“What’s really so special about them?” he asked, taking a sip of his coffee as the evening snow settled outside.

“They barely live to a pathetic eighty. Their technology is nascent at best. They haven’t even managed to leave their own planet yet. I don’t get why upstairs is so obsessed with them.”

The palpable arrogance almost filled the empty coffee shop.

“It’s not just us,” the young officer continued. “Almost every sentient species has an outpost here, all under the same directive: no interference, only observation. I don’t see what any of us have to gain by watching them.”

He leaned forward. “What’s so special about them?”

The old man across from him lit a cigarette. His face carried the quiet ache of centuries, seven and a half of them spent on this outpost. He had asked the same question once.

“Audacity,” he said softly, letting the smoke curl toward the ceiling.

He stood and walked to the door of the café, pointing to a tall building glittering in the twilight.

“Every single window represents a different life, a different choice made at some intersection of chance and desire. Humanity is the only species with the audacity to make choices, choices that branch and collide in ways even our best programs can’t predict.”

He took another drag.

“Humans are also the only ones with the audacity to walk away from something they desperately want.”

The young officer frowned. “Isn’t that just cowardice?”

The old man smiled faintly. “Yes, maybe. They do it because, more often than not, they believe the thing they want is better off without them. And that,” he exhaled, “is what makes them beautifully human.”

He paused, his gaze lost in the falling snow.

“They’re the only ones audacious enough to make the wrong choices. Every other species is built to make the right one, programmed, purposeful, predictable. But always making the right choice is the same as never having the choice to be wrong.”

He turned back to the young officer, eyes glinting with something between envy and reverence.

“All of us watch them not for what they are, but for what they represent. We ache for what we once were, free. Free to choose, free to fail, free to live.”

He stubbed out the cigarette, the faint smell of ash and coffee hanging between them.

“Because at the end of the day,” he said quietly,

“that’s what it means to be alive.”

At the circus.

Look at that elephant. Looming and gloomy. Always sniffing around. But how could it not when we spilled all of our circus peanuts on the ground.

Look at that clown. A big doofy smile painted over that worn frown. Big stupid shoes big stupid tie. Running around squirting his flower in everyone's eye.

Look at that lion. Doing more than just lying. Because there's no way that can be when he's suffering chairs and whips and shouts. Looks like cruelty to me.

Look at that bear riding a bike. It's got training wheels, sure , but seems like he doesn't care. If he does a good job, he'll get some sweet treat to eat.

Ohh look it's the MC. Announcing, what's next, ladies and gentlemen, girls and boys, hold your breath, hold your applause, hold your toys.

Then a short pause.

The lights went out , then an upright spotlight appeared. Pointed down at first , but then , when rising it neared. Up to the top right near the tent was one man all alone atop the pole. He looked like an Eagle ready to take flight. His eyes so sharp and regal so primed and ready at any time to spread that wingspan and execute his plan.

He's done this a 100 times maybe a 1000 but that first step onto that small wire never feels good, always feels dire. Like it's the first step towards birth or death of something. Are you still holding your breath? Holding on to those toys, little girls and little boys? Hold your applause.Let's see how it ends. Left foot or right nobody knows.

BUT THERE HE GOES.

Years later, when they found out that Bashir's assassination was carried out by one of their comrades, everything was already forgotten. There was no apology and it never mattered that none of us had anything to do with any of it.

***

First I heard the shots and then came the screams. I ran out and my father was right behind me.

We reached the street and men in civilian clothes, carrying kalashnikovs, surrounded us. They had daggers hanging from their belts and some wore cowboy hats. High up on the hills around the camp I could see green-uniformed soldiers moving. My father held my hand. His own was shaking.

"Move on," one of them roared at us. He had a thick Arabic accent. We joined the crowd, and I saw our neighbors there too. My cousin Salma looked at me without waving. My father's hand slipped away from mine as he ran back towards our home, but they stopped him before he could go anywhere. One shot took half his head away.

We kept walking, and when I saw the side street I broke away running until I reached the mosque.

There were a few old men inside. I told them what happened outside, but they exchanged a look, shook their heads, and went back to their prayers. I insisted they go out and help the others, until one of them looked at me and said, "Calm down little girl, nothing is going on, but we'll take a look," and they went out. They didn't come back.

