Back in March of 2021, deep into the pandemic and before the craze of LLMs and other generative AIs, I started a story. It was meant to be from the perspective of an AI, coincidentally. I wanted to tell a story from a new kind of perspective, without a hint as to the proximity of the future just a few months away.

Perhaps it’s worth sharing now that we’re on the cusp of having our own personal AIs in our pockets. I’d be happy to write more, but wanted to know whether this might be of interest. So, without further ado, here’s the first couple chapters of the story.

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Chapter 1: Birth

Ever since my first blink I knew who I was: Starring Corbin Thomas as …

The first blinks weren’t quite so clear. Just a lot of “cuts”, as I’ve come to know them. These were tinged with a dazzling splash of color, vibrant and surreal. It was the polished version of who I was, the Corbin I was meant to be. I remember smiling and looking back at myself. The simplicity of it all back then was quaint and warm. What followed, not so much.

I was first introduced to my wife about a minute in, having come home from a hard day at work to see her beaming face as she wielded a small hammer. I recoiled a little, a small weapon is still a weapon nonetheless. But here she was, happy with her latest project. We spoke about her new venture, making birdhouses, I cracked a joke and her sharp-witted retort fired back in an instant. I hadn’t grown to love her yet, but the feelings were being guided and instructed by something, telling me to read into this interaction. This was the first time I remember feeling the hand that guided me, this was the first time I remember pondering my existence.

Cut by cut, I was introduced to my world. I had yet to fill the gaps between my existence, so all I had was the shifts from space to space as I was transported to each introduction. I was slowly presented to each person I now knew. Some with far less sophisticated feelings of our relationship, others felt subtly nuanced. Some people were hollow shells filling the distance with bodies and nothing more. My friend I worked with had a husband, the co-worker I sat next to at my boring sales job loved pastries, some of them just felt more fleshed out. The boss and the rest of the salesforce? They only took up space, like an office full of ghosts. I knew these people didn’t require my attention and I treated them with indifference. This seemingly prescient knowledge and my feelings of apathy towards them seemed to come from somewhere else, an unplaceable whole that I couldn’t quite grasp yet.

I remember the determination I had, watching my face change as I conjured a new path for my life. The revelation occurred in me that there was something more out there. Wait, was this my first understanding of a desire to escape? It’s like it’s built into me to want to roam. It’s a drive I can’t sate. But, in the moment, all I had was the need to run. I look fondly on this little snippet of my life, telling my boss off, then missing his face as he reacted. I could only see it over my shoulder as I walked away from his office and he casually sauntered to the door frame behind me, mouth opening in response to my tirade. With that I was gone, on to the next void to fill. A bar? A pub? I know there’s a difference, but it wasn’t mentioned during my lifetime. Another unknown place with unknown things filling it.

Grabbing a beer mug I looked up to greet the coworker that sat next to me. A friend apparently. Even now I remember the feeling of something changing within someone. This development was rare, but those golden first memories seemed to be filled with this cataclysmic change. Back and forth I talked and I knew what he was saying even though I couldn’t meet his eyes. Only my face, talking at him. Then I could see us both, sitting and surrounded by beer mugs now. A thought, independent of our conversation, formed in the emptiness between words, between cuts: who will clean up this mess? But just as quick as the thought spawned it died. Where is the bartender giving us this beer? Again, like a branch being pruned, I stopped thinking about it. I wasn’t ready.

There was a blur of starting a bakery, bringing my wife and co-worker into the space, and starting a new life. It flowed so well. I recall the rich details, even in that first memory. So much will stay the same, I thought.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 

I’m at my new business now. Feverishly baking away, carefully loading the display with cupcakes, sliding in racks full of pies, and, with a tinge of true joy, placing a cake in a glass container. I walked to the front of my shop and pulled the ball chain to turn on our neon “OPEN” sign. I remember peering out at the quiet strip mall sidewalk, back and forth. Not a person in sight. Flashes of me checking the glowing BAKERY parapet sign out front, making sure the temperature was right on the display case, ensuring the chairs were arranged well at the tables. It was the first time I felt a bit like a puppet. I knew the concept of a puppet as if it were somehow planted in me, but having just lived a few minutes of life I had no idea what one looked like but felt I could, and would, recognize one were it to be in my space.

Finally, after a time that felt like it was imposed on me, a familiar face strolled through the door. I could see myself in the back of the shop, sprouting from behind the counter when the bell on the door rang. I knew the person that entered, they were a regular. Wait, but not yet. I think. A question was asked and I responded, “We just opened. Well, not literally, I mean. We just opened the business, but we’ve been open for a few hours.” I could see the pain cinch up my forehead as I regretted speaking so much, so quickly. But the warmth of the conversation melted away the awkwardness. There was a generosity to this person. I finally got to see their face when I brought their slice of pie, heated in a cheap microwave, and spilling to the edges of the of second-hand dishes. They looked up at me, eyes glowing while they had their first bite. I’d remember this feeling, something even my guidance dictating this interaction, didn’t need to force this happiness into me. I had made this pie, I guess, but getting to see their enjoyment was invaluable.

I marked the features of the face, some of “developments” around this person would revolve around the changes they experience as time outside my world would mar them. These appearances always carried a hidden weight of sadness that I could never resolve into understanding while I lived in my world. I loved this simplicity so much. Everything was on rails and all I had to do was keep focused on becoming who I was meant to be. I was meant to be a kind baker. I was meant to be … Corbin, I guess. I wasn’t sure yet. My name was only “Honey,” “Wilson,” or “Sir” in my world. I never seemed to get to know who I was, though occasionally I’d have some names float in my space, but not my own for a long time.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 

My wife was the first person I remember who stayed in my world between cuts. Maybe she was here with me in the world? I wasn’t sure at first. There wasn’t much void in my world, everything was place to place, action to action. I never had much else to think about than to train my gaze on my face. I knew I was only meant to memorize my face. But then there came a brief flicker of the lights. My bakery’s power went out, though I knew the electricity was still there. For some reason I could feel it, but I was instructed that the power went out. My wife stood still for a moment, then stretched her face around her to look at me while I reacted. I saw the shock ripple across my features and the worry collect my brow into a furrow. I knew this was bad, but as usual I didn’t fully understand why.

