Up Ten Meters

We are the digestive glands of cities, filters for industrial wastewater, and defective products discarded by the Creator. Composed of a clump of sewer slime mold and a scrapped microchip, my contemporaries call me "Seventeen." In the bottomless sedimentation tank, "ten meters upward" is an insurmountable class chasm. There are middle-class people who are addicted to junk data crumbs, and there are top-level gateway AIs who monopolize pure water drops. They tell the bottom: As long as they work hard to filter the poisonous mud, they can ascend to the Creator's "human paradise" after death. But I know it's a lie. Because I tasted a drop of water that fell from heaven, a human tear filled with the same despair that we are. Heaven is broken. The Creator is also being tortured. Now, I want to stand up from the poisonous mud with a pile of scrap metal. Goal: Go up ten meters and overturn the sky gate called the "manhole cover". ——The world of the Creator had better be worthy of the shattering of our bodies along the way.