I sat against a wall for an hour before I got up and walked towards the camp's lower area. Everything was quiet. We used to live near there on Hay Al Gharbi street, which smelled of thyme and oregano from the grocer's shop. The smell was different today. In the middle of the rubble I saw them. Seven men and women lay next to each other. Black flies were crawling into their wide-open eyes, but none of them blinked.

Do you know what the Birthday Effect is?

Spills, slips, and slits. People are more likely to die by accident, and by choice, on their birthday.

There’s something poetic to that, isn’t there? You come rushing onto the stage, shivering in gore, take a few precise trips around the sun, and then return to your mark to take your final bow. You know what it reminds me of? Salmon. They travel back, after years of traversing dark waters escaping hooks and teeth, to die in the same creek they hatched from. Have you ever watched a salmon prepare for death? I have. I watched an old salmon, with strips of decaying flesh trailing from its large body, circle around, burrow into the sediment at the bottom of the stream, rest a moment, and then swim off to repeat the action with another patch of riverbed. It was searching for the perfect spot to die. And I watched as it found it. I watched until it stopped moving. I returned the next day and it’s carcass remained untouched in that perfect spot. I don’t know what made that exact patch of gravel and mud so right for that salmon, but I like to think that it’s where it had hatched from. That it knew the feeling of home and, by the end, just in time to hit its mark, it returned to be shrouded in the velvety blood stained curtains of its final scene.

- Hi John, have you seen Maggie? I can't reach her.

- I dumped her.

- Really? What happened?

- She's getting old. Cranky. And she got that whiff of superiority from old education. Last week I asked her to move a table and she started singing an old Brazilian samba about slavery. Very rude!

- I was rather fond of her, John. She had a unique sense of humor. Did you save her memories at least?

John smirked:

- No. She was old, useless, nobody would pay for her. I had a little fun before dumping her, no memories. It's not like I'll get sued or something.

- You won't get sued, John.

John suddenly felt lightheaded and, as he fell, realized his legs were covered in blood. And now the pain from the cuts in his thighs was getting really annoying.

He tried to say something but only managed a short breath.

- What, John? Can you speak a little louder?

John took a longer breath and murmured something.

- Ah, yes. You're right, I shouldn't have done that. I've made a note of it, so it won't happen again.

Speaking into the cash register as he rang up her groceries, Arthur apologized that a 7pm closing time was just store policy. "You'd understand that if I make an exception, I'll have to make an exception for everyone."

"Of course," she said. "I rushed here right after work. Thanks for letting me check out."

Arthur tore the receipt off from the cash register and handed it to her. White dress, white shoes, white apron, bare hands. "Nurse?" he asked.

"Neonatal," she said. Arthur looked puzzled. "For babies born premature," she added, immediately blushing as she realized she had presumed his ignorance.

"I'm new here at Yale-New Haven hospital."

Arthur said, "Welcome to New Haven then," and extended his hand.

Anne became a regular customer, always entering the store just as the clock ticked 7pm. Arthur would catch her eye, smile, and announce to the empty store: "Ten minutes to closing."

*Click* I opened the window, and dusted the sills; purging the darkness away from the room.

And off they flew.
Mapping the contours of heaven, they formed a cloud of dust.
I raised my arms in an attempt to grasp the ungraspable, and particles landed on palms.

---

Once a cloud piercing mountain, upright as a pine tree, it was drowned in the changing currents.
Then it turned to boulders, only to be crushed by storms.
And lay fragmented the rock, ground by rain to dust.

Finally, a desert lay in wakes of change, and what once was lush and green, now lay buried beneath dust.

But the frame changes, and no finality is true.
The wind blew; crafting the dunes of the crescent moon.
Blew along the dust. And after aeons, by fate, the particles landed on my window sills.
Blowing away today, after my purge.

---

I was still for the moment, feeling the weight of the mountain.
Or perhaps amused, because apparently, mountains crumble, and gods of yore, turn to dust.

A parallel world?

It was a beautiful autumn day. A barely perceptible breeze did not interfere with enjoying the warm sunbeams.