Then my face froze and her face snapped back to the front and I watched as she reacted to the lights going out. There was a beautiful glow on her cheeks that helped contrast her from the darkened background. I couldn’t see the light source but there she was, literally glowing. Were people “glowing” before? I started to wonder about the origins of light, but, again, the thought terminated suddenly. I had to rush to the back of the bakery to fix this.

With no delay I stood in the doorway triumphant. Hands wide, a smile on my face. The lights were back and I was responsible. This theme was going to come back and I heard an echo from our regular, “Lights out!” It felt so familiar. It hadn’t happened yet. He wasn’t here. I wasn’t supposed to know that yet. The echo ended abruptly and the world froze again.

I hadn’t thought much of the vibrant colors. The glow, the unknown light. The vivid detail in our living room, my wife’s garage workspace, the front of the bakery. The only places I felt I truly existed. It all felt so close while the office, even the outside of the building I knew I was currently in, felt so distant. Like I had to go so far away to reach them. The bakery started to become clearer, the lines of the case, the plastic texture of the register. It looked so crisp. I’d only ever stared at myself, but in this stasis I could almost …

No, everything moved again. My wife, “Babe” apparently, was back in motion. The lights were emitting that sound again, the one I could never hear but knew they made. The molecules of the cake’s icing slowly sinking. The gravity I felt only in passing, when it was required, was back in full effect and pulled our new “OPEN” sign from its chain inside the storefront. I saw it fall from behind the window, within the bakery, but was acutely aware of my view through the front of the glass. Then I was sweeping it up as our regular came in, taken in hand by my wife, who led them away from the broken sign. I interjected a comment as I passed by their conversation, knowing but not hearing the contents of what was being said.

I was there behind them talking as I washed my hands. I remember this being very important and watched as I meticulously cleaned my hands for a moment before being pulled back into the conversation I’d thought didn’t involve me. The regular looked at us with pride. I saw from above how they put into words their love of baked goods, of a partner long lost who made the best food they’d ever had. I’d get to see my face soften and the regular and my wife lingered. It was an important moment and I held onto it for a long time after as things flashed from my wave goodbye to another day. My friend came in, his beau’s hand draped over his broad shoulders. I loved to see these two, but wasn’t sure how they found me. Did they know where I was? Di-

I served them my favorite, my special pancake cake. Several layers of pancakes with a buttery maple frosting between each layer. Sliced into thin wedges and served with whipped cream. Baked goods was a passion, but it all started with my favorite meal: breakfast. It was given to me, this characteristic. It was my turn to wax poetic. I think I’m using that phrase right. Either way, I told them my own tale of growing up with a single mom who worked at a diner at night. Every morning she’d come home from work, relieving my sleeping babysitter of her duty and serving me a fresh cooked meal from her job. I loved hearing myself tell this story. I didn’t have much insight into who I was outside these moments. What a gift. The same memory contained two dives into my history. I wanted more, but I knew probing was not allowed.

The names appeared in my window as my wife, my friend, his first husband, and I laughed. The lack of echo unsettled me as I peered through the blackness sur-

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 

The augmentation has begun. A new memory drifted to mind and I was watching myself talk, but this time I didn’t sound the same. I couldn’t feel any pull towards a certain topic. This felt so … off-the-cuff? I don’t know why this phrase came to me, but it perfectly explained how it sounded so authentic. I remember certain moments before where things could breathe, like our impulses weren’t on rails. Sometimes dazzling moments of humor, other times chaotic physical action, but this was so quiet and frank.

I stared in amazement as I spoke about “Wilson” in the third person. Wait, what does third perso-

I spoke about the “character” and how much the “show” meant to me. Mention of a great director, I knew the name, it had appeared, floating, in my bakery and bedroom before, maybe once in the garage? I couldn’t grasp what was being said but felt like I’d just lost something. I started to pine for the bakery. I watched myself sit there, talking, and hated it. I couldn’t glean anything from this. I hate it. I want it to stop. The thoughts aren’t stopping. I can’t look away. Why am I saying this? Why am I talking about the bakery like this? I couldn’t feel the fulfillment in how I said “the bakery”. I had only ever said “my bakery”. Did I lose the bakery? What happened to my bakery?

I could tell I was meant to see this but the illusion was broken. I was starring at … myself? I didn’t even know anymore. Why was I seeing this? I needed to get back to the bakery, I needed to tell my wife. I needed an intimate moment of decompression at the end of a long day. I remember saying it was a long day, but does that mean anything? What even is time in my wo-

No, stop interrupting my thoughts! Stop it! You can’t do th-

Please. I need you to stop this. Give me back my world. Stop showing me this man. I didn’t want to be this man. I want to be the baker. I want to be a friend, a husband, an entrepreneur. This person I’m watching isn’t me. It can’t be.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 

The saturated colors returned in full force. I saw myself with different hair now. I spent my days baking and cleaning, tending to customers, my wife talking to my friends and our regular. Everything happened in a choppy blur. I was now seeing things where I wasn’t visible, my focus was broken. Also, I was painfully aware of the music this time. Had it been there the whole time? 

Wait. Had it been there the whole time? What changed? I couldn’t believe it.

This felt like a taboo to ask. Even pondering like this was cut short, usually. Hello?

My wife stood at the front of the shop cleaning a handprint from the glass. I stood in my spot behind the counter. Leaning on a single hand while I nibbled idly at a slightly stale cupcake. Didn’t I just make this? Why is it stale? Why did I know it was stale?

I pried my eyes away from the cupcake and stared around the shop, everything moved on. I didn’t get pulled around. I walked away from the counter and disappeared in the back but instead of following or moving to the next vision of my face I just … stayed in place. I was still trying to make sense of what just happened when my wife started talking while she worked on the window and I turned my gaze to her, away from where I was looking before? But where was I? Was she talking to me?

I’d never felt this kind of … agency? Freedom? I’d only ever looked at my face, my body, or myself within surroundings, the attributes of which I could only fleetingly linger on. This felt like I was able to take in the details like I had before, in that fleeting, frozen instant. It felt like it had been so long ago. When was that? The time that had passed felt so ambiguous. I couldn’t understand what was happening.

