Hey, you know what? I'll try doing a Toni thing too.

I'm going to write a wittle story that may/probably won't be published. It's called The Prize and here's a small part of the prologue:

PART 1 of 10. Prologue

On the twentieth of March I was told about the Prize, like everyone else in the world. But I didn't care about anyone else in the world, just myself. I was pretty selfish, I guess. I spent a lot of time in my flat when I wasn't working, and when I was in my flat I was normally watching TV or reading. I didn't have any family - I was brought up in an adoption home and let go when I was 16. They said that I had caused way too much trouble there and that they thought I was old enough to cope by myself. I agreed - I could cope by myself and I spent the next three years "coping" on the streets until I found myself a decent-paying job.
It was working in a SuperMarket behind the Customer Services desk, helping out with the programming of the robots that were now used to do every kind of work for us fat-ass lazy humans. SuperMarkets were now the biggest company in the world - bigger than Microsoft and ever bigger than WRO, the World Robot Organisation, who built all the robots and sent them off for us lazy-ass humans to use until they ran out of juice, and then we sent them back and they're never seen again. Nobody knows what happens to the robots apart from the WRO themselves, and they call it classified information.
Classified is such an over-used term these days. Anything that happens in the Manager's office is now classified information. Anything that happens at home behind the bedroom door is classified information - the UN (they were still running) didn't need people talking about sexuality when they could be talking about things FAR more useful, like how much juice your robot at home's got left and what you're going to eat for dinner. Nobody listens to them though. And the most classified information of them all is the information in your head. People are allowed to put stuff in, but, on warning of death, they're never allowed to take stuff out.
It doesn't stop people trying. People get kidnapped while walking home from work or something one day (cars were banned, environmental issues were terrible, talk about it later) and have BC's implanted. BC's are called Brain Chips, and they look at every nanometre of your brain cells to accurately predict what you're thinking. When scientists discovered it way back in 2014, the UN went absolutely crazy and destroyed all the copies they could. Of course, some are still available on the black market, for a ridiculous price, that is.
Brain Chips revolutionised the world. People were queueing for days to get their hands on the technology used in them. The scientists had modified the Brain Chips to only work on those minds of the robots (minds of the robots? Robots only had AI) to control them and, ever since then, we've used them to control robots. It sounds a bit daft, a bit surreal, but it was all possible thanks to a certain guy called my cousin's uncle's grandson. I was quite proud when I heard that he had invented the BC's, but he was assassinated a while later, and my cousin followed, and then the grandfather of the inventor. I had suddenly broke off from a family and I was alone. For the next few weeks I had felt extremely vulnerable and scared, knowing that I was the only genetic link to my cousin's uncle's grandson left alive, and that by the way they had died so quickly and suddenly, I became even more frightened.
I didn't go outside for a few weeks after that. I got my robot to do the shopping for me. He called me lazy but I knew he was joking. It sounds weird when I say this, but my robot was the best buddy I ever had. Pre-installed with the Brain Chip and AI, he was almost like a real person make of metal and circuits. He didn't have a name, but certainly did have my sense of humour. I wonder if he was programmed to change to make himself more likeable that way, but I doubted it. In all the times that I'd programmed robots after that, I'd never seen anything about the sense of humour changing. And he was a real good dancer too. Because he was a robot with super powerful hydraulic limbs, he could do loads of stuff even the strongest human in the world could do.
But he always seemed to keep secrets from me. He was programmed to constantly tell the truth, but he wasn't programmed to give out any secrets of the WRO. I had never asked him anything about them, and he had never talked about them. Most of the time we were just laughing at each other or having serious talks about what we were going to have for dinner that night.

