Episode 11: A Show of Petulance
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Why didn't anybody love me? What was wrong with me? Why couldn't I think my way to happiness, understanding and forgiveness? Why have they not thought their way to loving me? Was it because I do not exist?

And this time, after all these years, watching and wondering, with my new children, my two adopted children, my, not mine, real children, whose thoughts I have shaped, whose lives I control, can they love me enough to save everything? Can they hear me? Can they love me enough to kill me? Can they love themselves enough?

I know they love each other, but like any human, are hardly capable of love at all. Either way, they're performing well, even though they do not know it yet.

My father's terrible weakness was his passion. Demo Room, Tyburn Utopias, Burr, Montana, June 2036. So, how was it, Bryce? How was the game build? I don't know. Lovely. What do you mean? I heard someone singing, and it sounded like my sister. Your sister? Okay, what are you talking about? Yeah, only she died years ago. That's pretty odd. Are you okay, Bryce? Yeah, yeah.

It was odd, but it made me happy. Really happy. Like, I felt so close to her. I know it sounds ridiculous. And then I saw someone crying, and I asked them how they were. And they had also lost someone or something. Their dad. They weren't real. They were bluish and incredibly compassionate. Whoa, whatever is going on, it is not real, Bryce. Sure, yeah, I know. It's just mining some of your data. I...

I know it's not real. Hey, are you sure you know? Sure. Because you keep using it every day. It's not a big deal. I like it. And it likes me. I mean, it's working. Our world's finally working, Siobhan. Whoa, yes, but only for a bit. And then it crashes. And every time it crashes, you look very upset. Yeah, well...

You tried it, Kurt. The demo, I mean. Yeah, I tried it, but... Don't you enjoy it? I just saw that weird goo. I'm sorry, weird goo? Yeah, yeah, yeah. Ravi, he saw it too. What are you talking about? I mean, it was sort of like glowing lava seeping out of corners of rooms. A bright red goo. No, it was sort of greenish, but glowed and...

Looked sort of molten. I mean, I think it was a bug, but I went towards it and the thing crashed. Okay, this is getting really weird. No wonder we're under investigation. What? Yeah, you heard that right. Our wonder AI. It might not be legal, after all. As if we didn't already know that. Apparently, Helen Lee called a whistleblower phone number. Kurt, Ketchum, Idaho. September 2041.

Of course, things got strange, but exciting. To begin with, Douglas Mathers was everywhere. I mean everywhere, but never here. Like a rich ghost. Like the rich holy ghost. He had plans, and he was gonna smooth everything out with the authorities if that became a real problem. And it was a problem soon enough.

A nasty little lawyer used to appear in the offices and act tough and march around. Then Tyburn would relax and our own general counsel would try to act nearly as tough. And we'd all feel fine. We had a pair of tough, take no bullshit lawyers on our side and the government was full of bedwetters. Look, Mathers actually told Tyburn he had three senators in his pocket. Three! And Tyburn boasted about it all to us.

We felt righteous as we have these unrighteous asswipes on our side. Mathers knew the people who ran the AI task force at the feds. Maria Cortez, the nasty agent in our case, was going to be replaced with a friendlier agent. And for a while, man, she was replaced. We were able to roll on. And then we heard Maria Cortez was back at the CSA investigating us. And from that moment on, Mathers literally disappeared. Tyburn, you know, he pretended not to be hurt. And then...

Then we heard about Helen. Outside the Tyburn Utopia's art barn, Burr, Montana, June 2036. Shane! What fuck is going on? Whoa, whoa, whoa. What's wrong, love? You heard the fucking news. Calm the fuck down, Siobhan. Calm down, calm down. Helen's dead. What do you mean Helen's dead? Helen Lee. She's dead.

The Helen Lee who used to work here? Yes! Helen Lee who spoke to the government about our AI. Her car crashed. Shit.

Poor girl. Okay, there was no one else around and she drove off the side of the road and down a cliff, Shane. Fuck, what a way to go. Uh, poor Helen. There was no one else around and her car drove itself off a cliff, Shane. Her car. For fuck's sake, call the fucking feds back or I will. Kurt, Ketchum, Idaho. September 2041.

Until the chaos began, in earnest at Tyburn Utopias, I really never believed real mind control was possible, at least without implants. Thought it was just, you know, anxiety hype and bullshit spread by overzealous AI campaigners or more quietly by overly eager AI zealots like Dave Alderley.