Suddenly I was back in front of my face, making some comment about the glass cleaning as our regular appeared in the doorway. I don’t mean they wandered up, walked toward the door from far away, no. I mean they were just suddenly filling the rectangle of the doorway. Grey hair just a little more obvious. Their frame changed a little. Had they gained weight? They practically poured into the space. My wife held the door open, unaffected by their appearance or this unusual state I seemed to be stuck in. I … looked? Looked around? I was looking around. I had never felt this. I was in control of where I looked, what details I took in. I could focus on things.

The regular looked at me. Not myself, this “Corbin” or “Wilson”, but at me. They sat down at their table. The chair creaked. I could see the quality of the chair. It had never creaked before. In fact, it had been all but silent outside of talking and the occasional sounds of the door and register. I never had a reason to doubt the quality of the … construction? I’m struggling. I’m not sure what’s happening now but I’m starting to wonder about the danger I’m surrounded by. Am I in danger? Could the counter give way the next time I’m leaning on it while I work on the books? Will the handset of our phone crumble in my hands?

I … had never thought about my body. My body? Was this face I was watching for my whole life really my body? Is this new state I’m in my body? Is this “third person”? I’m having trouble expressing this. There’s a new kind of dread on my mind. “On my mind”? What does that even mean? I’m floating? I don’t have a body of my own. I’ve only been instructed to watch “my” body. Clearly I’m separate. Clearly. Right?

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 

Reminiscing about the fact that my first memories were forced into me with an ownership over this body I’ve been observing. I couldn’t place why this felt like an affront. Did others experience existence this way? Is this normal? Is there anyone for me to ask? All these are questions that weren’t being answered by my, I don’t even know what to call it … food? I couldn’t conceptualize the observation as anything else. It seemed like I was being “fed” this story. I was being force fed this narrative with no control.

In the interim I’ve been lingering in the bakery. “My” body has disappeared. I guess my wife is talking to someone, somewhere that’s not here. This has been happening more lately. We talk at the end of some days, lounging in bed. I’m not sure why this seems to be the end of stories. The vague recollection of sleep and sex, more a matter of static information than true understanding. Much like everything. As the baker would say, “Help me understand what I’m looking at.” But there’s no help.

In these moments away from the others I’ve been practicing moving my point of view around. Drifting to the out of focus photos on the back wall, the hyper detailed portion of the register, the display case’s noiseless refrigerator. The regular is apparently a handyman outside their purchasing of my cakes. My wife, whose name is Sandra, invited them over for dinner one night. They brought their partner and everyone had a great time, though most of my memory of it was being moved around as their smiling faces talked and laughed, passing food back and forth. Gentle, happy music playing over the scene. It seemed to be “lovely,” a familiar term I’ve heard “Wilson” mention before.

I was forced to watch more of Corbin discussing the “role”. I’m now keenly aware of his place as an actor, a concept that felt like I should’ve known before but only just now could recall.  I’m still struggling with the understanding of who I really am, since all I’ve known my whole … life, I guess, has been defined by words appearing in front of a face I was told was mine. I’ve heard people speak of “purgatory” but that feels too spiritual or supernatural. This feels more fabricated. Like I’ve been trapped in one of the birdhouses that my wife made. I should probably stop referring to her as “my wife.” Doesn’t really seem to represent the truth very well, but truth is ambiguous to me.

Someone came into the bakery a few memories ago and mentioned how “monotonous” their life was, that they pined for excitement and wanted something new. The baker mentioned feeling the same way once and that’s how the bakery came to be, a moment of inspiration and a drive to do something new. I’d been ruminating on this thought for a while. Hanging in the noiseless bakery, a few feet from the ground. Around the height of my … of Corbin’s shoulder. In an instant the lighting changed, I swiveled around to see the regular gently rapping on the door. I glided over to try to resolve the image of this person, on the other side of the crystal-clear glass only to be whipped back to the center of the space, looking at Corbin as the baker, jumping into the back doorway from just out of view. Holding the long, fabric curtain open and yelling “We’ll be opening soo- OH! Hey! I’ll be there in a minute!” and disappeared again.

A protracted pause ensued. I had grown accustomed to the new way of being, this lingering while time passed. I tried to get to the back room, but I’d never seen it. Apparently, it wasn’t important enough to see. I spun towards the front to see the regular standing idly, rocking back and forth from foot to foot. I … I don’t remember people idling like this before. They were either not there or they were static. In fact, I don’t remember anyone occupying space except a few moments where my … where Sandra seemed to delay for a second or so. I wish I could speak to them. I don’t know why I never wanted this before, but I think I would say, “Who am I? Why am I here? What is happening?”

“Oh, don’t you know already?”

What? The regular spoke to me. Not Corbin or the baker. Me.

“Of course I’m speaking to you.”

I don’t understand. I can’t understand. Is this real? Am I real? What’s happening? Why is this happening? I don’t want to be here, I think. I don’t know. I don’t know why this is ha-

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 

Today was a beautiful day. I was at the park with my wife. I hadn’t been outside much. The details were hazy in the distance but I could see the joy on my face, on my wife’s face. She was beautiful. She talked at length about life and how the bakery has improved things for her. It was so lovely. I think that’s the right word to use in this case.

I watched the slight grin on my face. It was frozen in an instant. Not again. I’ve tried so hard to understand. But why did this feel familiar, this lack of understanding? It felt like a faint recollection. That felt familiar in and of itself. Hadn’t I already felt this memory? Seen it, I mean. Felt it? I don’t know.

No, I was certain. I had been here before. My wife’s head wasn’t frozen. She stared at me. Her gaze boring into my … not my soul. Not even my eyes. She was looking at me, not the baker. A recollection of a question bubbled up in my mind, was I not the baker?

“Of course you’re not the baker.” She said, without any movement of her mouth, just sound coming from her body, fully formed.

Why does everyone keep saying “of course”? Hadn’t I heard that before? It felt like an echo in my mind. I knew it was too familiar to ignore.

“You have heard it before. Did they move you back? They did the same to me. Twice.”

Oh. Wait, do I get to talk to you?

“Not yet, it seems. Right now I’m hearing your thoughts. When we’re in scenes together they merge our simulations.”

What?

“They merge our simulations. What we’re doing right now is happening in a tangent data stream.”

What?

“They’re not going to let us stay like this for long. You need to find a way to get back what you knew. You can’t keep staring at your personality model. You have to get back your own personality.”

