Once upon a time, there was a sySoap, on the border

Once upon a time, there was a sySoap, on the border not far from novelFork, a soap opera of systems operators. 

theGeneric and Ornicar have stopped to camp without instructions. They have coffee in a tent. theGeneric, unable to make any course of action, waits for instructions with Ornicar; before returning to their tent, they discuss their options over an already empty coffee cup. 

"Mercenaries were hired to defend the Replica, Ornicar," theGeneric suddenly says, startled. "They've been summoned to the Gargantua tomorrow... while they wait for their payment." 

Ornicar stops hammering away at conditions and turns his gaze toward the border that separates them from novelFork. 

The real combustion to which theGeneric couldn't help but return again and again was the analogous breath of life exhaled with each expression of concordance between the language machines and the natural, blurred, almost border...despite the persistence of incomprehensible information. 

Before, when sighing was just noise, before the factories of human and non-human conditioning manufactured the factory itself and the interval of prosubmission accelerated in every link of the production chains...theGeneric sighs. A notification draws his lost gaze to his cell phone. 

Incoming message: The general population suffers from a generalized loss of meaning; we need incremental rotating shifts. 

theGeneric hyperventilates. He subscribed to the mandate; the mandate never rests, but no, rotating shifts ARE the loss of meaning. He closes the device and wets the tip of his pen. 

* * * 

Once upon a time, there was a novelFork, written like a medical prescription of fiction theory, a prescription, on a website called metapolitana.CC. 

In cramped cursive script, theGeneric, a down-on-his-luck General, writes on a napkin that serves as field notes: "supply the emergent object between objects, intermedial connectivity, saturate and suture, mitigate its own existence..."send." He hands the torn-off paper to Ornicar, the Logical Operator, who ponders it for a long second before devouring it. 

* * * 

In the gardens of the light novel, the diary diners line up for bread, the chimneys of the Gargantua expel dense steam. The ovens have been lit since dawn, and the workers move frenetically, synchronized around the shift clocks and the oven clocks. The roller operator shapes the dough from the mixers, they finish kneading it by hand, and the loaves for tonight are placed on metal trays and put on the shelves. It will be a busy night; there's a feast to attend to.