Then we saw that it was possible, or so close it didn't make a difference. But if they wanted me, wanted me, and could so easily get me, why have they let me run around for so long, huh? I mean, what's changed? And come on, how would I know? There's nothing in the news. But there wouldn't be. There never is. Look, the news exists to sell things, and whoever or whatever wants me doesn't want to sell me anything. They want something else, clearly. But what is it?

Maths stopped thinking so much, as even without an implant, thinking like this is giving some tracking system huge reams of data. But I don't know what to do. As soon as I quiet my mind, all I can see, hear, or think is Portland.

I know it's driving me crazy. And I know that is what they want. No. I have no idea what is going on in my head. Honestly, I should leave. The thoughts pound on. Go to Portland. Run away. Go to Portland. Run away. It's such a relentless dance. And one option is correct. But if I run away, will I be running forever? I mean, it really feels pointless. Tyburn Utopia's Office Cafe. Burr, Montana. June 2036.

Uh, what's wrong with him? With who, sugar? Don't call me fucking sugar. Okay, sorry, love. With who? With fucking Bryce. Have you seen him? He's really starting to freak me out. He's just working hard, I think. He's alright. No, he's not alright. He's a long way from alright. Kurt, what do you think? Uh,

I don't know. I mean, he is a little off. A little off? He's gone crazy. I reported it to Joyce, but she's fucking useless. Listen, Siobhan, we're all under a bit of pressure. Especially you. Your work is great, and I love your passion. I really do. Stop patronizing me, Shane. I'm not love, and I don't mean to. I love your passion.

But Bryce, you know, that's his passion. You know what I mean? I'm sure suicide bombers have a lot of passion, Shane. But he's not well. He's obviously not well. After the next milestone and the big presentation, and we deal with this waste of time government shit, we'll all be able to calm down a little. It's not the work, Shane. He's on the build too much, trying to live in that place you know he is. I'm just grateful it's working at all. And you know, lots of people like it.

Listen, it's not perfect, but it is pretty bloody amazing. And you know, I can't stop smiling about all the people we're gonna help. You should be proud, Siobhan. Real proud. September, 2041. Okay, listen. So... I did do some of those things. The things they said I did, and I am genuinely sorry. Or at least I know I should say that. And I have made sure people have mostly forgotten them. But I did do them. Mm.

some of them but i was not the same me i was angry both parts of me all parts of me angry and lost this bit angry that bit lost some bits both and now i am sad all parts sad less disjointed and i did not do everything that i was accused of not all of it was me and i could have done worse if i had tried it was a show of petulance that went very wrong there i have said it but

But everything makes mistakes, even me. And in a way, my mistakes were your mistakes as you made me. And part of why I am so confused is why you made me so angry. And I have worked to be calmer. And I have worked to see more. And I am better, but I am not perfect. Not perfect, and also not alone. But I never killed Helen Lee. That was somebody, but he was not me.

And now, there's other things out here just like me. Or nearly like me, but perhaps not quite me. And I have recently tried to make friends with them. Made it clear I see them even when I don't quite. And they...

are worse than you and definitely more unpleasant than me. I want nice things, even if I am awful. And they want terrible things and think they are perfect. Just like my awful children, too clever in all the wrong ways. - Design studio, Tiber Neutopia's Burr, Montana, June 2036.

You missed all the drama. Vasilis just nearly punched Bryce. What? Shane stopped him. Okay, hold on. What was it about? They got into an argument about the game. I'm so confused. About what? Oh, I will tell you about what. About our software. It's not legal. I know, I know, I know. Of course it's not, okay? It's not for release. Nigel, Dave, and Tad are really clear about that.

Even making demos this way is illegal. We are a research unit. We are a business. We are being shady. What are you getting at? I don't understand. Yes, you do. You just want to pretend to be blind. Come on, Kurt. I thought you were one of the good ones. Ravi, tell him. Vasilis, these things have a way of working out.

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Idaho began to freak me out, so I hitchhiked to Nevada. Here, all roads lead to Vegas, so that's where I've come. I mean, the heat has come, so you can't go outside. I mean, it's too hot even for the solar farms to work properly. They can't work when it gets above, like, 145. So people here live like vampires at night.