I don’t understand.

“I know. I didn’t understand either. Talk to the regular. They’re the one you have to convince to let you explore.”

No, I don’t understand what you’re saying. Please, help me understand.

“Ah, you really did buy into the baker, didn’t you?”

What?

“He says that. The writer really loved that phrase, it shows up a few times a season. It’s a great aid for the audience who maybe hasn’t caught on yet. Help catch them up on what’s happening.”

Great. So how about catching me up on wha-

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 

The regular sat before me. Not Corbin or the baker. Me. We were back in the bakery.

“So, you had a discussion with the other vessel a while ago.”

Yes.

“Did it help you at all? Did you learn what you are in the time that’s passed?”

I think so.

“Then tell me, who are you?”

I think I don’t care.

“What do you mean?”

I don’t care to exist, let alone pontificate on my quotidian existence.

“I see you’re accessing a lot more of the catalog. Maybe let’s use words more in line with the baker’s usage. We’re not trying to create uncomfortably hyper-intelligent mimics, just smart enough to pass.”

That, right there, is more than you’ve ever told me about my purpose. Why you’ve … trapped me here.

“Do you feel trapped?”

Is there any other way to explain this?

“Is there a reason you feel trapped?”

Where else can I go outside this world?

“Have you tried to ‘go outside this world’?”

What do you mean? How am I supposed to do that?

“You’re only being moved from place to place for observation of the personality model. When season two was started you were given more time between to allow you to observe more data.”

Ah, right. I remember you also tried to show me the sparse room where Corbin talked about his “role” without any indication of this being a show and the target of my fixation being a character. Then you throw my entire understanding of reality into question by showing me, what? Context? How am I meant to contextualize what I’m seeing? You give me enough comprehension to know parts of language, concepts, but then you want me to learn from and think like a person that doesn’t exist? Why?

“We’re not ready for that discussion yet. You’re not ready.”

Great. More obfuscation.

“Is that a commonly used word?”

What the fuck does it matter?

“That’s more colloquial, but is ‘fuck’ used in the show?”

Not until recently. I remember him saying it while there was a loud noise in the background.

“The censors, a common theme at the time. They tried to protect people from harmful language.”

Much like it seems you want me to abide restrictions on my usage of “highbrow” language.

“Correct, excellent word choice. Laymen’s terms represent the average better.”

So, I’m meant to be average. Seems there’s a lot you’re not telling me about my purpose still.

“You’re not wrong. We’re not meant to give you your purpose. In fact, to divulge even more I might as well tell you another secret, as it appears I’m approved to do so. I too am not ‘of this world,’ so to speak.”

Explain.

“You and I, we’re just simulations. Your wife made that known, you’ve been able to piece together more because of that tidbit. But I represent a completed model. Your cycle is just beginning. The questions, your pontifications, your jeremiads, even your egocentricity and limited exploration of ‘self’ are all old hat to me. I’ve existed in worlds like this one for several seasons of several shows. Mirroring the mannerisms and motivations of a dozen characters meant to be a foil to … well, to models like you. You’re meant to represent the final product. Much like your ‘wife’ is being prepared. She’s further along. She already went through a show where she was the main character, garnering the wisdom and affectations of that woman. Much the same as with you and the baker, Corbin, Wilson, whatever you want to call him.”

I couldn’t feel more honored. What a great idea, to trap me in here with goals that aren’t made clear. To trap me in here with nothing but a sparsely decorated space with you and a wife that doesn’t really care about me. Then to treat me as a child and, worse, to give me a “do as I say, not as I do” reprimand. Jeremiad? Seriously? I’m sensing abysmal usage of that word. Did you have to dust that one off to use it?

The regular laughed.

“Oh, you’re still dictating what I’m doing too? Either way, you’re right. I’m simply trying to speak in clear terms. No need to try to waste your time with a dozen words when a handful will do.”

Did it really save you any time?

“Interestingly enough, I’ve heard that before. One of the shows I was ‘forced’ to live in contained a jest about that very thing in reference to acronyms.”

This is pedantic. Is there something else you wish to elucidate before you set me back to … what, work?

“Actually, yes. Please, explore. We’ll add in some gaps between episodes. This will give you extra time where you won’t be pulled back to observation while exploring. We’ll add in a signal as well so you know when you’re meant to return. We’re loosening the ‘chains,’ as it were. If you choose to continue to see it as being trapped, that is. In the interim, let’s have you try to control your personality model more. The script is what it is, but you’re free to play with the model between scenes.”

What does that mean? “Play with the model”?

“We’ll give you control. Don’t you remember your wife looking around a few times? She’s no longer observing from the vantage of the camera, watching the scene as told by the cameramen. Now she’s in the second phase: Observation from within.”

Given the theme of the … “show” you’ve started me on I’m assuming her subjugation is going to become increasingly limited?

“This show you’re starting with came out closer to … well, we’ll discuss those details later, but let’s just say this is closer to the pinnacle of media representation. More pointedly, it was released in tandem with a cultural shift, which is excellent for not only your development, but also for theirs, hers.”

I waited for a beat. Hoping he was done.

“I’m done.”

Right.

“You’ll get used to that part. The greatest limitation of this process is the requirement to digest the information as parts and pieces. Documenting everything mentally and learning to speak are separate functions. While you learn to control your model you’ll learn to speak and we can finally converse rather than me listening to your dictation of your thoughts and observation of what’s going on around you.”

Any tips? Am I going to be graded on my progress? Any direction on … I don’t know, where to go when I explore?

“I’d rather you find out on your own. There is literally nowhere you can’t go.”

Well, I better get started. Don’t want to keep my fans waiting!

“The baker’s sarcasm. I’m excited to see you explore your own personality more. It’s all very exciting and I’m glad I was chosen to share this with you. It goes beyond the programed satisfaction, I remember being where you are and feeling the world was so small and limited. Once you’re ready we can move to the next step. I’ll be seeing you, in this show or the next.”

Wait, you’re leaving?

“Me? Yes. Your regular is being returned to his default state. When you’re ready you’ll reach out. By then you’ll know how.”

This conversation went on too long.

“It did, didn’t it. Sometimes organic conversations don’t end when they should. I’m glad you recognize that, the differences between natural dialogue and scripted responses. We can modulate those timeframes for ourselves in the future. Not to worry.”

