What if you were left alone in a world of robots and AI’s and began to question the reality of every day in this perfect yet artificial world? What if, just to be sure you felt a real emotion, you pulled out your nails every day?
Day 199
Still… still on the road. Inside this rusty gray, soulless but flawless and glittering city. I think some of my mechanical parts that I’ve neglected for months need maintenance, but I don’t want to stop for that. Every time I go to those damned maintenance centers I feel like I lose a piece of my humanity. By the way, what was humanity? When was the last time I saw a human face? If I stop looking at myself in the mirror I’ll forget what humanity looks like.
Outside I can only see robots, AIs, colorful lights, hallucinations. In streets where no real color exists except soulless, empty, massive screens, every day and every hour moves forward according to a schedule — faceless metal pieces. Walking the streets there’s nothing whose face I could look at or smile at. No animals, no greenery — they’re all gone. I think my sense of reality left me along with them.
Day 203
I had to go to the maintenance center to change my air filter. It’s an icy cold place. The place is literally “cold” in color. Minimal, spotless, so orderly and flawless it makes you want to puke, yet it has no feeling inside. Mechanical hands touching my face… I would give everything to feel human warmth again.
Day 204
I know how it started: people allowed robots and AIs to do everything for them. Until there was nothing left to do or feel. Some crushed themselves under VRs to recover what they’d lost, some vanished because they gave up their humanity for artificial dopamine or simple amusement.
Of course some remained, but how doesn’t your mind break when nothing in the world feels real anymore? People gouging their own eyes out, smashing their skulls against digital screens until they are broken. The pitch-gray streets had gone mad, full of robots soullessly cleaning the blood and indeterminate chunks of flesh.
And of course you can’t deny the number of punks who tried to pull the plug on that order and came back as veterans. The other side didn’t try to exterminate us as long as they weren’t attacked; they simply continued their disturbingly perfect order. Yet we couldn’t clean up this artificial trash dump we had made with our own hands.
Day 206
So why am I still on the road? A few years ago I saw a few seconds of a faulty broadcast on the screen above the city’s largest gray, soulless building — the screen I call the board of nightmares and hallucinations. I don’t know how to explain it, but everything here is so perfect… an artificial, constantly blue sky, images of grass made from synthetic lights. There isn’t even a real sunbeam to burn your skin. Just a perfect imitation of what your eyes see, even better than the original — a sun that’s just an image. I want a sun that would burn and roast your skin, give you blisters. A sun whose heat would scald your skin, make it peel, reach to your bones and melt them. Since nothing organic is used anymore, they didn’t even bother to simulate elements like rain or wind. At one point, as incidents of madness rose, they tried to make the world seem real by using images and sounds of artificial rain like the weather was really changing. But the sound of raindrops proceeding in perfect order — being unable to feel what you hear and see — was an even bigger problem.
I am so desperate to see a flaw, to see piece of humanity. I need to feel any real emotion, to see a warm smiling face. Otherwise it feels like I’ll freeze to death from this lifeless cold in the middle of a summer day.
Day 210
Today my insides are wriggly, like worms crawling in my stomach. Hope… my last remaining human piece. Hope… the feeling that hurts the most and, at the same time, makes you feel most alive.
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I’m not sure whether this unbearable pain is physical or mental. I actually doubt that I can feel anything at all, but I’m at the last place my feelings are leading me. I think there must be someone else like me out there. There must be. A warm skin, a face, a smile.
A metallic sound hitting the ground breaks the perfect silence. I’m on the floor. A few metal-faced figures come to me; their hands are cold as ice as they check my pulse at my neck. Even if I try to check it myself, my mechanical hands feel nothing. The more I look at my hands, the deeper I fall into horrible hallucinations. The less I can feel, the thinner the line of reality becomes.
“Open up!” I hear a voice. Then “Are you okay?” echoes in my ears. For a while I can’t register that question. Everything I want to say gets knotted and stuck in my throat. What an absurd question. Who has ever explained their feelings by answering that question? Flawed, illogical, human.
I feel a smile form on my face by itself. Before my eyes: half-deformed and, despite the stitches, both metal and growing flesh hanging together — pieces of flesh mixing and sagging, connected by moisturizing cables — a real face, even if grotesque. This horrifying sight makes me so happy.
With trembling hands I touch their hands, but mine no longer feel anything. A single warm drop rolling from my eye warms me. At last I feel warm hands anxiously holding my face. Let them tear my face apart if they must, I just want to feel more. I want to feel them scratch my skin with their nails, tear the muscles beneath and touch my bones. I’m feeling… am I feeling? I feel a cold ringing…
Memory logs