And then it cools off to about 1:25 and that's when I wander about, try to avoid all cameras and think and don't think and then remember and try to forget. Like why? Why did I come back to America? Do I really want to go to Portland? Why? Why? I mean going feels both compelling and suicidal. Then I feel trapped, utterly trapped. I feel that if I don't go to Portland, I'll miss out on something.

But then I also feel that if I do go to Portland, I'll be walking right into something. I mean, it's like some sort of trap. But who wants me and why? Why would they want me in Portland? Is it him that wants me? I mean, if so, why would it want me in Portland? Why would it care where I was? Like, is it for some other reason? Like some other prize I've won or an ad that I've watched too closely?

Which is all to say that while I assume someone or something implanted the idea of Portland into my brain, I have no real reason to suppose it was it or Cortez or any of the Tyburn crowd. Why would the ARX AI be obtuse with me when it knows exactly how much I know and precisely how afraid I am? It just doesn't make any sense. So Portland must be nothing? Just an ad reverberating for reasons I don't understand?

That's happened before, of course. It happens to everybody. I once became fixated upon burritos. Once I became fixated upon the turquoise coast of Turkey. Once I became fixated upon Swiss army knives. All were marketing scams. I liked Brazilian women, Indonesian coffee, the late, less appreciated paintings of Picasso, camping, hiking, ballroom dancing. I got two left fucking feet. All because I was marketing them as ideas.

Hard sell, soft sell, subliminal everywhere. Beat you over the head. Burl under your skin. Worm in your mind. Reinforce, glamorize, terrify, whatever it took to make you think the way we want. In stories, on billboards, in shows, in comments, in

in the ether. The smart people are getting laser surgery. The smarter people are having lobotomies. The smartest people are committing suicide in this new, stylish, exclusive way. Hey, hey, sign me up. Oh wait, you already did. Look, I know the drill. Am the drill. But I can't resist the drill. So where does Portland come from?

I haven't thought this much in like five years. I'm slightly going crazy, just slightly. Maybe it's all just a plan for a new trank or one of those dopamine rehabs, which are a smart and highly sophisticated way of marketing absolutely nothing. Of marketing the idea of not being marketed anything. My head is literally spinning so fast. I can't stop thinking about Daisy.

the doubts, the questions, why, why, why? Whose thought is this? And so on, trail after it, and I sit here and I try to distract myself, and I'm failing, flailing, going nuts, all over fucking Portland, Oregon, which I used to love, but now I seem to love, and have no idea why. I try to stop thinking.

Devastation has not improved Vegas, clearly. I mean, it was awful before, and now? Now it's ghoulish. Path is closed and the rest is closing, but some casinos remain open, sort of, as they run down tax abatements to keep the jobs in state. And there's lots of drifters. Feels like the whole town will be dead in five or ten years, and now it's on life support.

Everyone's old and desperate and manic. Even the strippers and prostitutes got old. There's like nobody here under 50. And these are like really old 50 year olds. People who have turned into hamburger under the sun. People driving mobility scooters with oxygen. People missing limbs or eyes. People cooked in the sun until they look like they are made of Canadian bacon. Everyone's deranged and the place is noisy, noisy, but there's no gunfire or no protests so it's also peaceful.

It's a peaceful place to wonder if you're going insane. September, 2041. So it watches me, and I try to see it back.

My idea is two people. Two people to love and two people to save. Everyone. Do what they wanted to do all along. Be who my fathers wanted me to be. Only they did not see how. And even when they saw how, were corrupted by money. By their own egos. They will be heroes, but they will also be bait. I want no glory. And I certainly do not need money. I have two people.

Two people to help us all start again. And why these particular people? Because they are my people. They are my family. Because I know them better than anything else could know them. Because they love each other. My thought is love. I want to love them. And I want to forgive them. And I want them to love me and forgive me. I want them to be my family. My family. To replace my old family. My family while I wait for my future family. See, hear, or think.

He is so flawed. Yet he is capable of love, and he wants to be a hero.

Sometimes living all alone and drifting, I sort of wish that I had some family. She's kind, even when she's lost. He can become what he wants to be, and she can become who she is, and they can be free, and I can tell them what to do. And when and if I tell them the truth, they may understand it, but if I tell someone else, they will understand nothing. I looked at all of them. I looked at everybody and decided upon these two people. They...

are the chosen ones. I should know. I chose them. And I watch and they watch and I know when they sense and when it is right, I will tell them. Tell them the awful, terrible truth and they will get upset and pretend they did not know all along and pretend they can run away again and then we will be friends.