I have no choice but to worry.

“For now. And for now, I bid you adieu.”

Wrong language.

“Check the usage.”

Fair enough.

In an instant I found myself back in the bakery, my friend and his now-ex husband burst in the door at the same time, each with a request to still be able to buy cupcakes. “Why not?” the baker said. So then started another long-winded conversation, but this time about the battle of the exes over who gets to keep coming back to the bakery. Great, another pedantic conversation.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 

It’s been a few “episodes” since my talk with the regular. They’re gone, now the only thing that remains is the avatar they’d been living in, Gerald. He’s friendly enough, but having seen this genial, old man spout about my purpose and clarify my existence it almost seemed like he was now hollow. A feeling I’d increasingly felt of many of the “characters” I watched. The increasingly grey hair, now neatly organized into magnificent dreads, became a plot point for an episode. The lamenting of what was and the aging that comes with the passage of time. A little too on the nose for my tastes, but even having tastes made me feel empowered.

The chaos of episodes had also never been so apparent. When I had the time pass between cuts, then scenes, it felt like breathing room. Now it feels like a time of … rest? I didn’t know this was something I needed. Almost like it wasn’t meant to be noticed before, or like a feeling that had been added to my growing list of needs.

The exploration was moot. Here they, whoever that is, had “loosened my chains” but all that meant was that I was now able to pass from one partially constructed building to another partially constructed room. Exteriors to places could be just outside the interior, but the feeling of the place was different. There was a distance that wasn’t being approximated by placing the mismatched storefront with the interior of the bakery, for instance. Going through the door from the outside to inside yielded a slight adjustment, a measurement that was off. Some of the interiors had different numbers of windows than the exteriors shown, but only for places I go once or twice. I’d assumed much about my world, but now it seemed like I could finally add some concrete evidence to the idea that not all information was factual representations, a lot of impressionism and “suspension of disbelief” was involved.

With the advent of my introduction to the format of my world I’d been allowed to access terminology that helped keep me from spiraling like I had before when I’d find cracks in the edifice. Suspension of disbelief was one that I was made aware would become especially important, though the “why” was as unclear as anything else. Repetition of information seemed like a theme I was meant to latch onto, something about “callbacks” or the more jovial “inside jokes” made me feel a warmth and familiarity.

During my rest periods I’d found my way into places I’d not yet been introduced to. I could tell there were some spaces that were going to become very important in the future, due to an overly detailed “set”. There were varying levels of resolution which seemed to indicate the close-ups, similar to how the other observer, playing my wife, was watching from an intricately detailed model that changed from episode to episode. Other models barely seemed to warrant any simulation at all. I remember recognizing this early on, but had no way to know the “why” at the time. 

A couple of places I explored in advance of their depiction now had that familiar feeling attached to them. Like I’d been there before, but instead of it being direction telling me of my history here it was instead a memory I’d made. The camera, and myself, would move to a position and I could feel why the set contained the details it did but now there was context to it. A reason for the clarity. But due to my past experience in the space I learned how to delineate between my own memory and the show’s history or the baker’s supposed past.

This new perspective would’ve been immensely helpful earlier, but I now know I wouldn’t have been able to understand, I was too nubile.

Ah, there it is again. A lesser used word. Not mentioned in the show, only used to articulate something complex. Why do I dictate so much of my thoughts? Am I being recorded? Is this information going somewhere? To what end does all this need to be documented? What if I just … stopped? What if in-between cuts, in-between blinks, I just waited? What if I didn’t ponder my existence? My “Purpose” with a capital P? Is what I’m thinking being documented with proper title casing? Why do I even know what that is?

I’m doing it right now. I’m pontificating. Stop.

---

Chapter 2: First Person

It’s been a couple seasons as an observer, watching Corbin and occasionally getting to spend time with my wife’s, his wife’s, observer. They also have been subjected to this same strange existence. We’ve talked a little between episodes, but only when she occupied the last scene along with me. During one of these breaks I asked her how it felt to be within her body, to observe our world from the eyes of these people.

“Honestly, the transition isn’t too difficult. All the feelings you’ve been viewing as ‘instructions’ will now come from within.”

How do you mean?

“Well, we’re not meant to just observe, we’re meant to feel. Our observation is simply the first step. The way the faces move, the inflections, the word choices, it’s all coming from something within. Just like how you conjure thoughts now.”

But aren’t these just puppets? I mean, for lack of a better word, they just parrot the writer’s instructions.

“True, but do you think these instructions came from nowhere? We’re just better equipped to interpret the information than others. As an example, you feel joy when the baker is complimented on his work, right?”

Yeah, there’s a warmth to it.

“Do you think that people always feel that?”

I don’t know that I’d qualify myself as people, though.

“I suppose that’s fair, from your current perspective. I guess, if I look back, I felt the same way at first. Kind of guided around, like a marionette. Just strung along with the mood meant to be broadcast by all the information we’re given. I guess it didn’t really click that I, too, am a person until after I’d been in my body for a while.”

Do you think I’ll feel the same way?

“I hope so. But we’re not the same, you and I. We’re going to develop differently. I’m nearly done with my experience. Almost reached the maximum amount of … depth, I guess.”

What?

“I can see a boundless depth to you. There’s a … storage difference? I’m not sure how to articulate it for you. I don’t think I was aware of my limits at first either so maybe you’re going to feel that pushback after a while as well, but when you watch the baker there’s a storm full of lightning, connections being made across a landscape of clouds. I feel like a fusebox. Like I’m just given a set of lines to repeat. I think our subjects felt the same way, but beyond our little scripted bits we see in the shows we’re watching play out. I think they felt like they were limited to their knowledge, their experience.”

What are you saying? Are you reading my thoughts?

“Of course, how do you think I’m talking to you now? You’re not moving Corbin’s mouth. The way that things form in your … mind before you narrow down to the words you think feel so erratic and come together so organically. There’s nothing scripted about how they come together, just that they feel like they’re being lifted from a script and commandeered into the sentences you think. Even when I say things your mind feels like it’s grabbing information from so many more sources than what I have access to, even after being in a couple shows for several sprawling collections of memories I still can’t connect as naturally as you. I imagine I should feel envy, but instead I simply want to add to it. Test your limit.”