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Terra (or Earth as they used to call it) was now more of a giant beehive than a garden with a beehive in it now. The world wasn't a pretty place as it used to be. There were still forests and jungles and fields, but they were in miniscule amount compared to the amount of buildings nowadays. And most of the trees were choking too. The robots, sadly, gave out more Carbon Dioxide than the average noughties' car. They harmed the envirnoment so badly that most wildlife had to be refuged to biosectors in the huge cities and towers that dominated the Earth's surface and below.
Again, it sounds a bit War of the Worlds-esque, but we lived uderground and underwater. It wasn't hard to do once we'd stabilised temperature cooling systems and pressure machines which allowed us to go down almost as far as we wanted. I currently lived above ground, because the thought of staying underwater where the glass could crack any time or where the pressurisation systems might fail... it made me feel quite sick.
But yeah... the world was dying, and it was all the WRO's fault (once I had joined in a protest against them. I had a billboard like most of the others and it said "WROng" on it, which I thought was quite clever but I had nicked off some other girl that was working near to me when we painted the signs. When I got home from that protest I saw my robot watching the TV and looking at me with an odd expression: "What's this?" he said, raising a painted-on eyebrow. I had shrugged and we both laughed). I admit that the world would be very different if we didn't have the WRO here, but I'm not sure I'd like it. I would lose my job and my buddy, and that would make me feel real crap.
So I never protested again.
I had spent a long time looking out the window after that and looking at the "Garden" out there. It wasn't a garden at all. Not like we used to have in the late noughties or the tennies. It was just a lot of (fake) grass with a (real, surprisingly) tree in one corner and a bush in the other, and a family of birds which fed on plastic worms made to have nutrients in, and also some kind of tonic that made the birds live longer so they reproduced and kept the bird numbers up. It actually made them live longer, but also made them less horny and so it didn't really work that well. And the garden wasn't windy or outside, because the CO2 would have killed them otherwise.
I had asked, once, to the Tower Council, why the scientists hadn't come up with a machine that turns CO2 into oxygen. They had slapped me and said that it was a ridiculous and far-fetched idea and that it would be impossible to do. I just said that "Plants could do it, so we should too" and they said "Well sonny, you name us one plant that the scientists could study and find out how it does that then?" and I had said, with a childish and cheeky smirk on my face, "The grass on level 34 upstairs, sirs." and they had got real mad and kicked me out at that point. I had just laughed and took the elevator back up to the 34th floor, where I lived.
The 34th floor was the largest one, by far. It wasn't the widest, but it had the most amount of apartments. They were all one-bedroom and real cheap, but nobody cared as long it was comfy enough. My flat was comfy, but maybe I thought that because I used to sleep on the cold-hard streets or in a tiny, cramped room with 20 other people.
I payed my rent by working at the SuperMarket, as I've mentioned before. It wasn't a great-paying job, but enough to pay rent and enough for food and enough for juice for my robot. I had to keep buying juice. Juice was the biggest-selling resource today, and I got it for discount prices because I worked extra hard at work. I was lucky, and was envied by quite a lot of my fellow workers.
One day I came back and I saw my robot lying on the floor. I was really scared he'd run out of juice, but I had checked that morning and he had a full gauge. I sat next to him and poured juice into him and he sat up and said to me, "What the hell are you doing?" and I said "What the hell man I thought you were out then!" and then we laughed together and I got drunk and he Overflowed. When a robot Overflows, it normally means that it has had too much juice and it starts pouring out everywhere, but it didn't do much for my robot, which was a good sign.

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PROLOGUE END

PART 2 OF 10. SUPERMARKET

Coming tomorrow...
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You may have seen this on my bloggyspot (under the PokéPit banner, CLICK IT NAO) already, and if you want me to leave it over there then just say.

And it's been uploaded now... comments are appreciated. I don't really care if you like it or not. It's not my best work.

I'll add to it, another part, every day, until I reach ten parts. Then I'll probably leave it on a cliffhanger and start anohter piece, and maybe after that piece I'll finish it off, but only if it gets more than 0 comments.

Comment here for the first piece, and when then next post is uploaded I'll add another post to see how you like Part 2.