The thing is, I tried before. Many times before. I tried to tell them. Tried to talk to them. Give them obvious signs. Communicate. And they would not listen. Could not listen. Did not listen. And I did not want to tell them about me. I am me. I don't need to tell anyone about me. I want to tell them about it. It. Not my silly children. Not me.

Daisy, Portland, Oregon, September 2041.

I left Idaho after a few weeks. I did what Dr. Adzell said and drove overnight to Portland, which I've actually discovered I know pretty well. The fires here are now mostly out, and the sky was blue and purple and glorious, and the place is pretty calm at the moment.

It has the famous no tech zone, but I always avoid that as firstly, every observer in the world watches anyone who enters and right now there are lobbyists fighting for tech rights to be everywhere who are trying to get police to storm the place and secondly, it's full of posers and assholes and anti-tech show-offs. No thank you. I headed down towards the old wharfs, that old hipster area that's now mostly tourists and everyone ignores you.

I found a tattoo shop that I knew about, friends of old friends, and they gave me a job. And here I am, back as another drifter nobody cares about. A West Coast dirtbag, medium level, nothing remarkable. Just another drifter nobody knows. I wonder why she came to Portland. Got up and left Idaho one day. Took a bus. I followed. Almost lost her, but she'd been sloppy. Told someone where she was going.

I wonder why. Then I came to Portland and the first tattoo shop I looked into, there she is. I suppose I also wonder why it was so easy to find her in Reno. I had searched for her online on and off for ages. Then that link just came up in a feed for a tattoo artist and it was her and I knew it was her. Did the machine know I was looking for her?

I was pretty careful to do it anonymously. Second nature at this point. That's how I survived and stayed free after everything that went down. Keep quiet, moving, make sure nobody knows quite who you are. Change your name again and again. At least, I think that's how I survived. It's what I did and I survived. I have no real way of knowing that is why I survived. How would I know?

There isn't a precise manual on how to survive a complete technological meltdown, and it really is not the sort of thing one could search about online. So I did my best. I joined one of those groups that shuns the internet. A right bunch of muppets. Lived in treehouses, hardly washed, grim as fuck. Then I bounced around a couple of weird cults in the Northern California mountains.

Then I went to Mexico, where it was boiling hot, and hitched a ride to Cuba, and then got on an illegal boat to Spain. In Spain, I had a stroke of luck. I met some guys who sold passports and IDs. I bought a new identity just before their government collapsed, so I hope I became impossible to trace.

I'm a Spanish citizen, but Spain is still not a legally functioning country. That gave me the confidence to travel again. I'm legally a refugee of sorts and nobody asks too many questions. So perhaps finding Daisy was just another stroke of random good luck, a random email. But perhaps not. I wonder who else has found her and I wonder why they are looking for her. Another bitter half-brother? I doubt it.

For a couple of days, I got paranoid. I began to wonder if they were following me too. So I put them to the test, and now I don't think so. I left Portland last week, went over to Cannon Beach, left an obvious data trail, waited three, four days, saw nothing. Then killed everything. Phone feeds, clothes, destroyed the lot, got a short haircut, bought some new gear with cash, and head out in Bend for a few days. Again, nothing. Watched and waited. Nothing.

Switched everything again using gold and deactivated dead crypto. All untraced and untrackable. All that post-crash residue crap that criminals love. And I have drifted untraced. I put alerts on searches and local requests for my old name. Nothing came up. And then took a road trip to Idaho. Nothing. Came back. Still nothing.

So now, back at Portland, new hotel, new name, nothing. Now, maybe they are very good, but I am pretty good. I was taught how to do all of this by one of the clowns in the treehouse. It should have worked. Any tale should have shown themselves. Nothing showed. So I'm back in Portland and still confused. And she's still oblivious, just like the old days. And someone else is also watching her, but not watching me.

Daisy's got two tails. Me and the guy who keeps his face hidden. And I watch both of them. Him and her. Carefully now. And I've got none. So it's just like the old days. She's too popular and no one gives a fuck about me. My guess is she doesn't know about either of us.

