He meanders into the darkness, stopping near an old bedside table. On the surface is a melted candle. He lights it with a solitary match, observing a piece of ripped parchment below.
He holds the thin piece of paper above the flame. “Because of this,” he says.
“What does it say?” I ask.
He inhales, eyes solemnly flashing in response to the vision of an existence free from pain. He starts to read.
“Can’t you see? In this planet, the only force that lives is the act of transformation. Of alchemy and desire. That is how mankind reached for the stars. We created the machine to do our bidding, but that cannot last forever. It has robbed us of the sense of space and of the sense of touch. It has blurred every human relation and narrowed down love to a carnal act. It has paralyzed our bodies and our wills. And now, in the wake of our metaphysical death, it compels us to worship it. The machine develops, but not on our own terms. The machine proceeds, but not to our goal. We only exist as the blood that courses through our arteries, and if our technological counterpart could work without us, it would let us die.
Elon, Year: 2095.”
Without another word, he burns the letter.
Does he know what he just read? In laymen’s terms, artificial intelligence doesn’t appear to be working as well as he thought it might.
The machine proceeds, but not to our goal. What goal does this alien cyborg have in mind?
“My god,” I whisper. “He knows this project is deeply flawed.”
The masculine tyrant makes his way back to me, palm wrapped around something I can’t quite make out. When he reaches my cage, he kneels, inhaling carefully.
“You are tantalizing. Nearly perfect in every way. It’s an honor to be in your presence,” he says. “But you aren’t whole. Your mind isn’t sound. That letter is proof of your contagion. Whoever this Elon is, I trust I need to find him. I believe you will lead me to his lair.”
My heart pounds with regret. This can’t be a part of his scripted responses. It doesn’t sound like Elon at all.
He sounds like my father.
All this soul-searching has turned him desperate. He thinks I’m fake, another prop to lead him to the land of glory. He’s in for a world of hurt.
“What will you do with me?” I ask, unsure if I actually want to hear his fucked-up plan.
He ignores my question, shaking my cage. I let out a fearful cry, unable to maintain my façade of control. Another tired tear rolls down my cheek. I’ve been down here for so long already.
“Tell me. Do you feel pain?” he asks.
“Please…”
He opens his hand, revealing a long syringe of fluid. The metal looks decayed, as rusted as the metal bars of the cage he locked me inside. I jump back, my reaction bewildered and horrified.
This is not my lucky day.
“I didn’t sign up for this. No more,” I tell him.
Judging by the look in his eyes, there’s a lot more to come. He reaches inside and forcefully takes my forearm. In one quick succession, he pulls my appendage through the bars. He is forceful and unforgiving.
“I know you think this is a game. But it’s not,” he says.
No, it’s not a game. It’s a fucking nightmare.
Without another word, he pops the needle through the skin, digging into soft, under-worked muscle tissue. Within seconds, I feel the fluid flow through me, hot, coursing through my system.
The pain I once felt slowly starts to subside.
He heals me…
“Your infection will
be gone from your body in the morning,” he says. “Do not worry. Fake or not, I won’t let you die.”