their lives in the attack, and I was thrashed through the bitter cold water, yet somehow survived. Did this 'icy cold' preserve me? Why was I spared? I am still so cold as I write.

This place feels foreign - nothing like Trench. From the frigid sea, the air here is somehow colder than the water that surrounds it.

I have a strange feeling that this island will provide answers.

I must go.

- Clancy