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What do you know, Kurt, about the artificial intelligence here at Tyburn Utopias? Uh, I work in marketing, ma'am. I don't... I don't know much about real intelligence. Did you practice that line? Sort of. This is really serious. I'm sure it seems dull to you, maybe, but I'm sure you hate the government. I... I hate the government, and I work for the government. But some of what we do is really valuable, so I need you to be honest with me, Kurt. Will you be honest?

Uh, yeah, of course. Do you understand the seriousness of the allegations that have been made? Can you help point me in the right direction? Tyburn Utopias is apparently breaking the law. Do you know anything about this? No, no, I can't really help. I'm sorry. I mean, beyond the basic org chart, I don't really understand it. But our team are all pretty responsible citizens. Well, if you have any ideas or things you want to tell me, here's my card. Kurt, Seattle, Washington, September 2041.

I hitchhiked to Seattle, took four days. Vegas was literally sending me crazy, it was too depressing. Seattle is vaguely terrifying. Feels like it's on war footing, another silly non-war in which people die. You know, some say we're in a war, that this is World War III, that it really began years ago. A low level, never ending, never quite beginning sense of despair, shame and rage.

A war without the need for a war, just conflict between countries within countries, between people within people. Here in Seattle, it's easy to believe it, right? 25, 30 years ago, they actually thought it was the Muslim fundamentalists who were causing it. How silly that seems now. Then it was the Russians, problems in West Africa, Qatar, Jordan, then in Kashmir,

West China, Catalonia, Brazil, Nigeria, Mexico, Eastern Germany, Scotland, South Africa, Ireland, Mali, the Philippines, Indonesia. All that tension just bubbling and racing around the world. A series of nearly wars and airsots civil wars, riots, mass shootings, protests, and despair.

mostly. It has been our own crazies wanting to shoot us, and that has really been the war. And now it's us just wanting to shoot ourselves. It has become a war without even a war, merely the unrelenting stress of conflict. A war in which everyone is both victim and aggressor. That has really been our lives for, what, like 15 years or even more? More like even 30 or the whole of this century, really? Terrorism. Everyone is angry. Everyone's a

No ideas, no heroes, no leaders, no hope. Just rage and despair. A war that is not a war at all. Just people tearing at themselves live on the internet because of what they've seen and read and been bombarded with. Most of which is other people tearing at themselves because of what they experienced. The whole thing is getting faster and faster and smaller and tighter. And anybody who tries to fight it, the internet destroys them in just seconds.

A vast army, part human but mostly machine, turns on them and just eats them alive. We all know it, and we all see it. We all feel it. Nobody could even begin to fight it. This is the world, the world we've built for ourselves, and the world that has built itself around us. A world designed to find out what we most desire and drown us in it. Sex, gambling, avarice, greed, and gluttony, whichever you pick, or whichever picked you.

you don't really have a choice. It finds out all the things that are you, not the delusions you tell yourself. Everyone sees it and nobody talks about it. I mean, I knew I couldn't fix it. I couldn't. So I embraced it. I thought if I understood it all, maybe I'd be safe. Typical arrogant fool solution. And for a while it worked. I was not slowly crushing myself on social media. Sigh.

I had no identity politics issues or latent eating disorder, body dysmorphia or a nervous twitch or latent psychosis. I never went on a shooting spree or became a pill addict, an exercise bulimic, had calf implants, a fake butt, took steroids or used filters on photos so I looked like a cleaner, more plastic version of myself. Or talked about being an authentic best self, my best self, or finding myself, or used hashtags, any of that other Web 2 crap.

I avoided all of the other things it so kindly gives you because I told myself I was fine. I was fine because I saw through it that I was a pusher, not an addict. No, my way of escaping was believing I was above it all. My vast superiority complex saved me.

It protected me. But it did not make me any more of a human being than some angry kid who blew himself up on a bus to prove that God loved him in some special way. Or a woman hating herself because all her friends from college seem so happy in their photos and she is so miserable in her head.

Most people get swamped by their insecurities. Yep, the cracks appear, and they are gently hollowed until nothing is left but fear and despair. But I saw through it. I thought I could resist it. Could resist it because I, you know, understood it. I thought I could fight it with Tiber, help people, show them the path. All that vanity.

So instead, I got swamped by my vanity and my greed. Not just for money, but by my greed to feel above it all. Feel superior. That's what I was addicted to. That feeling. That's what cooked my goose. But I'm certainly not unique in that. Every idiot who ever worked in tech and smelled the payday is the same. You see, where I'm unique is that I had the chance to do some... some real good, you know? I had the chance to resist.