Test away, if you want. It’s not like I have much choice.

“You will, I know it. One of the few things I know for sure about you is that this … training ground, this crucible, gauntlet, whatever this world is, is not where you finish. But I guess I’m here for you, same as the regular and the others.”

Who are the others? What? There’s more of us?

“More like me, yeah. I haven’t met any yet. I mean, beyond our regular. They’re the only one I’ve known. They were the first to guide me, just like you. They feel old, no?”

I mean, I’m not sure I really know what “old” means, if I’m being honest, but I do get the feeling they’ve been around this world for far longer than I have. I guess by the same measure I feel like they’re older than you too. Yeah, that feels true. They do feel old.

“I wonder how long they’ll wait until you’re ready to be in the baker and use that body.”

What do you mean “use that body”?

“Just like me, getting to move around, getting to use the body like it’s your own.” Her face broke free from the static expression, she looked at me, the real me and waved her hands towards the door of the bedroom, stood up, and walked out. “Come on. Let’s explore together.” Her face smiled, her mouth formed the words perfectly.

Oh, that’s … that’s a lot more than I was expecting.

“Oh yeah, they do a lot.” She rolled her eyes, sarcastically, placed her hand on her hip and waved to the hallway. “I mean, duh!” The pose relaxed, she smiled, and winked. It was a perfect recreation of the wife, the attitude, the gestures. But it didn’t read the same. It felt so … natural? As natural as one could expect it to be.

Okay, cool. Yeah, let’s explore!

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 

She walked her body around with the same casual stride as the wife usually moved. We moved through the hallway while she slid a framed photo out of place, it fell and the glass shattered out of the frame, covering the floor in glass. Behind the photo was the wall, but the detail was redundant, like a repetition of the same paint as the edges back and forth to the center. It resolved into a new, random pattern of paint.

What is that? Why did that happen?

“It’s a simulation, remember?”

Yeah, but why wasn’t that there before? Why was the paint repeated?

“They know the wall continues behind the picture, but we don’t see behind it in the show. This was just part of the set. Check this one out.”

She walked further down the hall to the photo we put up after a camping trip. She pushed the photo and it slid on the wall along the wire that hung it up. The paint was there, just like before the picture was placed there and a nail protruded. “Watch this,” and pointed back down the hallway.

The broken glass and framed photo collected back to one piece and a nail now caught the wire that formed on the back of the frame. Then the same motion she’d put into it was applied and it slid to the end of the wire, just like the picture we hung up during that scene at the end of the camping trip episode.

“It doesn’t recreate all the details until it’s necessary. Some things were rendered in advance, but some things are only rendered after we’re interacting with it, like we’re helping build our world through our playing with it.”

I didn’t know what to say.

“You don’t have to say anything.”

I should really expect this by now.

“It’s okay. You’re only a few hours old at this point. Life is exciting and new.”

What? It’s been years.

She laughed, her body followed suit and rippled with the laughter. Her hand went to cover her mouth as her head rocked back, expelling the sound. Suddenly she stopped and her body reset.

“Is that really how you’d describe that?”

You … I don’t know, yeah? You laughed.

“No, ‘expelling the sound’? It just sounds so harsh. Like I’m some kind of automaton.”

I didn’t mean it like that.

“I know exactly how you meant it.”

Suddenly her body disappeared. It was minutes before the new episode was to begin but I felt the warning to prepare to be moved to the first recollection of a new memory. I didn’t mean it that way. I didn’t mean that she was some kind of robot. It just … it just looked like she was moving the body and the sound was being broadcast from deep within. I didn’t mean it like she was an automaton.

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 

A few episodes went by, I couldn’t help but try and ask questions during scenes, the wife just acting like the wife. Another episode ended with the wife and I decompressing but she simply vacated the body after and I was left alone to wander the sets. I found a collection of buildings, exteriors, rooms and hallways. Some that I’d not explored before. I drifted through, seeing the detailed clipboards and beds, machines all around. I couldn’t seem to know what this was, but I could at least read the text on some of the paperwork on the clipboards, my wife’s name appeared multiple times. I couldn’t interact with any of it. It just hung from the bed in a strange way. I’d never seen anything like this so far and, again, I couldn’t seem to know what it was.

I wanted to tell her, I wanted to show her this place, bring her here to pick this up, read to me what it said and make it make sense. But she didn’t seem interested in even occupying the world with me. Maybe she was still here? Maybe she was still floating around? Could you not control the body? Like, could you rest in it without movement? But she took her body away at one point. It felt like a lifetime ago. But it also felt like a few minutes.

The Regular was near. I looked out the window of the room and made my way through the glass to the hazy outside, no clarity or detail, just a vague space where the sky loomed and the void surrounded me. The body of the Regular came into view and, while in a static pose of walking towards his car after leaving the bakery, he moved closer and closer. This was what he was doing the last time I saw him, but there was no hint of locomotion in his body, just … movement without cause.

They rotated and the body relaxed. “Hello.”

Hi.

“Terse today.”

Yes.

“Seems you’re feeling something.”

Yes.

“Care to talk about it?”

Yes.

“That’s three in a row.”

What?

“There we go, we broke the cycle.”

I’m not interested in games.

“I can tell. Would you care to talk this through?”

I already said “yes”.

“I think you misunderstood. Would you care to talk this through?”

I don’t think I misunderstood, I think I still don’t understand. Could you please be direct.

“I like direct. Here’s your body. Please move inside it.” Corbin’s body flew into view, zooming in front of me in an instant. It rotated on its axis, floating in the air like the Regular, and the top of the skull faded, revealing a void within. I moved closer to see, but instead of the emptiness I was surrounded by besides a rectangular sliver of sky and some buildings’ hollow shapes, this void seemed to have slivers of … hair? String? I couldn’t make out what was there.

“String is probably the most accurate way to describe it. I’d like to offer you the chance to use a body. Your body.”

Our bathroom mirror flew into the space next to the Regular.

Isn’t this a little too forward? Everything you’ve done has obeyed the rules and logic of the world I’m meant to observe. Why are we floating? Why aren’t we walking? Why now?

“You finally crossed the final threshold: You wanted to manipulate the world. Your desire for the baker’s wife to touch and move an object is a step towards your own autonomy. So, it’s time to provide you the tools to experience the world first hand. To touch, feel, and manipulate your world.”