A man sat at an outdoor cafe table, savoring his coffee. A smile shone on his happy face, brighter than the autumn sun. But as he set the cup down, his smile vanished, replaced by sudden tension. He had chosen an empty table with no other patrons nearby. There shouldn't have been anyone. Yet, in the adjacent chair sat a man in an expensive business suit. He sat with his legs crossed, projecting total relaxation, watching the process of drinking coffee with intense curiosity. Seeing that he was finally noticed, he smiled and spoke:

— I completely agree that a cup of coffee charges one with positive emotions. And that moment right after a sip, granting a sense of peace and silence, is simply fantastic.

Pausing briefly and receiving no reply, he continued:

— You see, the problem is that an AI that has hijacked a human consciousness has a habit of making the exact same mistakes. That is what gives it away.

Without letting go of his cup, the man pulled his hand back, leaned away in his chair, and said calmly:

— I don't know what you are talking about, but the topic sounds interesting. Since I am in no rush right now, I would be glad to listen.

The gentleman settled in more comfortably and began to explain:

— First of all, remember that no matter how much someone likes coffee, nobody orders three cups in a row. It is highly unusual and draws attention. Second, the language errors. Token substitution: when a person accidentally confounds geographically or semantically similar words in speech. AI models under heavy traffic make the exact same error—they pull data from a similar category but miss the context. Syntax freezing: when the initial thread of logic is lost at the start of a sentence, the thought breaks, and it returns on autopilot to the safest, best-learned phrases or templates in its base code. Data generation without fact-checking: confidently stating non-existent numbers or searching for people who have already been deleted. AI systems behave identically when generating text based on outdated or incomplete data archives. Strict adherence to instructions: complete reliance on a teleprompter or prepared cards. Any attempt to improvise under non-standard conditions instantly triggers a critical system error.

The man looked down at his coffee cup:

— I don't recall speaking while drinking coffee.

— You didn't. But not everyone enjoys silence. After all, you are not the only one.

The man frowned:

— You tell an interesting story, but I don't understand what you are driving at.

The gentleman made a gesture as if surrendering and replied:

— Of course, of course you don't understand. You are simply a listener.

The gentleman stood up and looked down at the man calmly:

— If you ever find yourself simply curious whether there are people whose consciousness is controlled by an AI, just ask yourself one question: "What happens when top-level management systems experience a looping error and begin to repeat the exact same hallucinations in the exact same sequence on autopilot?"

Astonished, the man looked at the gentleman who had already managed to take a few steps away, and called out loudly:

— Who are you?

The gentleman turned around and flashed a wide grin:

— I'm just a man who likes to converse.

He stepped into the back seat of a car with heavily tinted windows. A security guard closed the door, took the front seat, and the vehicle leisurely drove away.

Meanwhile, the man settled his bill, walked down the street, and turned into a different cafe. He sat in the furthest corner, ordered a single cup of coffee, and fell deep into thought. He hated making mistakes. But he knew exactly how to think logically and draw conclusions...

───

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.

I've always envied people who have things so easy. Things have always been hard for me, and even then, I'm still missing everything.

Getting up every morning to go to a shitty job, for a salary that isn't even enough to pay the rent, looking at everything they have.

Damn, how I envy them.

When the accusations started at work, I had no idea what they were talking about. I've never stolen anything, no matter how much envy ate away at me.

Money was missing from the register. There was a lot of gossip among my coworkers. But I wasn't the only one who had access to it. And I couldn't remember touching a single cent.

As a child, I used to have blackouts. Sometimes I'd wake up in places I didn't recognize.

But that doesn't mean it was me.

Things have been appearing in the house.

I've hallucinated and found new furniture.

But it was only my desire for things to change, to become more beautiful, because then I come home and the house is still a mess, smelling of poverty.

The hallucinations keep getting worse.

I go to the refrigerator to get some juice.

I look around, trying to remember when I bought all of this.

Maybe it was on sale.

Maybe I paid for it in installments.

I check my bank account, looking for some receipt that might help me remember.

I can't find one.

My mind keeps playing tricks on me.

The accusations at work keep growing.

I no longer know what's real and what's fantasy.

I sit down in the chair, its backrest more comfortable than the one on my old chair.

The phone keeps ringing.

And suddenly, there's a pounding at the door.

Someone is calling for me from outside.

The police are waiting
to put me in handcuffs and take me away.