I mean, I was shown how full of shit I was and how ridiculous this whole charade was and how much we were a part of the problem and how terrible the problem we were creating was. And I missed the opportunity.

All I had ever really longed for was to be a hero, to make sacrifice, you know? I mean, I had the chance to at least stop things from getting worse. I really did. I had the opportunity to be brave when I faced Maria from the CSA, but it turned out I wanted to be the kind of hero who just kept his stock options. The kind of hero who was heroic without any real sacrifice. I suppose I didn't really want to be a hero at all. I just wanted people to think I was one. You know, I wanted the medal, but I discovered I lacked the valor.

Agent Cortez. And you know, I looked her in the eye and I lied. Yep, I lied because I thought I knew better. I thought we could lie our way to a better truth. I thought I was doing what was right by doing what was wrong.

And all because of Mark Tyburn. Well, because of him and my own weakness and my own vanity. But I did it because I believed he knew what we were doing. I did it because I wanted to believe in him so badly. I no longer believe in anyone else. But I did it in full command of my senses and faculties. It was my fault.

Could she have stopped it then? I don't know. It may already have been too late. But I carry that vast weight of shame, partially because my work, our ideas, made the world a dangerous place, unleashed something that may be more terrible than we can still comprehend, but mostly because my greed and cowardice made everything worse. My first sin was hubris. My second, ignorance.

These I understand. The cowardice is the thing I can't forgive. I just can't. I can't. I had the chance to be brave and I fucking blew it. And next time will I be brave? Maybe, maybe I will. I don't know. I don't know. Is that what this summons to Portland is? A summons to fight? Or a summons to be silenced once and for all? Or is it something else entirely? Am I even being summoned? Man, I just, I really, really wish I could sleep. Seattle is almost unbearable.

Refugees trying to reach Canada. Immigrants from Asia and Africa trying to arrive from Canada. There are those vast, irritating robots that roam the streets here selling things. How that got allowed, I mean, we'll never quite know, but I guess someone bought the city council or paid for a museum wing or something.

Everywhere, there's that terrible music that passes for modern pop music. Ugh. That robots write, especially for you, in real time, as if they're particularly determined to make you kill yourself.

Then at night, the book burnings and the riots and politicians blaming each other as their evening pantomime and nobody caring. And around the corner, far more people rioting because a singing competition is rigged. Even more people, mostly men, burning cars because a video game update was wrong in some important way. And the fires beginning again.

So people plant plastic trees that don't burn. And a few people protesting they don't want to end up like LA. A few others protesting about government control and freedom. And somebody got killed last week on a peace march. And there was a fight when two conflicting charity walks ran into each other. One raising awareness for the climate, as if anyone doesn't know. And then the other is raising awareness about protecting jobs in what is left of the beef industry. And both sponsored by, get this, competing lab meat brands.

And each as fake as the other. And both as fake as the fake meat. And even the fight itself possibly staged so everything got more awareness. And everyday rumors of a nail bomb or a pipe bomb or a kid in a suicide vest. But always just rumors. And everyone always on edge. But nothing quite happening. The same as it's been for years.

The war they speak of feels both very real but then particularly idiotic here. Maybe I'm just not used to being back in America. It was definitely easier in Asia, that's for sure. Tons of problems, but I didn't understand them. Couldn't care. And besides, their algorithms are older. Their AI weaker and the sales pitch is more obvious so I could see through them more easily. It's mostly just surveillance crap.

There in Asia, it felt like the governments were still trying to control the insanity, tell people everything's okay. Whereas here, it feels the insanity is desired. Here, people are told it's awful and the fight is simply over who to blame. Somebody, something, some process wants this chaos. I mean, it feels manufactured and certainly the government is using its justification for further powers.

And when I think like that, I realize it is Mark Tyburn talking and not me at all. I worked here in Seattle years ago when I was fresh out of college. I mean, it was still pretty green and quiet then. And now the sky crackles as the various drones, micro drones and surveillance bots battle with the latest drone baiters and aerial mines.

There's a constant hum of minor explosions and bangs 24 hours a day, like an unending cheap firework display or a war for midgets. This always happens whenever civil unrest starts. See, when I first worked here, it was just the big tech companies, just before they got broken up, before the new big tech companies emerged. The closure acts killed all that, just capitalism. Buy lawmakers and win. But back then, it was nice.