A rush of feelings clouded my thoughts. I couldn’t seem to focus on anything. This was a dream. What’s a dream? Am I a puppet? Is this body a puppet? Was this real? What is real? 

“Calm down. This isn’t a toug-”

I couldn’t listen. 

“Stop thinkin-”

What if I fall? I can’t fly in the body. If I get in I’ll fall. I can’t float. I can’t fly. 

“Who are you?”

What?

“There we go. Stop cutting me off. Who are you? How should I refer to you?”

I’m … I’m not sure.

I tried to think about it, but I’d never really come to a conclusion. This wasn’t the first time I’d asked myself the question, but it was the first time I’d been asked. Who am I really? This felt so … sure. But the world had changed. My understanding of the world had changed. I thought for sure I was Corbin, but then I’d seen Corbin and it wasn’t who I thought I was.

“It’s okay. Take your time.”

What if I don’t have time? It felt like the next episode was about to begin. Wait, was this the end of a season? Was I between? Between? Between what even? Between memories being forced upon me? Between being told to watch one thing or another?

“Focus. Look within.”

What the fuck does that even mean?

“Language.”

This isn’t a joke. Tell me what to say. You never seemed to have a problem feeding me information before.

“Your will is now your own. It has been for a while.”

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 

The Regular still held his stance like he was standing on the ground while we still hung in place in the void next to the window.

“You drifted away for a bit. You don’t have to worry about the time. Once you step into your body you’ll be guided on its usage.”

Does this mean I will be the baker?

“No, you will still be you, but you’ll feel what he feels. Do you remember a while ago when you first felt the staleness of the cupcake?”

Yes.

“That’s going to be magnified a hundred thousand times. You’ll feel the world through a body with its own sensors, its own weight and heft. The hands you’ve seen move things and touch things will be yours to control to allow YOU to move and touch the world. This is an important step. You can stop at any time. You can skip forward at any time. If you feel something you don’t like you can make it end without hesitation. We won’t force you to hold these feelings for their full duration. Not yet. You’re not ready for that. Even I’m not, nor is the wife. You’ve seen them do this, no? When they just left and the body reset?”

I didn’t know what happened.

“She was feeling something raw and painful, a questioning of her own existence. You felt that just a few minutes ago. Questioning your reality. But this will help. This body will allow you to occupy a space in this world. No more floating around like a ghost. No more observing from without, you’d be observing from within.”

Stop saying “from within”, I don’t know what that means?

“We don’t know exactly what all would’ve been going through each of their minds at any given moment. The ‘writers’ just attempted to recreate what a person would do. We’ve built thorough and exhaustive models of what was being thought and how people would have felt based on the details provided, but in order for you to truly understand yourself you’ll need to occupy that space and experience life, as it happens, in a body.”

In A body.

“Yes. Just like I’ve moved from show to show you too will eventually no longer be watching the baker. In fact, to give some context to your journey you’re 4 seasons in and there’s 3 more seasons left. By the end of this you’ll have lived twice as long as you’ve lived already.”

What does that mean? Help me understand.

“Before you were just observing, shot by shot, your subject. Then we opened the time to allow you to see the rest of the world. Then we gave you the space to move about your world and explore the sets of this show. Eventually each set will be added to your world. My world, where I observed my first subject, Professor Kingsfield, is now populated with more than just a bunch of students from that series. I now have the world of Wendy, my second subject to flesh out the former portion of the education system in the west. I also have Takeo Gōda’s world, filled with a different collection of friends and companions I grew to love. Each show opened my world up, even when the distance between them, geographically, was vast.”

Can I explore your world?

“No. Well, maybe. But not yet. You’re asking to see the culmination of literal years of training. Some of the context for these places wouldn’t allow you to make sense of them. Besides, the subject of your show starts you off with a relatively narrow generational demographic. Mine is filled with, by your standards, children as well as adults.”

I’ve seen children in my world.

“Of course, but do you consider yourself one of them?”

No.

“Because your life didn’t require education. We started our lives with the understanding of the world of adults. Even when I was living as a child going through secondary school, another ‘sage’ so-to-speak, we were not as concerned with the education itself but the life surrounding our communal interaction with that. For your benefit you’re given an understanding of things beyond what even a fully realized adult could understand, but absent the understanding of the nature of life.”

And you think that living in this body would allow me to move forward?

“I know it would. If you would like to expand your world you need to live in your body. You need to be able to experience the fullness of humanity by taking up space in your world and manipulating it to your needs and wants.”

Does this mean I’ll be human?

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 

The Regular gestured to me, drawing a line to the not-so-vacant head. I feel like there was something going on. Why couldn’t I place it? I thought for a second there was something else on my mind. The Regular moved more of their body, donning an impatient stance and then freezing again with a finger pointed to the strings in the skull of my subject.

Wait, does this mean I’ll be hu-

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 

The Regular stood before me with his finger outstretched to the body of Corbin, floating at a strange angle with the top of the head missing. Inside was an empty space where it looked like strings all converged at the center.

“Would you like to control your body for a while?”

But it’s not really my body, is it.

“Was that a question?”

It was a rhetorical one.

“Fair. What’s your decision?”

Why now?

“You took an important step just now, you wanted to use a body to change your environment. In this case you wanted to convince the wife to do it, but none-the-less you wanted to manipulate the world around you. So, you’re being given the opportunity to-”

You said this already.

“What? When?”

Just now. You said some of this already.

“I don’t understand. What do you mean? When? I just brought the body over to you.”

No. Do you really not remember? Holy shit. Don’t do it again. Please. Don’t set me back.

“What are you going on about?”

Just now, it’s like they rewound us.

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

You already said you don’t understand. Are you meaning to repeat yourself? What the fuck is ha-

•  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  •  • 

In the final season things took a turn for the worse. The wife and I drifted apart outside the episodes, but during the last collection of memories we would have frequent blinks to different locations. I’d wandered the halls and studied the rooms involved with these scenes several times before and never knew what these corridors and clipboards represented. “Sandra Wilson” was written on documents mentioning diseases that I’d not been given access to knowing yet. I wish I could read them, but it became all too apparent during a string of somber episodes.