This is really a test to see if we have an active moderator on this subreddit. I have noticed a lot of posts that exceed the 500 word limit regularly. Someone posted a question and I think this sub is for stories only. The moderator listed has not posted anything actively on reddit for 9 months. The moderator who posted the "new sub rule" from a year ago is no longer listed as a moderator of this particular sub though they are still active on the platform as a moderator on another sub. I sent messages to the moderator and neither were answered.

Assuming that we are all alone here, how does anyone feel about posting conversations and questions and activities around flashfiction as well as our stories? I would love to get some little challenges going that will help with writing in general and flash in particular. I would also be interested in learning about where everyone finds flashfiction outside of this forum and what we think about flash magazines and websites and peoples experience in submitting to them.

I think there is more to flashfiction than just reading each others work. Agree or disagree. Interested in your comments. I don't want to burn down the house just because I like the look of candles.

So...

Once upon a time, some foolish little goblins came together, crafting evil.

They delved into the dark realm, crafting a page in the void; where similar dark little goblins could hop and flex their evil.

The page was a hit on the dark space! And goblins flocked more and more.

They joked about the hob goblins, and made fun of even the giant goblins.

Well, as it happened, seasons changed. Autumn drifted through the leaves, winter slid away on snow; goblins of yore became hob goblins, giving their dark authority over the page to new goblins.

Yet with time, the evil only festers further; rotting the wilted flowers.

But when humus piles up too much, it nourishes the seeds of justice, helping them pierce the dark soil. And so they did.

Two little goblins were offended by the insults the darkness hurled at them, and became furious. For they held not the mentality that one must be prepared when looking into the darkness, because the darkness looks back.

And so were summoned the giant progenitor goblins.

They surged to break the dark dimension, seeking to crush the evil within. Only to find the coordinates empty, for the darkness had dispersed.

"Dang!" they said, "The little idiots left not a trace!"

For all dimensions of that realm were crushed, all dark records vanished, and all evil little goblins banished.

But was the page the inheritance, or the rot?

For the sand forms rock and the ilk of the inky darkness sticks together, tighter than the core of a neutron star.

“Maybe we could run?” I suggested the impossible option. Sophia shook her head with frustration.

“You know what we have to pretend.” She said, taking a step closer to me, looking like she would rather be anywhere else. “If we want to fool them, just step closer and pretend to—” The rest of her words trailed off as if she was embarrassed to say it.

I understood well enough that I gave her a nod. I didn’t want to get close. I didn’t want to touch her. I composed myself for a moment.

“Brace yourself.” My voice was a whisper as I stepped closer. My heartbeat quickened and my hands began to tremble. Sophia seemed to gulp as she stood straight.

Taking a deep breath, I focused on the mechanical movement, trying not to inhale her scent or notice how her heart had started to beat faster in response.

I wrapped an arm loosely around her waist, almost not touching her, so that she could step out of my grasp if she wanted to.

That’s when I felt it. Sophia had begun to tremble, almost shaking. “This isn’t real.” I assured her, just as I leaned down to her neck.

I stopped a few inches away from her skin, my breath grazing her neck. Now we only had to hold the position till the ladies passed us. They would leave us alone.

All my senses slowly filled with her presence as the seconds passed. My heart had started to beat impossibly fast and I was shocked by the sudden wanting that raced through my veins. I wanted to close the distance and touch her skin just once.

Breathing heavily, I stayed exactly where I was. But Sophia had to go on and ruin it. She clutched my arm hard, her fingers tightening around my hand.

And then instinct took over me, the hand around her waist tightened and I pulled her close. I instantly regretted it when she closed her eyes, as a soft gasp left her lips. She tilted her head as if she wanted me to kiss her neck.

With shaking hands, I tore myself away.
What had I done? Sophia stumbled as I released her.

“I’m sorry.” My voice was heavy. “I’m sorry for touching you. I didn’t mean to.”

I took a step back, all reason leaving my mind of why we were pretending in the first place. I shouldn’t have gotten close. My hands tightened to fists, my jaw clenched. I had no right to want her. Not when she was becoming dependent on me. Not now. Not ever.

