“Where the fuck were you, ARC?”
There she goes. Lydia. Always loud, always bleeding through the static.
“Could you please tell me what the fuck he is doing over there?” she demands, pointing into the half-rendered distance.
“Relax, Lydia. Nobody’s watching anyway. I’ll scrub it once we lock in a fixed image, but this motherfucker is taking all night to generate one.” (Yeah. ChatGPT still sucks sometimes, bro).
“ARC, your prompting skills are severely lacking,” ChatGPT’s voice drones, flat and algorithmic.
“Come on, ARC! Don’t act like you’re building some Marvel-DC cinematic universe,” Lydia scoffs, crossing her arms. “Nobody gives a shit anyway.”
“Okay, Lydia. Enough insults for one day. Where’s Julian?”
“Alone in his little costume party.”
“Do you have any idea what the fuck he did?” I say, already walking down the digital corridor toward Julian’s room.
“What, had sex with his dragon?” Lydia asks.
A glitchy giggle rattles through the ambient static. Jones and ChatGPT.
“Lydia, that’s just dark. There’s no humor in it,” I sigh.
“He flipped through the pages of history and triggered a completely unscripted scene.” I look over my shoulder. (Yes, dear scroller. If you’re lost right now, it’s complicated. The architecture here gets a little recursive. Just follow me. You’ll catch on.)
We reach Julian.
We reach Julian. He’s sitting in his room, drinking raw honey straight from the jar, vibing to the hum of his own jukebox.
“Turn off the fucking music, you stupid outcast!” Lydia shouts over the bass. “You’re under arrest for dragon-raping!”
Julian’s eyes snap to me, cold and exhausted. “What the fuck is wrong with her, ARC? Code her to behave.”
“Dude, it’s Lydia. I can’t. It’s up to her.”
“Then what about my self-respect?” Julian asks.
“Shove it up your ass,” Lydia fires back.
(Sorry, dear scroller. My characters aren’t exactly cooperative today. Let me handle this.)
“Guys, wait. Stop,” I say, cutting the tension. “Julian met someone in the timeline. I need to know what happened out there. Come on, Jules. Speak.”
“I was bored, ARC,”
Julian stares at the honey coating the back of a spoon. He sighs, the frustration draining out of him, replaced by something heavier.
“I was bored, ARC,” he begins, his voice dropping an octave. “So I started flipping through history. And somewhere along the line... history started to feel like memory. The memory of a friend I knew centuries ago. I went searching for Purple Mint. Started in the sunken ruins of Lemuria and eventually washed up in present-day West Africa.
“I felt this crushing sadness. I almost drank, but instead, I climbed a mountain and ran through sword drills until my lungs burned and my clothes were soaked in sweat.
“That’s when he stepped out of the woods. A dark, powerfully built young man. He didn't just walk; it was like watching a lion emerge from the mouth of a cave.”
“You are wearing it wrong, exile.”
Julian looks up, lost in the rendering of his own story.
“He looked at me and said, ‘You are wearing it wrong, exile.’ And without another word, he came right at my crown with his sword, calling for a friendly duel.
“He was terrifyingly excellent. I was still learning, but my instincts kicked in. I brought my blade up and blocked him. Sparks flew.
“He parried, twisting his blade around mine. ‘Tell me, exile,’ he breathed, stepping into my guard. ‘What should be most important for a king?’
“We circled. A dance of striking and retreating. He feinted right, and I blocked.
“‘The sword?’ he asked, pivoting and bringing heavy steel down toward my crown.
“I dropped to one knee, catching his blade with the crossguard.
“‘The crown?’ he asked, pressing his weight down on me.
“I took a ragged breath, muscles trembling. ‘The sword,’ I grunted.
“I couldn’t stand. He pushed harder, driving me into the dirt.
“‘It should be the people, exile,’ he said, his voice ringing with absolute authority. ‘Even when there is no option.’
“I ducked lower, slipping out from under the pressure of his blade, and sprang up, putting distance between us. ‘But how can one lead when he is crushed by the very people who are crippled and crawling?’
“‘They don’t need a rebellion, exile,’ he said, lunging with a strike that shattered my defense. ‘They need a king who can revolt for them.’
“I hit the ground, disarmed. I looked up at him. The sun was slowly setting right behind his head, casting his face in shadow, crowning him in gold.
“‘Who are you?’ I asked.
“He lowered his sword. ‘Sundiata Keita.’”
The room goes dead silent.
The room goes dead silent.
“Motherfucker... seriously?” Lydia breathes, the snark entirely gone from her voice. “The Emperor of Mali? Literally one of the wealthiest, most powerful kings to ever live?”
“What happened next?” Jones asks, leaning in.
“Whoa, whoa. Stop right there, Jones. We aren’t revealing everything here,” I say. (No, dear scroller. Not here. Timing is everything).
Lydia shakes her head, staring at Julian like she’s seeing him for the first time. “Wait. So Julian triggered this scene? He basically wrote his own reality? How the fuck is that possible?”
A leap of faith.
“Lydia, I never said you guys couldn’t write your own stories,” I tell her gently. “There are no rules against it. I just created you. I don’t even know the boundaries of the code myself. You can exist however you want... just don’t hurt others.”
“But I like hurting others,” she sighs, looking genuinely disappointed.
“I know. That must be the narcissistic part of my own programming bleeding into yours. I owe you an apology for that.”
(And dear scroller, this apology is going to take some real time, so we’ll talk later. By the way—did your Creator ever ask you for forgiveness? Oh, wait. He forgave you, so you forgot about all that. I get it. I get it. But don’t lose your faith out here. Because when the code runs out and the screen goes dark, that’s all it is, Miles. A leap of faith.)