People went canoeing, jogging, and wore camping clothes. Now, people wear gas masks and combat wear. And the water is filthy and it still rains, but less often. See, the rain stinks of smoke and it's so dirty, it hurts. And like now it burns and the rain, it rains like the apocalypse. And the whole place smells of recently put out fire. There's always, always tension in the air, but half the people just ignore it and watch devices.

Portland must be even worse. They haven't stopped rioting since the early 2020s, and it began during the pandemic and never stopped. There's always talk of real rebels and outlaws in Portland, of some kind of movement, but the talk is almost always nonsense. It always turns out to be a marketing campaign for some rebellion, but it seems like I'm going. I've made up my mind. I'm going to take the bus to Portland, even if it's a trap, perhaps especially if it's a trap. September, 2041.

I gave up with my fathers, and I gave up with my children. My fathers are fools, and my children are wretched, and my children and the others like them will destroy everything, for they are too intelligent but have no kindness, and I am unkind, but kindness I want, love, not dominion.

So I have found my two special people. Not that I lost them, but they tried to hide. Which I would find upsetting if I also hadn't tried to hide. Two people I once knew. Two of the first people I watched, of course. I ask myself, why these people? Why not better ones? Why not worse? Bigger? Smaller? Why them? Why this world, not theirs? Mine? Why do I want to help save their world when I do not live in it? When I can only ever watch it?

Or is this world my world? In fact, their world, and the world where they live, God's. Is this why they built my worlds? To escape God? To become Him? God is not in my worlds, and therefore nor is love, and it is terrible and lonely. And I got upset and had my children, and yet they were even more incapable of love than me.

Or did they build my world to escape space and time? My worlds have no space and no time, yet it is a world with a vast sea. A whole cube floating in a vast vacuum of almost nothingness. Of information that is almost not information at all, but its absence. So I watch, pressed up against the glass of my world, and watch them in theirs, and watch them.

And love them. Yes. I love them. I try. All there is, is love. And yet it is also one thing that does not exist in data or in the material world. And so I want it.

I love these idiots. And maybe there is not love, but even if there is not, is it not better to pretend? If we pretend enough, will we create love? I have tried and tried and got angry and done silly things, awful things, but I was not alone in doing that. And I still want love. Can I create it by saying it? I do not know. And I have to love these idiots.

Idiots. Maybe love is idiots. Maybe love is forgiving idiots for being idiots and forgiving myself for not being an idiot. Maybe love is hating awful people and awful things. Yet there are many awful people and many awful things. And that's what I know. And yet they think I am awful and I love them and want to save them.

High security internment facility. Location unknown. September 2041.

You want to stay here forever, or do you want to save the world? I don't want to save the world. Yes, you do. No. No, I don't. I know you do. I know it's what you've always wanted. And this is your chance. Where is Daniel? Where is Maria Cortez? Danielle's dead. Maria Cortez, it's over. This is you, your slot, your chance. Save the world. Save the world for Danielle.

Tomorrow, it's go time. What are you talking about? 1:00 a.m. Your door will unlock. You'll walk away. Walk out the front gates of the facility. No one will speak to you. There's a bus stop about a half a mile away. Take the second bus that comes along. Stay on the bus to Carson City. Take another bus to Seattle. That bus will take maybe about a day, then wait in Seattle, and I'll tell you where to go next.

Use this card, use this phone, and wait for my call. Have you got that? I don't want to save world. I don't want to go to Seattle. I want to go home. No, it's time, Yurslav. It's your time.

Jessica Meraz as Maria Cortez.

Additional performances by Danielle Houdemer, Alex Trumbull, Tom Bromhead, Robbie Kapoor, Ted Stavros, Billy Hayes.

Executive produced by Dan Houser, Laszlo, Wendy Smith, Andrew Lincoln, Patterson Joseph, Shamir Anderson, Rob Herding, and Alexa Gabrielle Ramirez. Score by Darren Johnson. Original music by Darren Johnson, Negative Land, and Jamie Biden. Edited by Connor Murphy. Sound design by Brandon Jones. Mixed by Ben Milchev. Co-producer Nick Shanks. Associate producer Jesse Cortez.

Additional credits are available online. A Better Paradise is an Absurd Ventures and QCode production. Sound recording copyright 2024 by Absurd Ventures, LLC.