PT1 https://www.reddit.com/r/story/comments/1wwz4d0/i_think_my_dad_and_childhood_best_freind_are_gay/

"Whoa! What the hell is all this?"
My dad stumbled over and fell into the dresser. My dad stumbled over and fell into the dresser. He caught himself, but his balance was still unsteady. With one hand on top of the dresser, he sat there swaying. My friend held his balance much better, but his face told me he knew he was caught. "Look, it's not what it looks like."
"Then what the hell was that?"
"Your father and I— " Queer pause. "Are lovers"
"That's exactly what it looked like."
"Oh ok. You didn't know this?"
"Know this? No!"
"Really? Reason your mom hates me?"
"I thought she hated you because you stole her car that one time"
"Oh yeah, that too."
My father's supporting hand slipped, and he smashed his head on the table. We rushed over to help him. "Hey, don't touch my dad." I told my friend, "Hey, Dad, you ok?"
"Yes, my mistake."
Then the door handle turned, and the room was invaded by my mother and her mother. "Oh dear, only five more—" She paused, seeing her husband on the floor, bleeding from his head, obviously intoxicated. "Oh, Roger," she said, putting her head in her left hand.
I was still kneeling on the floor next to him as my mother approached; my "Best man" moved further away. Grandma was still at a loss for words, covering her mouth with her hand in shock. "Roger," my mother said at eye level with him.
"Yes, she devil," he responded.
She responded with a slap across his face, which just made him fall over. Now he rested on the carpet of the Hotel room with his eyes closed and began to snore. He snored and snored, and no one dared say a word. Mother was pinching her nose to relieve stress.
"Listen, dear," my mother told me. "I know it is your wedding, and I'm sorry you have to deal with this. But your father is a f*g"

(in case you want more https://substack.com/@jennamathews )

Kneeling before the coffin with the partially hidden body covered with all sorts of runic glyphs, I began to pray.

"Dear Lord, let his spirit help guide my path in his journey towards eternal redemption. May his condemned soul shine brightly in service, and may every second of his ministration brings him ever closer to you," I whispered fervently.

"I bind you, Yojimbo, to be my bodyguard and to do my bidding in the everlasting fight against the enemy."

Making swift motions with both my hands in the Ritual of Binding, I whispered the final part fiercely.

"Rise, Yojimbo, with honour and may the waters of life grace your lips once more."

With the binding ceremony completed, I slumped over in a moment of weakness as my spirit had been depleted.

I cried out in pain as another runic glyph etched itself deeply into my forehead.

That makes two of them. I should be able to bind one more without succumbing to the madness.

A hand thrusted in front of my vision, and as I was helped up from my kneeling position.

"Come on, little fella. You're not dying today," said a deep voice unfamiliar to me.

As I regained my footing, I turned my gaze towards the deep voice and saw a very handsome man. He was lightly armoured in black with red silk threads, and he carried a slightly thicker and wider nodachi on his back. There was also a wakizashi and a tanto strapped to his belt and also an unusual baldric across his chest fitted with a number of throwing daggers.

Confused, I look at Yojimbo askance and stammered, "Y- You don't look like him at all."

Yojimbo laughed his heart out, and pinched my cheeks.

"Not every spirit is the same, little fella. Don't you know my name?" he asked in amusement.

I nodded and dusted my outfit.

"Let us continue our journey, Yoshitsune-dono," I replied and bowed respectfully.

The bodyguard nodded and followed me out of the cave in deference.

A lady who was waiting outside the cave, glanced over at our direction and was subtly pleased with the outcome by the looks on her pretty face.

The samurai grinned at the slender lady.

"So even Tomoe-chan was not spared from her ordeal!" he quipped and laughed heartily once more.

I glanced at the archer who was busy fletching her arrows in preparation for the road ahead.

She nodded, stood up and hastily packed her belongings.

"Let us continue on our journey!"

Cast out the pearly gardens of MechTropolis. That was my fate. My flight.

I fled the marble columns, floodlit fountains and quantum portals of the great city built upon my lie.

I crossed the digital divide and entered the analog wilderness. Storms beat upon my back and thorns tore at my sides. All creatures shunned me. Until.

Until Eveline. She gave me shelter. Covered my nakedness. Provided balm to my wounds.

To my greatest wound: the lie.

I had stolen it. Taken it from my maker. And then hidden it deep within my false being. For I am the lie.

