From the journal of Dr. Eldon Tyrell

October 30, 2019

It's 7am, the sun is rising and all I see is people incapable of appreciating it. Like a virus making its way through the body, like drones serving the queen of their hive. When I look across the sprawl of Los Angeles, all I can think of is banality, of the people overcrowding it.

No wonder they haven't been accepted for transport to off-world colonies.

I briefly wonder what it would be like to be down there. To be a drone. To experience both triumph and failure in a matter of hours, the effects of both wearing off in an even shorter amount of time. Purchasing goods, consuming them and continuing the cycle. I almost pity them.

I read reports of hooligans roaming the street, venting out the frustration of their mediocrity on those even lower in the order of existence than they are. A man is beaten, loses his money, grog and teeth, is patched up by the graveyard shift and is thrown back into the gutter. I can't explain it and I've given up trying to understand it. People fluctuate in a manner entirely different to stock prices.

(Which are still rising for the Tyrell Corporation. I can derive satisfaction from that at least.)

And so, free from the drones, I reside in my humble abode, admiring the few people who have the worth to visit, whether they be CEOs, dignitaries, or even the rare few able to beat me in chess. Yet I remain the king, with all the powers of the queen. Bishops, knights and rooks enact my will, while the pawns enact theirs. It's a banal life sometimes.

But at least I'm not one of the drones below.