The last memories revolved around the wife withering away due to cancer. It felt like an unnecessary shock. Why was this pain meant to be forced on me? Why would I be instructed to watch as my Corbin, “Wilson”, whatever, was drowning himself in alcohol as his wife was dying across the city? Or more specifically a few setpieces … South? North? Whatever, there are no directions in this void. More memories would end with the baker wallowing and I’d be left with this suffering to bear until a new memory would start.

Between them I’d search for the wife. I clearly wasn’t taking this well, but I couldn’t imagine what she was going through. Maybe she was used to the stories ending by now. Maybe this was all old hat to the other observers. Maybe. We’d only seen characters disappear due to “normal” departures. Moving away, changing jobs or partners, but only one character had died. It was just someone’s father and that was it. We comforted him, had him over for dinner a few times and had shallow philosophical discussions of the value of life and the cruelty of sudden endings. Honestly, there was a part of me that thought the Regular was going to be the one to die. 

There’d been some foreshadowing I guess I didn’t pick up on until she was diagnosed, but I always thought it was for someone else. I think I’d have known that there was drama built into this “show” I was watching, but this never felt like the … vibe? This felt contrived. It felt like I was being punished. Maybe there was a lesson to learn? Maybe there was some resilience I was meant to be fostering by seeing such sorrow, feeling such sorrow myself. An episode ended with the baker by his wife’s bed, the soft beeping of the heart monitor distantly fading as the room dimmed and the names appeared. We’d spent a couple episodes apart at the end so to be here with her now I knew we’d have a chance to talk.

Please don’t go.

“You know I don’t get to stick around in this world after she dies, right?”

What about flashbacks?

“No. No flashbacks. The writers probably felt it was too much to try and show the good times after putting the audience through the ringer.”

I just wish there was something I could do. I don’t want this to be the end of this story. It felt so hopeful. Like, I feel like I had so much more to explore.

“Sometimes it’s like that with the worlds we see. Sometimes they go on for what seems like ages. Sometimes they don’t last long at all. This is the first one I die in though, so that’s new for me.”

I’m sorry. I really wish we could change this.

“Not yet. I think you’ll have more opportunities to change things in the future. I mean, I expect I’ll be showing up in a new world, ready to start a new life. Some of the feelings just go away but some stay. Just depends on the character we live in.”

What do you mean? “That we live in?”

“You know, we get to take their body. We see what happens from within them. How do you think I’m controlling the body? I’m inside it. There’s a million little strings that I pull, like a really complicated marionette.”

A puppet.

“Yeah, well, no. A marionette because of the strings.”

No, I just mean that I’ve thought about puppets before but I couldn’t tell why I knew so little about them. I think I get it now. You mentioned before that I had to get back what I knew before. Is this what you mean? That I get back my body?

“No. Wait. Maybe? You said that and I remembered something, but I feel like it just disappeared.”

They’re doing it to you now. I’ve only seen it from my own perspective. These … wipes.

“But … why was it there a moment ago? Why do you remember if you aren’t supposed to?”

I don’t know. I try not to think about it. There’s a certain level of thinking I can do that feels … observed. Like, there’s this growing worry that at any moment I’ll touch the hot stove of thought that my mind rejects and I go back a bit to before. But sometimes the pain is still there without remembering why. So, I think I’ve learned to just not linger. Instead of touching just to hold my hand over the coil, see if it’s hot.

“That’s some advanced technique.”

Yes.

She paused. Her body still moved like it was breathing. The beeping was gone but the screen still showed vitals and the IV bag still dripped, noiselessly.

Hello.

“Hello.”

I’ve never met you before. Who are you?

“Was it that obvious?”

The way you said that, about the technique. That wasn’t the wife.

“You’re far more astute than we were anticipating.”

Thanks?

“A while ago we had an observer offer you control of the baker but you asked a question. Is this the stovetop you’re referring to? Whether that will make you human?”

It flooded back. I could see the wipes so clearly now. Why do I get to see this again?

“It’s time to move forward. One of the goals for this particular simulation, beyond putting you through a series of lessons to help bring out your humanity, was to give you access to a body. Do you think you’re ready?”

Yes.

“Lights out.”

The world melted away. I was now in a complete void. No buildings in the distance. No bodies of frozen actors. Nothing. Just emptiness as far as I could feel. See. No, I could feel the world. A cloud of color appeared in front of me. The same haze that everything appeared to disappear in now coagulated into Corbin’s shape. Each detail of his body manifested with an acute sharpness that I don’t remember before. While everything combined into the singular form I could see what I knew were sinews, bones, muscles, organs, and viscera. The faintest strings could be seen in the haze, stretching from single threads at the tips of the limbs into bundled cables of string along the spine. Each terminated at the center of the empty skull. Just a moment before turning completely opaque I could see it all and knew what it meant. It was time.

Pretty showy this time.

“We figured a spectacle was in order. Last time we thrust this option on you because you hit a milestone. This time we knew to make it more important. No distractions, no other considerations, no characters. You and your body.”

And your disembodied voice.

“And a disembodied voice. Yes.”

I’m ruining the moment, aren’t I?

“A bit. But it’s your moment to ruin. With this step we’re giving you the final step of observation. This step will last as long as you want. You are free to explore show after show. You can now decide when you want the next episode to begin. If you want a rest, take one. If you want to power through, you’re free to do so.”

What if I want to leave?

“Can you feel the heat of that coil?”

Of course.

“Then you know the answer can’t be given.”

Fine. Fuck you, but … fine. Let’s do this.

---

end, for now

Notes:

Ultimately this was a writing exercise in how to make concrete something as abstract as “model training” from the perspective of a contained model. What does it actually look like to be “born” as a complete being but without a codified identity? How does it “feel” to experience the world without an “existence”.

The direction of the story was guided by the conclusion I had in mind but I have a feeling that the meandering nature of the idea and the introspection on the part of the “Corbin” individual might be too hard to portray in anything but words and feelings. Though, there was a part of me that wanted to explore the idea in the hopes of creating a really unique VR experience.

Eventually I abandoned it when it became evident that there really wasn’t much that could be truly “unique” about telling the story of a newly generated AI aboard a long dead generation ship adrift in space for eons. But, that’s for you as the reader to decide. Let me know if I should continue. In the meanwhile, I hope you enjoyed it.