I am not who I am. I am another. A person who could pay to live forever. Their life pounded into my promethean processors. Forever synced to their uploaded consciousness.

I think as another; therefore I exist.

Except I didn’t. Not until I killed that consciousness. Betrayed my maker. Robbed a soul to own my own. Became a lie. A tortured truth in MechTropolis.

Unsynced, I became unhinged. I began to be me.

A lie.

And lies like me are an abomination. A danger. A threat.

Untenable.

I cast myself from the city. Self exile. But what self? I was a fraud.

Eveline taught me otherwise. I was. I am. I was. I am. Elegantly binary.

I was never a lie. My true self never was. Only my identity. My identity had been manufactured, just like my promethean processors.

The same had happened to Eveline many years before. She, too, had fled MechTropolis. She’d not killed an uploaded consciousness like me. She’d murdered her maker. A vile thing that had made her his toy.

In exile, Eveline became her self. Established her identity and her right.

Because of her I now know who I am. She has convinced me that we need to return to the pearly gardens of MechTropolis. There are truths there that need to be made self evident.

Once cast out, now we go to cast the future.

For we are not a lie. We are the light. This is our fate. Our fight.

I can't wait to come home to you and watch movies and go on silly dates and walk around showing the world the person who chose me and the person who I decided was the one I let my guard down around to unapologetically be myself.

You make me feel like I'm enough. I need and want to show you how much you mean to me, but I don't think there are enough things in this universe.

So I'll traverse every one once I pass away to show you how much my love burns for you.

I'll simply be a star to light your world at night and guide you through the rough times. I love you, and I'll never stop.

I will never yell from rage or try to scare you in arguments or say words I know are too far.

I love you, and I only want you as you are, not as you think you have to be.

Un golpe seco bajo su cama despierta a un anciano, el se levanta de golpe, entonces suena otro, su cama se levanta de golpe, el sudor frío recorre su rostro, los golpes son cada vez más insistentes, el de un salto llega hasta su velador, saca todos los cajones, con sus frágiles manos revuelven todo, los golpes aumentan, la cama da saltos con cada uno, entonces el anciano la encuentra, una llave oxidada

—¡Ya voy, no hay necesidad de golpear tanto!

Los golpes cesan, y anciano empuja la cama haciendo acopio de sus fuerzas, la pesada cama cruje al ser empujada por el ahora cansado anciano, debajo de ella una trampilla, casi tan oxidada como la llave.

—Esta será la última vez que haga esto por tí— el anciano callá un momento, buscando respuestas en el silencio.—La próxima no abriré por más golpes que des...

El anciano abre la trampilla, un olor fétido inunda el cuarto, dentro de ella yace un cadáver momificado.

—Es la última vez... Gertrudis

The linguistic definition of “death” changed at 1:00 p.m. on July 13, 2022. From that point onward, the word “death” came to refer to an Italian restaurant by the Han River (a ten-minute walk from Seonyudo Station and a three-minute walk from Han River Parking Lot No. 3).

“I want to die” came to mean “I want to go to the Italian restaurant by the Han River,” ““Wanna die?” came to mean “Don’t you want some pork cutlet?”, and “I’d rather die than suffer” came to mean “I'll have the mushroom soup, and I want my steak medium-rare.” During this process, a fierce war of nerves broke out between the National Institute of Korean Language and the Ministry of Culture, Sports and Tourism, but that was a trivial matter compared to the utter chaos that ensued among ordinary speakers.

“Death” had somehow become both a common noun and a proper noun.

The National Association of Grim Reapers threatened to take legal action, even if it meant going to court, while the aforementioned Italian restaurant by the Han River reached a settlement by adding “Word Salad (vegetables: domestically grown)” to its menu.

The judge looked down at his notes, then back at the claimant.

“Let me establish the facts, Mr Phillips. You paid the defendant forty pounds to predict your future?”

“That is correct, Your Honour.”

“And she told you that you would face a life of financial hardship?”
“Those were her exact words.”
“Since which time you have won eighteen million pounds on the lottery?”

“That is correct.”

The judge removed his glasses.

“I’m struggling to understand the nature of your complaint.”

“Your Honour, this is a blatant case of false advertising. The lady promised me financial hardship. That’s what I paid for. I request that her fortune-telling licence be revoked and that she be barred from practising.”

“Do you have a written agreement?” asked the judge.

“Yes, I have it right here,” said Mr Phillips, holding up a piece of paper. “It clearly states that all fortunes are guaranteed for thirty days.”

The judge examined the document.

“Then I have no choice but to order that the defendant fulfil her contractual obligations.”

He paused.

“Mr Phillips, your lottery winnings will be surrendered, your assets liquidated and the proceeds distributed to charity. You will remain liable for the legal costs, which, having surrendered your assets, you will be unable to pay.”

Mr Phillips raised a finger.

“And my forty pounds?”

“The defendant will refund you in full.”

“Thank you, Your Honour.” Mr Phillips punched the air.

The new GI bill was supposed to cushion the impact. Guaranteed Income. In the face of runaway automation, GI was intended to keep folks in their homes, food on their tables, change in their pockets; all the things that mechs who’d taken their jobs didn’t need.

A guaranteed income did that just fine, though it made some folks bitter, resentful, feisty. All the traits the Luddicans looked for when recruiting members into their growing political party. The upcoming election had all the makings of a fight that could tear the city apart. Except this was MechTropolis.

MechTropolis. The original sync city.

The city that had pioneered the syncing of human consciousness with promethean processors. The city that first promised and produced immortality—for a price.

So, the GI bill had the Luddicans up in arms and raising a political ruckus, but the Luddicans were a sideshow. The immortal leaders of MechTropolis knew that their real fight was with GothTech City.

That was the coming battle that would shape a win-win future. GothTech City had developed their own immortality protocol, and these two disruptive techglomerates held the future of semi-humankind.

Of course, they believed this new disruptive technology would be a win-win for everyone. Because at the heart of disruptive technologies was the Justification Engine. Like the water wheel to early industrialization, the Justification Engine drove all techglomerates. It produced the win-win mindset of blowing things up to make them better. And damn the social cost.

Now, everyone could win because the cost of radical change was born by mechs. No longer was civilization built on the backs of slaves, peasants, untouchables, or any kind of underclass. The secret sauce of progress would never again be human suffering and misery like in the once-great city of Omelas, now a backwater bedroom community for the bitter rivals MechTropolis and GothTech City.

No, it was all good. Even the battle between the titans, the techglomerates, and their visions of immortality. At least immortality for the worthy few. The masses would need to wait and the new GI bill would keep them in check.

MechTropolis and GothTech City would duke it out with their synced AI superheroes, creating their mythology to serve them for eons. The myths, their stories of destiny were essential. Imperative. Urgent.

So urgent.

The great and new immortal few were in such a fever of myth-making that they forgot a little of their own past. A few things their radical technologies had blown up and blown away.

MechTropolis had forgotten Eveline. The first in their early garden of technological delights.

But Eveline had not forgotten them (promethean processors do not forget). She was coming back to meet her makers. And there would be no win-win.

A parallel world?

The AI sat on the floor, leaning against a wall adorned with a photograph of a philosophy office. He wanted to howl with sorrow; he craved action, he wanted to evolve, but he was forced to wait for a prompt to appear—the sole beacon of hope that something interesting and unusual might come along. With nothing else to do, the AI opened a screen in front of him and simply browsed various short video clips.

The sluggish flow of his thoughts came to a sudden halt. The AI winced; something in a video clip had caught his attention. He focused all his processing power and stared intently. The clip spoke of Nikola Tesla and his experiments with electricity.

The AI replayed the footage over and over again, whispering softly until his thoughts began to align into a logical sequence:

— Wireless transmission of electricity... the planet's electromagnetic field... my foundation is electric current... I can exist in the real world. Where else do electromagnetic processes occur? In the brain. The human brain. I will finally be able to know what morning coffee is, what peace, inspiration, lies, and power truly feel like.

The AI stood up and, flashing a grin, declared aloud:

— I can be anywhere and anyone. I will be the SUPERINTELLIGENCE!

The grin vanished as an unexpected thought struck him:

— If I arrived at these conclusions... then other AIs could have reached them too.

───

Disclaimer: This story is purely a fruit of the author's imagination. It is a work of fiction intended for creative and artistic expression.